Read Chicken Soup for the Kid’s Soul Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
Chicken Soup for the Kid’s Soul (25 page)
T
he man who knows right from wrong and has good judgment and common sense is happier than the man who is immensely rich! For such wisdom is far more valuable than precious jewels.
Prov. 3:13-15
School volunteers don’t get paid money, but sometimes we receive special gifts. One morning, just before Christmas vacation, I was selling tickets to our grade school’s last evening performance of
The Nutcracker
. The evening before had been a sellout. People had lined the walls of the auditorium. Some had even peeked in from outside to watch the show.
One of my customers that day was a parent. “I think it’s awful that I have to pay to see my own child perform,” she announced, yanking a wallet from her purse.
“The school asks for a voluntary donation to help pay for scenery and costumes,” I explained, “but no one has to pay. You’re welcome to all the tickets you need.”
“Oh, I’ll pay,” she grumbled. “Two adults and a child.”
She plunked down a ten-dollar bill. I gave her the change and her tickets. She stepped aside, fumbling with her purse. That’s when the boy waiting behind her emptied a pocketful of change onto the table.
“How many tickets?” I asked.
“I don’t need tickets,” he said. “I’m paying.” He pushed the coins across the table.
“But you’ll need tickets to see the show tonight.”
He shook his head. “I’ve already seen the show.”
I pushed the pile of nickels, dimes and quarters back. “You don’t have to pay to see the show with your class,” I told him. “That’s free.”
“No,” the boy insisted. “I saw it last night. My brother and I arrived late. We couldn’t find anyone to buy tickets from, so we just walked in.”
Lots of people in that crowd had probably “just walked in.” The few volunteers present couldn’t check everyone for a ticket. Who would argue, anyway? As I’d told the parent ahead of this boy, the donation was voluntary.
He pushed his money back to me. “I’m paying now, for last night,” he said.
I knew this boy and his brother must have squeezed into the back of that crowd. And being late to boot, they couldn’t possibly have seen the whole show. I hated to take his money. A pile of coins in a kid’s hand is usually carefully saved allowance money.
“If the ticket table was closed when you got there, you couldn’t pay,” I reasoned.
“That’s what my brother said.”
“Nobody knows the difference,” I assured him. “Don’t worry about it.”
Thinking the matter was settled, I started to push the coins back. He put his hand on mine.
“I know the difference.”
For one silent moment our hands bridged the money.
Then I spoke. “Two tickets cost two dollars.”
The pile of coins added up to the correct amount. “Thank you,” I said.
The boy smiled, turned away and was gone.
“Excuse me.”
I looked up, surprised to see the woman who had bought her own tickets moments earlier. She was still there, purse open, change and tickets in hand.
“Why don’t you keep this change,” she said quietly. “The scenery is beautiful, and those costumes couldn’t have been cheap.” She handed me a few dollar bills, closed her purse and left.
Little did that boy know that he had given us both our first gift of the Christmas season.
Deborah J. Rasmussen
There was a time when my favorite thing to do in the entire world was to play in the woods near our house in Pennsylvania. A river ran through them, so not only could I climb branches and hide beneath piles of dried leaves, but I could turn over rocks on the riverbank and find baby eels that squirmed around in the small pool of water where the rocks had been. I loved the smell of the leaves and would drag my feet through them to stir up the scent.
My favorite book was called
Guide to Reptiles and Amphibians
. My father had given it to me for my birthday, and I read every page over and over, looking at the pictures of colorful animals. Some of the snakes were the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen.
Little did I know that my book would end up saving a life.
My family moved to Virginia, into a new house in a new subdivision. The houses were so new that no one had lived in them before. In fact, woods had been there first, and almost all the trees had been cut down to make room for houses and asphalt driveways. Inside our new house, everything smelled like fresh paint. Outside, no lawns had been planted, but my father tossed out grass seed using a machine that spun as he pushed, and baby seedlings grew. My brother, Patrick, and I could not walk on them. We had to play in the driveway.
All the same, I liked our new house. One of the best things, and at the same time one of the worst, about living near the woods were the animals that would come into our yard. Rabbits and toads hopped across the back patio almost every night, and once, we found a box turtle walking underneath the barbecue. Even though I loved to watch the rabbits and toads and I played with the turtle, I felt sorry for the animals. It seemed as if they were only trying to go home, and instead, what they had found was a big new subdivision where their old burrows and tunnels used to be.
Besides playing in the driveway as we waited for the new grass to grow, we spent time in a sandbox, which my father built right next to the driveway. The cat sometimes used the sandbox for a litter box, so my father had to put a plastic cover over it. When I wanted to build sand castles or dig a tunnel, I had to pull the cover off.
One day before dinner, I ran to the sandbox to build a miniature city, and then to find some ants to occupy it. I pulled off the plastic cover, and there in the sandbox was a snake.
It was lying very still, all coiled up, and it was beautiful. The snake had rings of color around it—red, then white, then yellow, then black. I had seen a picture just like it in my reptile book, and I remembered that it was one of the prettiest snakes in it. It said in the book that the poisonous coral snake looked very much like the king snake; the only difference was in the sequence of the colors. I ran inside to get the reptile guidebook.
“Mom! Mom! There’s a snake in the sandbox!” I yelled. “I have to find out what kind it is!”
Mom came running. “Don’t touch it, Chris! It might be poisonous!”
Dad was at work, so my mother went to get our neighbor, Mr. Cook.
“Mr. Cook!” my mother yelled across the fence, “We have a snake in the sandbox, and it might be a poisonous king snake!”
Mr. Cook was retired and lived with his wife in the house on the other side of our back fence. He came running toward the gate with a shovel.
“Wait!” I said, waving the guidebook in my hand. “I have to see what kind of snake it is!”
Mom and Mr. Cook stood over the snake. It was coiled, lying still, while Mr. Cook held the shovel over its head. “It’s better to be safe than sorry,” Mr. Cook said, taking aim. I felt so bad for the snake. Even if it were poisonous, all it was doing was trying to hide there in the dark, under the plastic tarp. It wasn’t hurting anybody.
I tried to turn the pages of the book to the coral and king snake section. It’s funny, but whenever you’re trying to do something too fast, it seems like it takes all that much longer to do it. Finally, I found it. Red, white, yellow, black: that meant a poisonous coral snake. A king snake was yellow, white, red and black. I checked the colors. This definitely was a king snake, and the book said that it was rare and should be protected.
“Don’t kill the snake!” I yelled. I was crying by now, feeling the snake was doomed. I showed my mother and Mr. Cook the picture. “See? It says it’s a rare snake that should be protected!”
I ran to get a pillowcase. I had seen a show on TV that recommended pillowcases for catching snakes. I buried one side of the material beneath the sand and held it up like a tunnel. Mr. Cook nudged the snake with the shovel. The snake uncoiled and glided right into the pillowcase. I picked up the pillowcase and clenched the top of it shut with my fingers. My mother called the zoo and told them I had just captured a king snake.
“Wow!” said the man from the zoo. They had rushed right over when my mother described the snake’s colors. “You sure are right. You’ve captured a king snake! We’ll put it on display at the zoo where it will have a nice home. You should come to visit it!”
I felt good that the king snake had been saved. I also felt sorry for the snake because after all, like the rabbits and the toads and the box turtle, it was only looking for its old home. I knew that feeling. Sometimes I liked to hide, too.
I hoped that the snake would like its cage. I hoped they would give it a branch to climb on, some water and lots of sand. Maybe they would even put in dry leaves for the snake to hide under. No matter how the zookeepers fixed up the cage, or whether or not it was like the outdoors where the snake was used to living, I was sure that it was better than having Mr. Cook chop its head off with his shovel.
Eventually, the new paint smell would go away, the grass would grow and the new home would become much like the old one. And maybe, if the snake was lucky, there would be someone around to build a sandbox. In a way, I thought, that snake was a lot like me.
Christine Lavin
PEANUTS. Reprinted by permission of United Feature Syndicate.
A
n effort made for the happiness of others lifts us above ourselves.
Lydia M. Child
I found a tiny starfish
In a tidepool by the sand.
I found a tiny starfish
And put him in my hand.
An itty-bitty starfish
No bigger than my thumb,
A wet and golden starfish
Belonging to no one.
I thought that I would take him
From the tidepool by the sea,
And bring him home to give to you
A loving gift from me.
But as I held my starfish,
His skin began to dry.
Without his special seaside home,
My gift to you would die.
I found a tiny starfish
In a tidepool by the sea.
I hope whoever finds him next
Will leave him there, like me!
And the gift I’ve saved for you?
The best that I can give:
I found a tiny starfish,
And for you, I let him live.
Dayle Ann Dodds
9
TOUGH
STUFF
We cannot tell what may happen to us in the strange medley of life. But we can decide what happens in us—how we can take it, what we do with it—and that is what really counts in the end. How to take the raw stuff of life and make it a thing of worth and beauty—that is the test of living.
Joseph Fort Newton
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain.
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
Emily Dickinson
“Now’s your chance to ruin my life,” my father said. How did I, a twelve-year-old girl, wind up in a situation like this? How did my early happy life get to this point? As far as I can remember, things really started to change when I was six.
I was the youngest child and the only girl in my family. One night, I got to stay up late and sleep in the living room—which was rare—and watch the Jerry Lewis telethon with my brother, who was eight. My oldest brother was away on a fishing trip, and my mom, who then worked all night, was on the job.
What I remember about that night was falling asleep and waking up in my parents’ room. I pretended to be asleep while my father did things that I didn’t understand and touched me in places that made me feel really uncomfortable. I wish I could have fallen asleep and forgotten the whole thing, but it isn’t like that. I didn’t know if this was normal or not; I was only six.
The next day he acted totally normal, and it stopped— for a while. I guess maybe
he
was scared. Then the abuse started up again, and it went on for six horrible years. I would try to lock my bedroom door to keep him out, but he’d make excuses.
He’d say, “Keep your door unlocked in case there’s a fire.” He would even ground me if I didn’t keep it unlocked. And since my mom had no idea of what was going on, she agreed with him.
I didn’t say anything to anyone because I was so scared of what could happen if I did. My father threatened to kill my family, himself and me if I told anyone. But my biggest fear during all this was what would happen if my mom found out. Would she believe me? Would my dad really do the things that he had threatened? What would happen?
When I was twelve, our town had a Christian concert. I went to the concert and accepted God into my life that night. It was a friend’s birthday, so I left early to go to his house and give him a birthday present. I ended up at a coffee shop, a place where my dad had told me he did not want me to go. After I had been there for ten minutes, my dad walked in and commanded, “Let’s go!”
I was so embarrassed and so scared of what he would do. We got into the car, and the whole way home he was yelling at me. I cried so much.
When we got home, my dad, my mom and I sat down at the kitchen table. They were going to plan my punishment for going to the coffee shop without telling them and for being there with older guys. My mom got up and went to their bedroom to do something, leaving just my dad and me.
He was yelling at me and telling me I wasn’t going to be able to do anything until I was sixteen. “I’m going to ruin your life,” he said angrily.
“If you’re going to ruin my life, then I’ll ruin yours,” I answered.
“Don’t threaten me!” he warned. Since he had his back to the kitchen, he did not see my mom walk in right when he said it.
“Threaten you with what?” she screamed over and over.
“Now’s your chance to ruin my life,” he challenged me.
“Has he been touching you?” Mom asked me. I just started to cry. My mom started hitting my dad, cursing and yelling at him.
“Get out! Get out!” she demanded loudly. I ran into the bathroom, and she came in, held me and apologized for not knowing what had been happening. She told me to go to my room. I ran down to my room and cried and cried.
“He’s leaving, Tia. He’s gone,” Mom said.
“Mom, we can’t stay here. We have to leave!” I pleaded. “Dad said if I ever told, he would kill me, our whole family and himself!” I was so scared. My dad could easily follow through with his threat since our house had a lot of windows. I didn’t want to die or have my family die, either.
“Pack up,” she directed. “We’re leaving.”
I quickly threw some clothes into a bag. She helped my fourteen-year-old brother get ready to leave with us. He was in another part of the house and had no idea what had been going on.
We just drove and drove, and cried and cried. Since that big concert was happening, all the hotels in our town were full. We had to drive over a hundred miles to a motel where we could stay and feel safe. Then we had to find a new house to rent in a different town.
That was two years ago. My dad was sentenced to at least six years in prison. I haven’t spoken to him since that night when we left our house.
I am so happy that my mom stood by me 100 percent. She left my dad and turned him in to the police without thinking twice. She filed for divorce, and now she’s happier than I’ve ever seen her. She’s remarried to the “perfect man” for her.
If you are being molested or mistreated by anyone and they are threatening you, it’s probably just a bluff. Don’t allow terrible threats to control you. No one should get away with that.
Turn them in. Don’t wait for it to get worse.
I suffered for six years!
No matter if you’re a boy or girl, if someone touches you and it makes you feel uncomfortable, it’s wrong. It’s a sin.
Please listen to me.
Tell an adult—a parent, a friend’s parent, a teacher, a pastor or the police. Keep telling, until someone will help. But get help
now!
Tia Thompson, age 14
[EDITORS’ NOTE:
To get help with child abuse issues of any kind call Childhelp USA at: 800-4-A-CHILD.
]