Miss Rice tells of one, amply supplied with every thing by
her parents, yet noted for her thefts. Indeed, sons and daughters
were alike trained to such practices. In 1843, Miss Fiske could not
keep a pin in her pin-cushion; little fingers took them as often as
she turned away, and lest she should tempt them to lie, she avoided
questioning them, unless her own eye had seen the theft. No wonder
she wrote, "I feel very weak, and were it not that Christ has loved
these souls, I should be discouraged; but he has loved them, and he
loves them still." If the pins were found with the pupils, the
answer was ready--"We found them," or, "You gave them to us;" and
nothing could be proved. But one summer evening, just before the
pupils were to pass through her room to their beds on the flat roof,
knowing that none of that color could be obtained elsewhere, the
teacher put six black pins in her cushion, and stepped out till they
had passed. As soon as they were gone, she found the pins gone too,
and at once called them back. She told them of her loss, but none
knew any thing about it. She showed them that no one else had been
there, and therefore they must know.
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