THOSE SCARS


"What are those scars?" questioned Mary Lanman of her father as she sat
in his lap, holding his hand in her own little ones.

"Those scars, my dear? If I were to tell you the history of them, it
would make a long story."

"But do tell me, papa," said Mary, "I should like to hear a long story."

"These scars, my child, are more than forty years old. For forty years
they have every day reminded me of my disobedience to my parents and my
violation of the law of God."

"Do tell me all about it, father," pleaded Mary.

"When I was about twelve years old," he began, "my father sent me one
pleasant autumn day into the woods to cut a pole to be used in beating
apples off the trees. It was wanted immediately to fill the place of one
that had been broken.

"I took my little hatchet and hastened to the woods as I had been bidden.
I looked in every direction for a tall, slender tree that would answer
the purpose; and every time I stopped to examine a young tree, a taller
and straighter sapling caught my eye farther on.

"What seemed most surprising to me was that the little trees that looked
so trim and upright in the distance, grew deformed and crooked as I
approached them. Frequently disappointed, I was led from tree to tree,