nfess before my brothers and sisters how false and
shabby I had been. I went to my closet; and there, after a while, I
resolved that, in the morning, I would tell the whole truth. I went
to bed, but I could not go to sleep. As soon as I heard my mother
coming to bed, I went to her bedside, confessed the truth to her,
gave her my apple, and begged her to tell the children how mean I
had been. My mother was as just as she was kind. "You must tell them
yourself," she said. "You must confess your fault to your youngest
sister with your own lips, and be willing to appear before her what
you are. You must not ask me to save you this disgrace. It is that
which will cure you. It is your just punishment." I did as she bade
me, and this was my last sin of that kind.

I had another fault, and that was a great irritability of temper,
and many and many an hour of solitude have I passed in that closet,
looking out at the quiet pine trees, and listening to the soft
sighing of the winds through their branches, till my heart has been
softened, and the spirit of love and gentleness has returned. I
remember one instance in particular of my conquest there of my
foolish anger. I was in the habit, in warm weather, of learning all
my lessons in my closet, particularly favorite pieces of poetry,
which I wished to commit well to memory. There I recited them aloud.
I found that the other children would often come and listen to me;
this fretted me; I was very angry at it. I desired them not to do
it, and not in an amiable manner; but they often forgot or
disregarded my request. I could not, or thought I could not, command
my temper whenever I found this out. One day I had been reciting
Hamlet's soliloquy; and, just after I had repeated the last words, I
heard William say in a pompous manner, "Toby or not Toby." I was
very angry, foolish as it may seem to you, and burst open the door
so suddenly and violently that I threw down my little sister who
stood against it; and, instead of taking her up, I told her I was
glad I had knocked her down; and then I was coward enough to strike
my little brother. The cries of both children brought up my mother.
By this time, I had come to my senses. I told her the story just as
it was, and I felt very much ashamed.

My mother simply said to me, "I thought you were beginning to be a
reasonable being, and had ceased to be a passionate coward. You know
that William is not so strong as you, or you would not dare to