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Stories Worth Rereading

by Various · English · Gutenberg #9508 · 519,232 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Stories Worth Rereading

Author: Various


        
Release date: December 1, 2005 [eBook #9508]
                Most recently updated: August 19, 2012

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9508

Credits: Produced by Joel Erickson, and PG Distributed Proofreaders


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STORIES WORTH REREADING ***




Produced by Joel Erickson, and PG Distributed Proofreaders









STORIES WORTH REREADING

1913



PREFACE


All persons like stories. Children call for them from their earliest years.
The purpose of this book is to provide children and youth with stories
worth reading; stories relating incidents of history, missionary effort,
and home and school experiences. These stories will inspire, instruct, and
entertain the readers. Nearly all of these have appeared in print before,
and are reprinted in this form through the courteous permission of their
writers and publishers.

"Stories Worth Rereading" can be obtained only as a premium with the
_Youth's Instructor_, a sixteen-page weekly, published by the Review and
Herald Publishing Association, Takoma Park, Washington, D. C.



CONTENTS

THEIR WORD OF HONOR

MURIEL'S BRIGHT IDEA

THE STRENGTH OF CLINTON

THE DOCTOR'S COW

HONEY AT THE PHONE

ONE OF FATHER'S STORIES

WHAT RUM DOES

MY MOTHER'S RING

THE BRIDAL WINE-CUP

A MOTHER'S SORROW

THE REPRIMAND

AN EXAMPLE

FIGHTING THE GOOD FIGHT

TIGHTENING THE SADDLE-GIRTH

"HERRINGS FOR NOTHING"

THE POWER OF SONG

JACK'S FIDELITY

HONOR THY FATHER AND THY MOTHER

THE SLEIGH-RIDE

SAMUEL SMILES, THE AUTHOR OF "SELF-HELP"

DAVID LIVINGSTONE

A TRUE INCIDENT OF THE SAN FRANCISCO EARTHQUAKE

LITTLE CORNERS

IN THE HOME

GIANTS AND GRASSHOPPERS

AS GOOD AS HIS BOND

PLAIN BERNICE

HOW THE BOY WITHOUT A REFERENCE FOUND ONE

AN HOUR A DAY FOR A YEAR

"PLEASE, SIR, I WOULD RATHER NOT"

THE RIGHT WORD

THE SADDEST OF INDIA'S PICTURES (1912)

ONE LITTLE WIDOW

WHY THE MITE BOXES WERE FULL

TI-TO AND THE BOXERS

HOW NYANGANDI SWAM TO CHURCH

THE LITTLE PRINTER MISSIONARY

THE MISSIONARY'S DEFENSE

LIGHT AT LAST

THE BROWN TOWEL

ONLY A BOY

THE LITTLE PROTECTOR

MOFFAT AND AFRICANER

TWO TRIFLES

A SECOND TRIAL

THE SIN OF EXTRAVAGANCE

A LITTLE CHILD'S WORK

THE HANDY BOX

THE RESULT OF DISOBEDIENCE

LIVINGSTONE'S BODY-GUARD

SPARE MOMENTS

A GOLD MEDAL

A GIRL'S RAILWAY ACQUAINTANCE

HAROLD'S FOOTMAN

ELNATHAN'S GOLD

ONLY A JACK-KNIFE

A SPELLING-BEE

JACK'S QUEER WAYS

WHAT ONE BOY DID

HOW NICK LEARNED MANNERS

WITHOUT BALLAST

INFLUENCE OF A GOOD BOOK

"STRAIGHTENING OUT THE FURROWS"

A BOY WHO WAS WANTED

WANTED: AN EMPLOYER

HOW TO STOP SWEARING

THE CAROLS OF BETHLEHEM CENTER

STANDING BEAR'S SPEECH

MABEL ASHTON'S DREAM

A SAD BUT TRUE STORY

"THE MAN THAT DIED FOR ME"

OUR GRASS RUG AND--OTHER THINGS




THEIR WORD OF HONOR


The president of the Great B. railway system laid down the letter he had
just reread three times, and turned about in his chair with an expression
of extreme annoyance.

"I wish it were possible," he said, slowly, "to find one boy or man in a
thousand who would receive instructions and carry them out to the letter
without a single variation from the course laid down. Cornelius," he looked
up sharply at his son, who sat at a desk close by, "I hope you are carrying
out my ideas with regard to your sons. I have not seen much of them lately.
The lad Cyrus seems to me a promising fellow, but I am not so sure of
Cornelius. He appears to be acquiring a sense of his own importance as
Cornelius Woodbridge, Third, which is not desirable, sir,--not desirable.
By the way, Cornelius, have you yet applied the Hezekiah Woodbridge test to
your boys?"

Cornelius Woodbridge, Junior, looked up from his work with a smile. "No, I
have not, father," he said.

"It's a family tradition; and if the proper care has been taken that the
boys should not learn of it, it will be as much a test for them as it was
for you and for me and for my father. You have not forgotten the day I gave
it to you, Cornelius?"

"That would be impossible," said his son, still smiling.

The elder man's somewhat stern features relaxed, and he sat back in his
chair with a chuckle. "Do it at once," he requested, "and make it a stiff
one. You know their characteristics; give it to them hard. I feel pretty
sure of Cyrus, but Cornelius--" He shook his head doubtfully, and returned
to his letter. Suddenly he wheeled about again.

"Do it Thursday, Cornelius," he said, in his peremptory way, "and whichever
one of them stands it shall go with us on the tour of inspection. That will
be reward enough, I fancy."

"Very well, sir," replied his son, and the two men went on with their work
without further words. They were in the habit of despatching important
business with the smallest possible waste of breath.

On Thursday morning, immediately after breakfast, Cyrus Woodbridge found
himself summoned to his father's library. He presented himself at once, a
round-cheeked, bright-eyed lad of fifteen, with an air of alertness in
every line of him.

"Cyrus," said his father, "I have a commission for you to undertake, of a
character which I cannot now explain to you. I want you to take this
envelope"--he held out a large and bulky packet--"and, without saying
anything to any one, follow its instructions to the letter. I ask of you
your word of honor that you will do so."

The two pairs of eyes looked into each other for a moment, singularly alike
in a certain intent expression, developed into great keenness in the man,
but showing as yet only an extreme wide-awakeness in the boy. Cyrus
Woodbridge had an engagement with a young friend in half an hour, but he
responded, firmly:--

"I will, sir."

"On your honor?"

"Yes, sir."

"That is all I want. Go to your room, and read your instructions. Then
start at once."

Mr. Woodbridge turned back to his desk with the nod and smile of dismissal
to which Cyrus was accustomed. The boy went to his room, opening the
envelope as soon as he had closed the door. It was filled with smaller
envelopes, numbered in regular order. Infolding these was a typewritten
paper, which read as follows:--

"Go to the reading-room of the Westchester Library. There open envelope No.
1. Remember to hold all instructions secret. C.W., Jr."

Cyrus whistled. "That's funny! It means my date with Harold is off. Well,
here goes!"

He stopped on his way out to telephone his friend of his detention, took a
Westchester Avenue car at the nearest point, and in twenty minutes was at
the library. He found an obscure corner and opened envelope No. 1.

"Go to office of W.K. Newton, room 703, tenth floor, Norfolk Building, X
Street, reaching there by 9:30 A.M. Ask for letter addressed to Cornelius
Woodbridge, Jr. On way down elevator open envelope No. 2."

Cyrus began to laugh. At the same time he felt a trifle irritated. "What's
father at?" he questioned, in perplexity. "Here I am away up-town, and he
orders me back to the Norfolk Building. I passed it on my way up. Must be
he made a mistake. Told me to obey instructions, though. He usually knows
just about why he does things."

Meanwhile Mr. Woodbridge had sent for his elder son, Cornelius. A tall
youth of seventeen, with the strong family features, varied by a droop in
the eyelids and a slight drawl in his speech, lounged to the door of the
library. Before entering he straightened his shoulders; he did not,
however, quicken his pace.

"Cornelius," said his father, promptly, "I wish to send you upon an errand
of some importance, but of possible inconvenience to you. I have not time
to give you instructions, but you will find them in this envelope. I ask
you to keep the matter and your movements strictly to yourself. May I have
from you your word of honor that I can trust you to follow the orders to
the smallest detail?"

Cornelius put on a pair of eye-glasses, and held out his hand for the
envelope. His manner was almost indifferent. Mr. Woodbridge withheld the
packet, and spoke with decision: "I cannot allow you to look at the
instructions until I have your word of honor that you will fulfil them."

"Is not that asking a good deal, sir?"

"Perhaps so," said Mr. Woodbridge, "but no more than is asked of trusted
messengers every day. I will assure you that the instructions are mine and
represent my wishes."

"How long will it take?" inquired Cornelius, stooping to flick an
imperceptible spot of dust from his trousers.

"I do not find it necessary to tell you."

Something in his father's voice sent the languid Cornelius to an erect
position, and quickened his speech.

"Of course I will go," he said, but he did not speak with enthusiasm.

"And--your word of honor?"

"Certainly, sir." The hesitation before the promise was only momentary.

"Very well. I will trust you. Go to your room before opening your
instructions."

And the second somewhat mystified boy went out of the library on that
memorable Thursday morning, to find his first order one which sent him to a
remote district of the city, with the direction to arrive there within
three quarters of an hour.

Out on an electric car Cyrus was speeding to another suburb. After getting
the letter from the tenth floor of the Norfolk Building, he had read:--

"Take cross-town car on L Street, transfer to Louisville Avenue, and go out
to Kingston Heights. Find corner West and Dwight Streets, and open envelope
No. 3."

Cyrus was growing more and more puzzled, but he was also getting
interested. At the corner specified he hurriedly tore open No. 3, but
found, to his amazement, only the singular direction:--

"Take Suburban Underground Road for Duane Street Station. From there go to
Sentinel office, and secure third edition of yesterday's paper. Open
envelope No. 4."

"Well, what under the sun, moon, and stars did he send me out to Kingston
Heights for!" cried Cyrus aloud. He caught the next train, thinking
longingly of his broken engagement with Harold Dunning, and of certain
plans for the afternoon which he was beginning to fear might be thwarted if
this seemingly endless and aimless excursion continued. He looked at the
packet of unopened envelopes.

"It would be easy to break open the whole outfit, and see what this game
is," he thought. "Never knew father to do a thing like this before. If it's
a joke,"--his fingers felt the seal of envelope No. 4,--"I might as well
find it out at once. Still, father never would joke with a fellow's promise
the way he asked it of me. 'My word of honor'--that's putting it pretty
strong. I'll see it through, of course. My, but I'm getting hungry! It must
be near luncheon-time."

It was not; but by the time Cyrus had been ordered twice across the city
and once up a sixteen-story building in which the elevator service was out
of order, it was past noon, and he was in a condition to find envelope No.
7 a very satisfactory one:--

"Go to Cafe Reynaud on Westchester Square. Take a seat at table in left
alcove. Ask waiter for card of Cornelius Woodbridge, Junior. Before
ordering luncheon read envelope No. 8."

The boy lost no time in obeying this command, and sank into his chair in
the designated alcove with a sigh of relief. He mopped his brow, and drank
a glass of ice-water at a gulp. It was a warm October day, and the sixteen
flights had been somewhat trying. He asked for his father's card, and then
sat studying the attractive menu.

"I think I'll have--" He mused for a moment, then said, with a laugh,
"Well, I'm about hungry enough to eat the whole thing. Bring me the--"

Then he recollected, paused, and reluctantly pulled out envelope No. 8, and
broke the seal. "Just a minute," he murmured to the waiter. Then his face
turned scarlet, and he stammered, under his breath, "Why--why--this can't
be--"

Envelope No. 8 ought to have been bordered with black, judging by the
dismay its order to a lecture hall to hear a famous electrician, caused.
But the Woodbridge blood was up now, and it was with an expression
resembling that of his grandfather Cornelius under strong indignation that
Cyrus stalked out of that charming place to proceed grimly to the lecture
hall.

"Who wants to hear a lecture on an empty stomach?" he groaned. "I suppose
I'll be ordered out, anyway, the minute I sit down and stretch my legs.
Wonder if father can be exactly right in his mind. He doesn't believe in
wasting time, but I'm wasting it today by the bucketful. Suppose he's doing
this to size me up some way; he isn't going to tire me out so quick as he
thinks. I'll keep going till I drop."

Nevertheless, when, just as he was getting interested, he was ordered to go
three miles to a football field, and then ordered away again without a
sight of the game he had planned for a week to see, his disgust was
intense.

All through that long, warm afternoon he raced about the city and suburbs,
growing wearier and more empty with every step. The worst of it was, the
orders were beginning to assume the form of a schedule, and commanded that
he be here at 3:15, and there at 4:05; and so on, which forbade loitering,
had he been inclined to loiter. In it all he could see no purpose, except
the possible one of trying his physical endurance. He was a strong boy, or
he would have been quite exhausted long before he reached envelope No. 17,
which was the last but three of the packet. This read:--

"Reach home at 6:20 P.M. Before entering house, read No. 18."

Leaning against one of the big white stone pillars of the porch of his
home, Cyrus wearily tore open envelope No. 18, and the words fairly swam
before his eyes. He had to rub them hard to make sure that he was not
mistaken:--

"Go again to Kingston Heights, corner West and Dwight Streets, reaching
there by 6:50. Read No. 19."

The boy looked up at the windows, desperately angry at last. If his pride
and his sense of the meaning of that phrase, "My word of honor," as the men
of the Woodbridge family were in the habit of teaching their sons, had not
both been of the strongest sort, he would have rebelled, and gone defiantly
and stormily in. As it was, he stood for one long minute with his hands
clenched and his teeth set; then he turned and walked down the steps away
from the longed-for dinner, and out toward L Street and the car for
Kingston Heights.


As he did so, inside the house, on the other side of the curtains, from
behind which he had been anxiously peering, Cornelius Woodbridge, Senior,
turned about and struck his hands together, rubbing them in a satisfied
way.

"He's come--and gone," he cried, softly, "and he's on time to the minute!"

Cornelius, Junior, did not so much as lift his eyes from the evening paper,
as he quietly answered, "Is he?" But the corners of his mouth slightly
relaxed.

The car seemed to crawl out to Kingston Heights. As it at last neared its
terminus, a strong temptation seized the boy Cyrus. He had been on a
purposeless errand to this place once that day. The corner of West and
Dwight Streets lay more than half a mile from the end of the car route, and
it was an almost untenanted district. His legs were very tired; his stomach
ached with emptiness. Why not wait out the interval which it would take to
walk to the corner and back in a little suburban station, read envelope No.
19, and spare himself? He had certainly done enough to prove that he was a
faithful messenger.

Had he? Certain old and well-worn words came into his mind; they had been
in his writing-book in the early school-days: "A chain is no stronger than
its weakest link." Cyrus jumped off the car before it fairly stopped, and
started at a hot pace for the corner of West and Dwight Streets. There must
be no weak places in his word of honor.

Doggedly he went to the extreme limit of the indicated route, even taking
the longest way round to make the turn. As he started back, beneath the arc
light at the corner there suddenly appeared a city messenger boy. He
approached Cyrus, and, grinning, held out an envelope.

"Ordered to give you this," he said, "if you made connections. If you'd
been later than five minutes past seven, I was to keep dark. You've got
seven minutes and a half to spare. Queer orders, but the big railroad boss,
Woodbridge, gave 'em to me."

Cyrus made his way back to the car with some self-congratulations that
served to brace up the muscles behind his knees. This last incident showed
him plainly that his father was putting him to a severe test of some sort,
and he could have no doubt that it was for a purpose. His father was the
sort of man who does things with a very definite purpose indeed. Cyrus
looked back over the day with an anxious searching of his memory to be sure
that no detail of the singular service required of him had been slighted.

As he once more ascended the steps of his own home, he was so confident
that his labors were now ended that he almost forgot about envelope No. 20,
which he had been directed to read in the vestibule before entering the
house. With his thumb on the bell button he recollected, and with a sigh
broke open the final seal:--

"Turn about, and go to Lenox Street Station, B. Railroad, reaching there by
8:05. Wait for messenger in west end of station, by telegraph office."

It was a blow, but Cyrus had his second wind now. He felt like a machine--a
hollow one--which could keep on going indefinitely.

The Lenox Street Station was easily reached on time. The hands of the big
clock were only at one minute past eight when Cyrus entered. At the
designated spot the messenger met him. Cyrus recognized him as the porter
on one of the trains of the road of which his grandfather and father were
officers. Why, yes, he was the porter of the Woodbridge special car! He
brought the boy a card which ran thus:--

"Give porter the letter from Norfolk Building, the card received at
restaurant, the lecture coupon, yesterday evening's _Sentinel_, and the
envelope received at Kingston Heights."

Cyrus silently delivered up these articles, feeling a sense of thankfulness
that not one was missing. The porter went away with them, but was back in
three minutes.

"This way, sir," he said, and Cyrus followed, his heart beating fast. Down
the track he recognized the "Fleetwing," President Woodbridge's private
car. And Grandfather Cornelius he knew to be just starting on a tour of his
own and other roads, which included a flying trip to Mexico. Could it be
possible--

In the car his father and grandfather rose to meet him. Cornelius
Woodbridge, Senior, was holding out his hand.

"Cyrus, lad," he said, his face one broad, triumphant smile, "you have
stood the test, the Hezekiah Woodbridge test, sir, and you may be proud of
it. Your word of honor can be depended upon. You are going with us through
nineteen States and Mexico. Is that reward enough for one day's hardships?"

"I think it is, sir," agreed Cyrus, his round face reflecting his
grandfather's smile, intensified.

"Was it a hard pull, Cyrus?" questioned the senior Woodbridge with
interest.

Cyrus looked at his father. "I don't think so--now, sir," he said. Both
gentlemen laughed.

"Are you hungry?"

"Well, just a little, grandfather."

"Dinner will be served the moment we are off. We have only six minutes to
wait. I am afraid--I am very much afraid "--the old gentleman turned to
gaze searchingly out of the car window into the station--"that another
boy's word of honor, is not--"


He stood, watch in hand. The conductor came in and remained, awaiting
orders. "Two minutes more, Mr. Jefferson," he said. "One and a
half--one--half a minute." He spoke sternly: "Pull out at 8:14 on the
second, sir. Ah----"

The porter entered hurriedly, and delivered a handful of envelopes into
Grandfather Cornelius's grasp. The old gentleman scanned them at a glance.

"Yes, yes--all right!" he cried, with the strongest evidences of excitement
Cyrus had ever seen in his usually quiet manner. As the train made its
first gentle motion of departure, a figure appeared in the doorway.
Quietly, and not at all out of breath, Cornelius Woodbridge, Third, walked
into the car.

Then Grandfather Woodbridge grew impressive. He advanced, and shook hands
with his grandson as if he were greeting a distinguished member of the
board of directors. Then he turned to his son, and shook hands with him
also, solemnly. His eyes shone through his gold-rimmed spectacles, but his
voice was grave with feeling.

"I congratulate you, Cornelius," he said, "on possessing two sons whose
word of honor is above reproach. The smallest deviation from the outlined
schedule would have resulted disastrously. Ten minutes' tardiness at the
different points would have failed to obtain the requisite documents. Your
sons did not fail. They can be depended upon. The world is in search of men
built on those lines. I congratulate you, sir."

Cyrus was glad presently to escape to his stateroom with Cornelius. "Say,
what did you have to do?" he asked, eagerly. "Did you trot your legs off
all over town?"

"Not much, I didn't!" said Cornelius, grimly, from the depths of a big
towel. "I spent the whole day in a little hole of a room at the top of an
empty building, with just ten trips down the stairs to the ground floor to
get envelopes at certain minutes. I had not a crumb to eat nor a thing to
do, and could not even snatch a nap for fear I'd oversleep one of my dates
at the bottom."

"I believe that was worse than mine," commented Cyrus, reflectively.

"I should say it was. If you don't think so, try it."

"Dinner, boys," said their father's voice at the door, and they lost no
time in responding.--_Grace S. Richmond, in Youth's Companion_.



Heroism

A tone of pride or petulance repressed,
A selfish inclination firmly fought,
A shadow of annoyance set at naught,
A measure of disquietude suppressed,
A peace in importunity possessed,
A reconcilement generously sought,
A purpose put aside, a banished thought,
A word of self-explaining unexpressed,--
Trifles they seem, these petty soul-restraints;
Yet he who proves them so must needs possess
A constancy and courage grand and bold.
They are the trifles that have made the saints.
Give me to practise them in humbleness,
And nobler power than mine doth no man hold.
--_Selected_.




MURIEL'S BRIGHT IDEA


My friend Muriel is the youngest daughter in a large family of busy people.
They are in moderate circumstances, and the original breadwinner has been
long gone; so in order to enjoy many of the comforts and a few of the
luxuries of life the young people have to be wage-earners. I am not sure
that they would enjoy life any better than they do now if such were not the
case, though there are doubtless times when they would like to be less
busy. Still, even this condition has its compensations.

"Other people do not know how lovely vacations are," was the way Esther
expressed it as she sat one day on the side porch, hands folded lightly in
her lap, and an air of delicious idleness about her entire person. It was
her week of absolute leisure, which she had earned by a season of hard
work. She is a public-school teacher, belonging to a section and grade
where they work their teachers fourteen hours of the twenty-four.

Alice is a music-teacher, and goes all day from house to house in town, and
from school to school, with her music-roll in hand. Ben, a young brother,
is studying medicine in a doctor's office, also in town, and serving the
doctor between times to pay for his opportunities. There are two others, an
older brother just started in business for himself, and a sister in a
training-school for nurses.

So it was that this large family scattered each morning to their duties in
the city ten miles away, and gathered at night, like chickens, to the home
nest, which was mothered by the dearest little woman, who gave much of her
time and strength to the preparation of favorite dishes with which to greet
the wage-earners as they gathered at night around the home table. It is a
very happy family, but it was not about any of them that I set out to tell
you. In truth, it was Muriel's apron that I wanted to talk about; but it
seemed necessary to describe the family in order to secure full
appreciation of the apron.

Muriel, I should tell you, is still a high-school girl, hoping to be
graduated next year, though at times a little anxious lest she may not
pass, and with ambitions to enter college as soon as possible.

The entire family have ambitions for Muriel, and I believe that she will
get to college in another year. But about her apron. I saw it first one
morning when I crossed the street to my neighbor's side door that opens
directly into the large living-room, and met Muriel in the doorway, as
pretty a picture as a fair-haired, bright-eyed girl of seventeen can make.
She was in what she called her uniform, a short dress made of dark print,
cut lower in the neck than a street dress. It had elbow sleeves, and a bit
of white braid stitched on their bands and around the square neck set off
the little costume charmingly.

Her apron was of strong dark-green denim, wide enough to cover her dress
completely; it had a bib waist held in place by shoulder straps; and the
garment fastened behind with a single button, making it adjustable in a
second. But its distinctive feature was a row of pockets--or rather several
rows of them--extending across the front breadth; they were of varying
sizes, and all bulged out as if well filled.

"What in the world?" I began, and stared at the pockets. Muriel's merry
laugh rang out.

"Haven't you seen my pockets before?" she asked. "They astonish you, of
course; everybody laughs at them; but I am proud of them; they are my own
invention. You see, we are such a busy family all day long, and so tired
when we get home at night, that we have a bad habit of dropping things just
where they happen to land, and leaving them. By the last of the week this
big living-room is a sight to behold. It used to take half my morning to
pick up the thousand and one things that did not belong here, and carry
them to their places. You do not know how many journeys I had to make,
because I was always overlooking something. So I invented this apron with a
pocket in it for every member of the family, and it works like a charm.

"Look at this big one with a B on it; that is for Ben, of course, and it is
always full. Ben is a great boy to leave his pencils, and his
handkerchiefs, and everything else about. Last night he even discarded his
necktie because it felt choky.

"This pocket is Esther's. She leaves her letters and her discarded
handkerchiefs, as well as her gloves. And Kate sheds hair ribbons and
hatpins wherever she goes. Just think how lovely it is to have a pocket for
each, and drop things in as fast as I find them. When I am all through
dusting, I have simply to travel once around the house and unpack my load.
I cannot tell you how much time and trouble and temper my invention has
saved me."

"It is a bright idea," I said, "and I mean to pass it on. There are other
living-rooms and busy girls. Whose is that largest pocket, marked M?"

"Why, I made it for mother; but, do you know, I have found out just in this
very way that mothers do not leave things lying around. It is queer, isn't
it, when they have so many cares? It seems to be natural for mothers to
think about other people. So I made the M stand for 'miscellaneous,' and I
put into that pocket articles which will not classify, and that belong to
all of us. There are hosts of things for which no particular one seems to
be responsible. Is it not a pity that I did not think of pockets last
winter, when we all had special cares and were so dreadfully busy? It is
such a simple idea you would have supposed that any person would have
thought of it, but it took me two years. I just had to do it this spring,
because there simply was not time to run up- and down-stairs so much."

"You have proved once more the truth of the old proverb, 'Necessity is the
mother of invention,'" I said. "And, besides, you have given me a new idea.
I am going home to work it out. When it is finished, I will show it to
you." Then I went home, and made rows and rows of strong pockets to sew on
a folding screen I was making for my work-room.--_Pansy, in Christian
Endeavor World. By permission of Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Just Do Your Best

Just do your best. It matters not how small,
      How little heard of;
Just do your best--that's all.
Just do your best. God knows it all,
And in his great plan you count as one;
Just do your best until the work is done.

Just do your best. Reward will come
  To those who stand the test;
God does not forget. Press on,
  Nor doubt, nor fear. Just do your best.

ERNEST LLOYD.




THE STRENGTH OF CLINTON


When Clinton Stevens was eleven years old, he was taken very sick with
pneumonia. During convalescence, he suffered an unexpected relapse, and his
mother and the doctor worked hard to keep him alive.

"It is ten to one if he gets well," said Dr. Bemis, shaking his head. "If
he does, he will never be very strong."

Mrs. Stevens smoothed Clinton's pillow even more tenderly than before. Poor
Clinton! who had always been such a rollicking, rosy-cheeked lad. Surely it
was hard to bear.

The long March days dragged slowly along, and April was well advanced
before Clinton could sit at the window, and watch the grass grow green on
the slope of the lawn. He looked frail and delicate. He had a cough, too, a
troublesome "bark," that he always kept back as long as he could.

The bright sunlight poured steadily in through the window, and Clinton held
up his hand to shield his eyes. "Why, Ma Stevens!" he said, after a moment,
"just look at my hands! They are as thin and white as a girl's, and they
used to be regular paws. It does not look as if I would pull many weeds for
Mr. Carter this summer, does it?"

Mrs. Stevens took his thin hands in her own patient ones. "Never mind,
dearie," she said, "they will grow plump and brown again, I hope." A group
of school-children were passing by, shouting and frolicking. Clinton leaned
forward and watched them till the last one was gone. Some of them waved
their caps, but he did not seem elated. "Mother," he said, presently, "I
believe I will go to bed if you will help me. I--I guess I am not quite
so--strong--now as I used to be."

Clinton did not pull weeds for Mr. Carter that summer, but he rode around
with the milkman, and did a little outdoor work for his mother, which
helped him to mend. One morning in July he surprised the village by riding
out on his bicycle; but he overdid the matter, and it was several weeks
before he again appeared. His cough still continued, though not so severe
as in the spring, and it was decided to let him go to school in the fall.

Dr. Bemis told Mrs. Stevens that the schoolroom would be a good place to
test Clinton's strength. And he was right. In no other place does a young
person's strength develop or debase itself so readily, for honor or
dishonor. Of course the doctor had referred to physical strength; but moral
strength is much more important.

Clinton was a bright lad for his years; and, although he had not looked
into his books during the summer, he was placed in the same grade he had
left when taken sick. He did not find much difficulty in keeping up with
any of his studies except spelling. Whenever he received a perfect mark on
that subject, he felt that a real victory had been won.

About Christmas-time the regular examinations were held. The teacher
offered a prize to each grade, the pupil receiving the highest average in
all studies to receive the prize. Much excitement, no little speculation,
and a great deal of studying ensued. Clinton felt fairly confident over all
his studies except spelling. So he carried his spelling-book home every
night, and he and his mother spent the evenings in wrestling with the long
and difficult words.

Examination day came at length, and the afternoon for the seventh grade
spelling was at hand. The words were to be written, and handed in. Across
the aisle from Clinton sat Harry Meyers. Several times when teacher
pronounced a word, Harry looked slyly into the palm of his hand. Clinton
watched him, his cheeks growing pink with shame. Then he looked around at
the others. Many of them had some dishonest device for copying the words.
Clinton swallowed something in his throat, and looked across at Matthews,
who pursed up his lips and nodded, if to say that he understood.

The papers were handed in, and school was dismissed. On Monday, after the
morning exercises, Miss Brooks gave out the prizes to the three grades
under her care. "I have now to award the prize for the highest average to
the seventh grade," she said. "But first I wish to say a few words on your
conduct during the recent examination in spelling. I shall censure no one
in particular, although there is one boy who must set no more bad examples.
No one spelled the words correctly--Clinton Stevens the least of
any--making his average quite low; yet the prize goes to him. I will tell
you why--" as a chorus of O! O's! greeted her ears. "Spelling is Clinton's
hardest subject, but he could easily have spelled more words right had he
not possessed sufficient strength to prevent him from falling into the way
followed by some of you."

As Clinton went up the aisle for his prize, he felt like crying, but he
managed to smile instead. A few days before, Harry Meyers had ridiculed him
because he was not strong enough to throw a snowball from the schoolhouse
to the road; now the teacher had said he was strong!

Clinton's Aunt Jennie came to visit the family in December, bringing her
little daughter Grace with her. Now Grace had a mania for pulling other
people's hair, but there was no one in the Stevens family upon whom she
dared operate except Clinton. She began on him cautiously, then
aggressively. Clinton stood it for a while, and then asked her, politely
but firmly, to stop. She stopped for half a day.

One night Clinton came home from school pale and tired. Some of the boys
had been taunting him on his spare frame, and imitating his cough, which
had grown worse as the winter advanced. Sitting down by the window, he
looked out at the falling snow. Grace slipped up behind him, and gave his
hair a sharp tweak. He struck out, hastily, and hit her. She was not
hurt,--only very much surprised,--but she began to cry lustily, and Aunt
Jennie came hurrying in, and took the child in her arms.

That night after supper Clinton went into the sitting-room, and called
Grace to him. "I want to tell you something," he said. "I am sorry that I
hit you, and I ask your pardon. Will you forgive me, dear?" Grace agreed
quickly, and said, shyly, "Next time I want to pull any one's hair, I will
pull my own."

Aunt Jennie was in the next room and overheard the conversation. "It
strikes me, Sarah," she said to Mrs. Stevens, later, "that Clinton is a
remarkably strong boy for one who is not strong. Most boys would not have
taken the trouble to ask a small girl to forgive them, even if they were
very much in the wrong. But Clinton has a strong character."

The year Clinton was thirteen, the boys planned to have a corn roast, one
August night. "We will get the corn in old Carter's lot," said Harry
Meyers. "He has just acres of it, and can spare a bushel or so as well as
not. I suppose you will go with us, Clint?"

Clinton hesitated. "No," said he. "I guess not; and I should think if you
want to roast corn, you could get it out of your own gardens. But if Mr.
Carter's corn is better than any other, why can you not ask him----"

"O, come, now," retorted Harry, "do not let it worry you! Half the fun of
roasting corn is in--in taking it. And don't you come, Clinton--don't. We
would not have you for the world. You are too nice, Mr. Coughin."

Clinton's cheeks flushed red, but he turned away without a word. When Mr.
Carter quizzed Billy Matthews, and found out all about it, Clinton was made
very happy by the old man's words: "It is not every chap that will take the
stand you took. You ought to be thankful that you have the strength to say
No."

In the fall, when Clinton was fifteen, his health began to fail noticeably,
and Dr. Bemis advised a little wine "to build him up."

"Mother," said the boy, after thinking it over, "I am not going to touch
any wine. I can get well without it, I know I can. I do not want liquor,"
he continued. "'Wine is a mocker,' you know. Did you not tell me once that
Zike Hastings, over in East Bloomfield, became a drunkard by drinking wine
when he was sick?"

"Yes, Clinton, I believe I told you so."

"Well, then, I do not want any wine. I have seen Zike Hastings too many
times."

In December Aunt Jennie and Grace made their annual visit. With them came
Uncle Jonathan, who took a great liking to Clinton.

"My boy," said he one day, placing a big hand on the lad's shoulder, "early
in the new year Aunt Jennie and I start for the Pacific Coast. Should you
like to go with us?"

"Well, I rather guess I should!" gasped the surprised boy, clasping his
hands joyfully. "Very well, then, you shall go," returned Uncle Jonathan,
"and your mother, too."

Clinton began to feel better before they were outside of Pennsylvania. When
they had crossed the Mississippi and reached the prairies, his eyes were
sparkling with excitement. The mountains fairly put new life in him. Uncle
Jonathan watched him with pleasure. "Tell me," he said one day, when they
were winding in and out among the Rockies, "what has given you so much
strength of character?"

"Why, it was this way," said Clinton, bringing his eyes in from a chasm
some hundreds of feet below: "one day when I was beginning to recover from
that attack of pneumonia, I saw a lot of the boys romping along, and I felt
pretty bad because I could not romp and play, too; then I thought that if I
could not be strong that way, I could have the strength to do right; so I
began to try, and----"

"Succeeded admirably," said Uncle Jonathan, approvingly. "And, really, my
boy, I see no reason why you should not shout and play to your heart's
content in a few months."

And Uncle Jonathan's words proved true; for Clinton, in a sun-kissed
California valley, grew well and strong in a few months. But through all
his life he will have cause to be glad that he learned the value of the
strength that is gained by resisting temptation, controlling one's spirit,
and obeying the Lord's commands.

BENJAMIN KEECH.




THE DOCTOR'S COW


"I am afraid she is done for," said the veterinary surgeon as he came out
of the barn with Dr. Layton, after working for an hour over Brindle, who
had broken into the feed bins, and devoured bran and middlings until she
could eat no more. "But keep up the treatment faithfully, and if she lives
through the night, she will stand some show of getting well."

The doctor walked down the driveway with the surgeon, and stood for a few
minutes at the gate under the maple-trees that lined the sidewalk, talking
earnestly. Then he went back into the house by the kitchen door. His wife
met him, with the oft-repeated words, "I told you so; I said that boy would
turn out of no earthly account."

"But he has turned out of some account," contradicted the doctor mildly.
"In spite of this carelessness, he has been a great help to me during the
last month. It was boyish ignorance more than mere carelessness that
brought about this disaster. To be sure, I have cautioned him not to leave
the door of the feed-room unfastened. But he had no idea how a cow would
make a glutton of herself if she had a chance at the bins. You cannot
expect a boy who was reared in a city tenement to learn all about the
country, and the habits and weaknesses of cattle, in one short month. No, I
shall not send him adrift again--not even if poor Brindle dies."

"You mean to say you are going to keep him just the same, John Layton?"
cried the doctor's wife. "Well, if you are not the meekest man! Moses was
not anything to you! He did lose his temper once."

The doctor smiled, and said quietly: "Yes, and missed entering the promised
land on account of it. Perhaps I should have done the same thing in his
place; but I am sure that Moses, if he were in my place today, would feel
just as I do about discharging Harry. It is pretty safe to assume that he,
even if he did lose his temper at the continual grumbling of the croakers
who were sighing for the flesh-pots of Egypt, never ordered a young
Israelite boy whose father and mother had been bitten by the fiery serpents
and died in the wilderness, to clear out of camp for not putting a halter
on one of the cows."

"John Layton, you are talking Scripture!" remonstrated the perturbed
housewife, looking up reprovingly as she sadly skimmed the cream from the
very last pan of milk poor Brindle would ever give her.

"I certainly am, and I am going to act Scripture, too," declared the
doctor, with the air of gentle firmness that always ended any controversy
between him and his excellent, though somewhat exacting, wife. "Harry is a
good boy, and he had a good mother, too, he says, but he has had a hard
life, ill-treated by a father who was bitten by the fiery serpent of drink.
Now because of his first act of negligence I am not going to send him
adrift in the world again."

"Not if it costs you a cow!" remarked the woman.

"No, my dear, not if it costs me two cows," reasserted the doctor. "A cow
is less than a boy, and it might cost the world a man if I sent Harry away
in a fit of displeasure, disgraced by my discharge so that he could not
find another place in town to work for his board, and go to school.
Besides, Brindle will die anyway, and discharging the boy will not save
her."

"No, of course not. But it was your taking the boy in, a penniless, unknown
fellow, that has cost you a cow," persisted the wife. "I told you at the
time you would be sorry for it."

"I have not intimated that I am sorry I took the boy in," remarked the
doctor, not perversely, but with steadfast kindness. "If our own little boy
had lived, and had done this thing accidentally, would I have been sorry he
had ever been born? Or if little Ted had grown to be thirteen, and you and
I had died in the wilderness of poverty, leaving him to wander out of the
city to seek for a home in God's fair country, where his little peaked face
could fill out and grow rosy, as Harry's has, would you think it just to
have him sent away because he had made a boyish mistake? Of course you
would not, mother. Your heart is in the right place, even if it does get
covered up sometimes. And I guess, to come right down to it, you would not
send Harry away any more than I would, when the poor boy is almost
heart-broken over this unfortunate affair. Now, let us have supper, for I
must be off. We cannot neglect sick people for a poor, dying cow. Harry
will look after Brindle. He will not eat a bite, I am afraid, so it is no
use to call him in now. By and by you would better take a plate of
something out to him; but do not say a harsh word to the poor fellow, to
make it any harder for him than it is."

The doctor ate his supper hurriedly; for the sick cow had engaged every
moment of his spare hours that day, and he had postponed until his evening
round of visits a number of calls that were not pressing. When he came out
to his buggy, Harry Aldis stood at the horse's head, at the carriage steps
beside the driveway, his chin sunk on his breast, in an attitude of
hopeless misery.

"Keep up the treatment, Harry, and make her as easy as possible," said the
doctor as he stepped into his buggy.

"Yes, sir; I'll sit up all night with her, Dr. Layton, if I can only save
her," was the choking answer, as the boy carefully spread the lap robe over
the doctor's knees.

"I know you will, Harry; but I am afraid nothing can save the poor
creature. About all we can do is to relieve her suffering until morning,
giving her a last chance; and if she is no better then, the veterinary
surgeon says we would better shoot her, and put her out of her misery."

The boy groaned. "O Dr. Layton, why do you not scold me? I could bear it
better if you would say just one cross word," he sobbed. "You have been
kinder to me than my own father ever was, and I have tried so hard to be
useful to you. Now this dreadful thing has taken place, all because of my
carelessness. I wish you would take that buggy whip to me; I deserve it."

The doctor took the whip, and gently dropped its lash across the drooping
shoulders bowed on the horse's neck as the boy hid his face in the silken
mane he loved to comb. Indeed, Dandy's black satin coat had never shone
with such a luster from excessive currying as in the month past, since the
advent of this new little groom, who slept in the little back bedroom of
the doctor's big white house, and thought it a nook in paradise.

"There's no use in scolding or thrashing a fellow who is all broken up,
anyway, over an accident, as you are," the doctor said, kindly. "Of course,
it is a pretty costly accident for me, but I think I know where I can get a
heifer--one of Brindle's own calves, that I sold to a farmer two years
ago--that will make as fine a cow as her mother."

"But the money, Dr. Layton! How can I ever earn that to make good your
loss?" implored the boy, looking up.

"The money? O, well, some day when you are a rich man, you can pay me for
the cow!" laughed the doctor, taking up the reins. "In the meantime, make a
good, trustworthy, honest man of yourself, no matter whether you get rich
or not, and keep your 'thinking cap' on a little better."

"You had better eat some supper," said a voice in the doorway a little
later, as Mrs. Layton came noiselessly to the barn, and surprised the boy
kneeling on the hay in the horse's stall adjoining the one where Brindle
lay groaning, his face buried in his arms, which were flung out over the
manger.

The lad scrambled to his feet in deep confusion.

"O, thank you, Mrs. Layton, but I cannot eat a bite!" he protested. "It is
ever so good of you to think of me, but I cannot eat anything."

"You must," said the doctor's wife, firmly. "Come outside and wash in the
trough if you do not want to leave Brindle. You can sit near by and watch
her, if you think you must, though it will not do a particle of good, for
she is bound to die anyway. What were you doing in there on your
knees--praying?"

The woman's voice softened perceptibly as the question passed her lips, and
she looked half-pityingly into the pale, haggard young face, thinking of
little Ted's, and wondering how it would have looked at thirteen if he had
done this thing.

"Yes," muttered Harry, plunging his hands into the water of the trough, and
splashing it over the red flame of a sudden burning blush that kindled in
his ash-pale cheeks. "Isn't it all right to pray for a cow to get well? It
'most kills me to see her suffer so."

Mrs. Layton smiled unwillingly; for the value of her pet cow's products
touched her more deeply than a boy's penitent tears, particularly when that
boy was not her own. "There is no use of your staying in there and watching
her suffer, you cannot do her any good," she insisted. "Stay out here in
the fresh air. Do you hear?"

"Yes, ma'am," choked Harry, drying his face on the sleeve of his gingham
shirt. He sat down on a box before the door, the plate of food in his lap,
and made an attempt to eat the daintily cooked meal, but every mouthful
almost choked him.

At about midnight, the sleepless young watcher, lying on the edge of the
hay just above the empty manger over which a lantern swung, lifted himself
on his elbow at the sound of a long, low, shuddering groan, and in another
moment, Harry knew that poor Brindle had ceased to suffer the effects of
her gluttonous appetite. Creeping down into the stall, he saw at a glance
that the cow was dead, and for a moment, alone there in the stillness and
darkness of the spring night, he felt as if he were the principal actor in
some terrible crime.

"Poor old boss!" he sobbed, kneeling down, and putting his arm over the
still warm neck. "I--I have killed you--after all the rich milk and butter
you have given me, that have made me grow strong and fat--just by my
carelessness!"

In after-years the memory of that hour came back to Harry Aldis as the
dominant note in some real tragedy, and he never again smelled the
fragrance of new hay, mingled with the warm breath of sleeping cattle,
without recalling the misery and self-condemnation of that long night's
watch.

In the early dawn, Dr. Layton found the boy lying beside the quiet form in
the stall, fast asleep from exhaustion and grief, his head pillowed on the
soft, tawny coat he had loved to brush until it gleamed like silk.

"Child alive!" he gasped, bending over and taking the lad in his arms, and
carrying him out into the sweet morning air. "Harry, why did you not come
and tell me, and then go to bed?" he cried, setting the bewildered boy on
his feet, and leading him to the house. "Now, my boy, no more of this
grieving. The thing is done, and you cannot help it now. There is no more
use in crying for a dead cow than for spilled milk. Now come in and go to
bed, and stay there until tonight; and when you wake up, the new heifer,
Brindle's daughter, will be in the barn waiting for you to milk her. I am
going to buy her this morning."

       *       *       *       *       *

Five years after that eventful night, Harry Aldis stood on the doctor's
front porch, a youth of eighteen, bidding good-by to the two who had been
more to him than father and mother. He was going to college in the West,
where he could work his way, and in his trunk was a high-school diploma,
and in his pocket a "gilt-edge recommendation" from Dr. Layton.

"God bless you, my boy! Don't forget us," said the doctor, his voice husky
with unshed tears as he wrung the strong young hand that had been so
helpful to him in the busy years flown by.

"Forget you, my more than father!" murmured the young man, not even trying
to keep the tears out of his eyes. "No matter how many years it may be
before I see you again, I shall always remember your unfailing kindness to
me. And can I ever forget how you saved me for a higher life than I could
possibly have lived if you had set me adrift in the world again for leaving
that barn door unfastened, and killing your cow? As long as I live, I shall
remember that great kindness, and shall try to deserve it by my life."

"Pshaw, Harry," said the doctor, "that was nothing but common humanity!"

"Uncommon humanity," corrected the youth. "Good-by, Mrs. Layton. I shall
always remember your kindness, too, and that you never gave me any less
butter or cream from poor Brindle's daughter for my grave offense. You have
been like an own mother to me."

"You have deserved it all, Harry," said the doctor's wife, and there was a
tear in her eye, too, which was an unusual sight, for she was not an
emotional woman. "I do not know as it was such a great calamity, after all,
to lose Brindle just as we did, for Daisy is a finer cow than her mother
was, and there has not been another chance since to get as good a heifer."

"So it was a blessing in disguise, after all, Harry," laughed the doctor.
"As for you, you have been a blessing undisguised from that day to this.
May the Lord bless and prosper you! Write to us often."

        *        *        *        *        *

Four years passed, and in one of the Western States a young college
graduate stepped from his pedestal of oratorical honors to take a place
among the rising young lawyers of a prosperous new town that was fast
developing into a commercial center.

"I am doing well, splendidly," he wrote Dr. Layton after two years of hard
work, "and one of these days I am coming back to make that promised visit."

But the years came and went, and still the West held him in its powerful
clutch. Success smiled upon his pathway, and into his life entered the
sweet, new joy of a woman's love and devotion, and into his home came the
happy music of children's voices. When his eldest boy was eight years old,
his district elected him to the State senate, and four years later sent him
to Congress,--an honest, uncompromising adherent to principle and duty.

"And now, at last," he wrote Dr. Layton, "I am coming East, and I shall run
down from Washington for that long-promised visit. Why do you write so
seldom, when I have never yet failed to inform you of my pyrotechnic
advancement into the world of politics? It is not fair. And how is the
family cow? Surely Madam Daisy sleeps with her poor mother ere this, or has
been cut up into roasts and steaks."

And to this letter the doctor replied briefly but gladly:--

"So you are coming at last, my boy! Well, you will find us in the same old
house,--a little the worse for wear, perhaps,--and leading the same quiet
life. No, not the same, though it is quiet enough, for I am growing old,
and the town is running after the new young doctors, leaving us old ones in
the rear, to trudge along as best we can. There isn't any 'family cow' now,
Harry. Daisy was sold long ago for beef, poor thing! We never got another,
for I am getting too old to milk, and there never seemed to come along
another boy like the old Harry, who would take all the barn-yard
responsibility on his shoulders. Besides, mother is crippled with
rheumatism, and can hardly get around to do her housework, let alone to
make butter. We are not any too well off since the Union Bank failed; for,
besides losing all my stock, I have had to help pay the depositors' claims.
But we have enough to keep us comfortable, and much to be thankful for,
most of all that our famous son is coming home for a visit. Bring your
wife, too, Harry, if she thinks it will not be too much of a drop from
Washington society to our humble home; and the children, all five of those
bright boys and girls,--bring them all! I want to show them the old stall
in the barn, where, twenty-five years ago, I picked their father up in my
arms early one spring morning as he lay fast asleep on the neck of the old
cow over whose expiring breath he had nearly broken his poor little heart."

        *       *       *       *       *

"Yes, father, of course it has paid to come down here. I would not have
missed it for all the unanimous votes of the third ballot that sent me
East," declared the United States senator at the end of his three days'
visit. Long ago, the Hon. Henry Aldis had fallen into the habit of
addressing Dr. Layton, in his letters, by the paternal title.

"It does not seem possible that it is twenty years since I stood here,
saying good-by when I started West. By the way, do you remember what you
told me that memorable night when the lamented Brindle laid down her life
because of my carelessness, and her own gluttony? I was standing at the
horse's head, and you were sitting in your buggy, there at the carriage
steps, and I said I wished you would horsewhip me, instead of treating me
so kindly. I remember you reached over and tickled my neck with the lash
playfully, and told me there was no use in thrashing a fellow who was all
broken up, anyway, over an accident."

The doctor laughed as he held his arms more closely about the shoulders of
Senator Aldis's two eldest boys; while "Grandmother Layton," with little
Ted in her lap, was dreaming again of the little form that had long, long
ago been laid in the graveyard on the hillside.

"Yes, yes," said the doctor, "I remember. What a blessed thing it was I did
not send you off that day to the tune the old cow died on," and he laughed
through his tears.

"Blessed!" echoed Mrs. Layton, putting down the wriggling Ted. "It was
providential. You know, Harry, I was not so kind-hearted as John in those
days and I thought he ought to send you off. But he declared he would not,
even if you had cost him two cows. He said that if he did it might cost the
world a man. And so it would have, if all they say you are doing out West
for clean government is true."

Senator Aldis laughed, and kissed the old lady.

"I do not know about that," he said modestly. "I am of the opinion that he
might have saved more of a man for the world; but certain it is, he saved
whatever manhood there was in that boy from going to waste by his noble act
of kindness. But what I remember most, father, is what you told me, there
at the carriage step, that when I became a rich man, I could pay you for
that cow. Well, I am not exactly a rich man, for I am not in politics for
all the money I can get out of it, but I am getting a better income than my
leaving that barn door open would justify any one in believing I ever could
get by my brains; so now I can pay that long-standing debt without
inconvenience. It may come handy for you to have a little fund laid by,
since the Union Bank went to smash, and all your stock with it, and so much
of your other funds went to pay the poor depositors of that defunct
institution. It was just like you, father, not to dodge the assessments, as
so many of the stockholders did, by putting all your property in your
wife's name. So, since you made one investment twenty-five years ago that
has not seemed to depreciate in value very much,--an investment in a raw
young boy who did not have enough gumption to fasten a barn door,--here is
the interest on what the investment was worth to the boy, at least a little
of it; for I can never begin to pay it all. Good-by, both of you, and may
God bless you! Here comes our carriage, Helen."

When the dust of the departing hack had filtered through the morning
sunlight, two pairs of tear-dimmed eyes gazed at the slip of blue paper in
Dr. Layton's hand,--a check for five thousand dollars.

"We saved a man that time, sure enough!" murmured the old doctor
softly.--_Emma S. Allen in the Wellspring._

       *        *        *        *        *

Brotherly Kindness

  A man may make a few mistakes,
    Regardless of his aim.
  But never, never criticize
    And cloud him o'er with blame;
  For all have failed in many things
  And keenly feel the smarting stings,
  Which haunt the mind by day and night
  Till they have made offenses right.

  So liberal be with those you meet
    E'en though they may offend,
  And wish them well as on they go
    Till all the journey end.
  Sometimes we think our honor's hurt
  When some one speaks a little pert;
  But never mind, just hear the good,
  And ever stand where Patience stood.

  Look for the good, the true, the grand
    In those you wish to shun,
  And you will be surprised to find
    Some good in every one;
  Then help the man who makes mistakes
  To rise above his little quakes,
  To build anew with courage strong,
  And fit himself to battle wrong.

JOHN FRANCIS OLMSTED




HONEY AT THE PHONE


Honey's mama had gone to market, leaving her home with nurse. Nurse was
up-stairs making beds, while little Honey, with hands behind her, was
trudging about the sitting-room looking for something to do.

There was a phone in the house, which was a great mystery to Honey when it
first came. She could hear voices talking back to mama, yet could not see a
person. Was some one hidden away in the horn her mother put to her ear, or
was it in the machine itself?

Honey never failed to be on hand when the bell rang, and found that her
mother generally talked to her best and dearest friends, ladies who were
such frequent callers that Honey knew them all by name.

Her mama wrote down the names of her friends, with the number of their
phones, and, because the child was so inquisitive about it, she very
carefully explained to her just how the whole thing worked, never thinking
that Honey would sometime try it for herself; and, indeed, for a while
Honey satisfied herself by playing phone. She would roll up a piece of
paper, and call out through it, "Hullo!" asking and answering all the
questions herself.

One day, on finding herself alone, she took down the receiver and tried to
talk to one of her mama's friends, but it was a failure. She watched mama
still more closely after that. On this particular morning, while mama was
at market, she tried again, commencing with the first number on her mama's
list.

Taking down the receiver, she called out, "Hullo!" the answer came back,
"Hullo!" "I wants A 215," said Honey, holding the receiver to her ear.

"Yes," came the reply.

"Are you Miss Samor?" asked Honey.

"Yes," was the reply.

"We wants you to come to our house tonight to supper, mama and me."

"Who's mama and me?" asked the voice.

"Honey," was the reply.

"Honey, through the phone, eh?" laughed the voice. "Tell mama I will come
with pleasure."

Honey was not only delighted, but greatly excited. She used every number on
her mother's list, inviting them all to supper.

About four o'clock in the afternoon the guests began to arrive, much to
mama's amazement and consternation, especially when they divested
themselves of their wraps, and proceeded to make themselves comfortable.
What could it mean? She would think she was having a surprise party if
every one had not come empty-handed. Perhaps it was a joke on her. If so,
they would find she would take it pleasantly.

There was not enough in the house to feed half that crowd, but she had the
phone, and she fairly made the orders fly for a while.

When her husband came home from his office, he was surprised to find the
parlors filled with company. While helping the guests, he turned to his
wife, saying, "Why, this is a sort of surprise, is it not?"

Mama's face flamed, and she looked right down to her nose without saying a
word.

"Why did you not tell me you were going to invite them, and I would have
brought home some flowers?" said Honey's papa.

Honey, who sat next to her papa, resplendent in a white dress and flowing
curls, clutched his sleeve, and said: "It's my party papa. I 'wited 'em
frew the phone. Honey likes to have c'ean c'o'es on, and have comp'ny."

It was the visitors' turn now to blush, but Honey's papa and mama laughed
so heartily it made them feel that it was all right even if Honey had sent
out the invitations. And not one went home without extending an invitation
to her host and hostess to another dinner or supper, and in every one Honey
was included.

"Just what she wanted," said her papa, as he tossed her up in his arms and
kissed her. Then, turning to his wife, he said, "Never mind, mother, she
will learn better as she grows older."--_Mrs. A. E. C. Maskell_.




ONE OF FATHER'S STORIES


When children, nothing pleased us more than to listen to father's stories.
Mother Goose melodies were nothing beside them. In fact, we never heard
fairy stories at home; and when father told of his boyhood days, the
stories had a charm which only truth can give. I can hear him now, as he
would reply to our request for a story by asking if he had ever told us how
his father tried to have a "raising" without rum. Of course we had heard
about it many times, but we were sure to want our memories refreshed; so we
would sit on a stool at his feet or climb upon his knee, while he told us
this story:--

"My grandfather, George Hobbs, was one of the pioneers of the Kennebec
Valley. He had an indomitable will, and was the kind of man needed to
subdue a wilderness and tame it into a home. He was a Revolutionary
pensioner, having enlisted when only twelve years of age. He was too young
to be put in the ranks, and was made a waiter in camp. When I was a boy, I
can remember that he drove twenty miles, once a year, to Augusta, Maine's
capital, to draw his pension. Snugly tucked under the seat of his sleigh
was a four-gallon keg and a box. The keg was to be filled with Medford rum
for himself, and the box with nuts and candy for his grandchildren. After
each meal, as far back as father could remember, grandfather had mixed his
rum and water in a pewter tumbler, stirred in some brown sugar with a
wooden spoon, and drunk it with the air of one who was performing an
unquestionable duty.

"Grandfather was a ship-carpenter by trade, and therefore in this new
country was often employed to frame and raise buildings. Raisings were
great social events. The whole neighborhood went, and neighbors covered
more territory than they do now. The raising of a medium-sized building
required about one hundred and fifty men, and their good wives went along
to help in the preparation of the dinner. The first thing on the day's
program was the raising, and not a stroke of work was done until all had
been treated to a drink of rum, the common liquor of the day. After the
frame was erected, one or two men, whose courage fitted them for the feat,
had the honor of standing erect on the ridge-pole and repeating this
rhyme:--

  'Here is a fine frame,
    Stands on a fine spot;
  May God bless the owner,
    And all that he's got.'

Men would sometimes walk the ridge-pole, and sometimes one, more daring
than the others, would balance himself on his head upon it.

"Then followed a bountiful dinner, in which meat and potatoes, baked beans,
boiled and fried eggs, Indian pudding, and pumpkin pies figured
prominently. Often as many as one hundred and twenty-five eggs were eaten.
After dinner came wrestling, boxing, and rough-and-tumble contests, in
which defeat was not always taken with the best of grace.

"This was before the subject of temperance was agitated much in the good
old State of Maine. The spirit of it, however, was awakening in the younger
generation. My father was enthusiastic over it, and announced his intention
of raising his new house without the aid of rum. To grandfather this was no
trifling matter. It was the encroachment of new ideas upon old ones--a
pitting of the strength of the coming generation against his own. To his
mind, no less than to father's, a principle was involved, and the old
soldier prepared to fight his battle. With some spirit he said to father,
'It cannot be done, Jotham; it cannot be done.' But father was just as sure
that it could. It was grandfather's task to fit the frame. He went
industriously to work, and father thought that he had quietly yielded the
point.

"The day for the raising came, the first in that part of the country to be
conducted on temperance principles. There were no telephones to spread the
news, but long before the day arrived, everybody, far and near, knew that
Jotham Hobbs was going to raise his new house without rum. The people came,
some eager to help to establish the era of temperance, and some secretly
hoping that the project would fail. A generous dinner was cooking indoors;
for the host intended to refuse his guests nothing that was good. The song
of mallets and hammers rang out, and the timbers began to come together;
but the master framer was idle. Over by the old house door sat grandfather.
He positively refused to lend a hand to the enterprise unless treated to
his rum. For a time the work progressed rapidly; then there came a halt.
There was a place where the timbers would not fit. After much delay and
many vain attempts to go on with the work, father asked grandfather to
help; but he only shook his head, and grimly replied that it was ten to one
if it ever came together without rum. There were more vain attempts, more
delays. Finally, father, seeing that he must yield or give up the work, got
some rum and handed it to grandfather. The old man gravely laid aside his
pipe, drank the Medford, and walked over to the men. He took a tenon marked
_ten_ and placed it in a mortise marked _one_. The problem was solved. He
had purposely marked them in that way, instead of marking them alike, as
was customary. With a sly twinkle in his eye he said, 'I told you it was
ten to one if it ever came together.'

"But the cause of temperance had come to stay, and grandfather met his
Waterloo when Squire Low built his one-hundred-foot barn. Three hundred men
were there to see that it went up without rum. Grandfather and a kindred
spirit, Old Uncle Benjamin Burrill, stood at a safe distance, hoping to see
another failure. But section after section was raised. The rafters went on,
and finally the ridge-pole. The old men waited to see no more. They dropped
their heads, turned on their heels, and walked away."

These events occurred between 1830 and 1840. Since then the cause of
temperance has made rapid progress.

In the State Capitol at Augusta, Maine, is a petition sent to the
legislature in 1835 by one hundred and thirty-nine women of Brunswick,
Maine. It is a plea for a prohibitory law, and is, probably, the first
attempt made to secure a legislative enactment against the liquor traffic.
One paragraph, which is characteristic of the whole document, is worth
quoting:--

"We remonstrate against this method of making rich men richer and poor men
poorer; of making distressed families more distressed; of making a portion
of the human family utterly and hopelessly miserable, debasing the moral
nature, and thus clouding with despair their temporal and future
prospects."

This petition met with no recognition by that legislature. There were many
customs to be laid aside, many prejudices to be overcome, and it was not
till 1851 that Maine became a prohibition State. Since that time her health
and wealth have steadily increased, in greater proportion than other States
which have not adopted temperance principles; and public sentiment, which
is a powerful ally, is against the liquor traffic.

ETHEL HOBBS WALTERS.




WHAT RUM DOES


I was sitting at my breakfast-table one Sunday morning, when I was called
to my door by the ringing of the bell. There stood a boy about fourteen
years of age, poorly clad, but tidied up as best he could. He was leaning
on crutches; for one leg was off at the knee.

In a voice trembling with emotion, and with tears coursing down his cheeks,
he said: "Mr. Hoagland, I am Freddy Brown. I have come to see if you will
go to the jail and talk and pray with my father. He is to be hanged
tomorrow for the murder of my mother. My father was a good man, but whisky
did it. I have three little sisters younger than myself. We are very, very
poor, and have no friends. We live in a dark and dingy room. I do the best
I can to support my sisters by selling papers, blacking boots, and doing
odd jobs; but Mr. Hoagland, we are very poor. Will you come and be with us
when father's body is brought home? The governor says we may have his body
after he is hanged."

I was deeply moved to pity. I promised, and made haste to the jail, where I
found his father.

He acknowledged that he must have murdered his wife, for the circumstances
pointed that way, but he had not the slightest remembrance of the deed. He
said he was crazed with drink, or he never would have committed the crime.
He said: "My wife was a good and faithful mother to my little children.
Never did I dream that my hand could be guilty of such a crime."

The man could bravely face the penalty of the law for his deed, but he
broke down and cried as if his heart would break when he thought of leaving
his children in a destitute and friendless condition. I read and prayed
with him, and left him to his fate.

The next morning I made my way to the miserable quarters of the children. I
found three little girls upon a bed of straw in one corner of the room.
They were clad in rags. They would have been beautiful girls had they had
the proper care. They were expecting the body of their dead father, and
between their cries and sobs they would say, "Papa was good, but whisky did
it."

In a little time two strong officers came bearing the body of the dead
father in a rude pine box. They set it down on two old rickety stools. The
cries of the children were so heartrending that the officers could not
endure it, and made haste out of the room.

In a moment the manly boy nerved himself, and said, "Come, sisters, kiss
papa's face before it is cold." They gathered about his face and smoothed
it down with kisses, and between their sobs cried out: "Papa was good, but
whisky did it! Papa was good, but whisky did it!"

I raised my heart to God and said, "O God, did I fight to save a country
that would derive a revenue from a traffic that would make a scene like
this possible?"--_Youth's Outlook_.



MY MOTHER'S RING


I am living now on borrowed time. The sun of my allotted life-day has set,
and with the mellow twilight of old age there come to my memory reflections
of a life which, if not well spent, has in it enough of good at least to
make these reflections pleasant. And yet, during all the years in which I
have responded to the name Carter Brassfield, but a single fortnight of
time, it seems to me, is worth recounting.

We were living in Milwaukee, having recently moved there from York State,
where I was born. My father, a bookkeeper of some expertness, not securing
a position in our newly adopted city as soon as he had expected, became
disheartened, and, to while away the time that hung so heavily, took to
drinking beer with some newly acquired German friends. The result was that
our funds were exhausted much sooner than they should have been, and mother
took it upon herself to turn bread-winner for the family by doing some
plain sewing.

A small allotment of this money she gave to me one day on my return from
school, and sent me to Mr. Blodget, the grocer, to purchase some supplies.
After giving my order to one of the clerks I immediately turned my
attention to renewing my acquaintance with Tabby, the store cat.

While I was thus engaged, I heard my name repeated by a stranger who was
talking with Mr. Blodget, and erelong the man sauntered over, spoke to me,
and after some preliminary remarks asked if I was Carter Brassfield. He was
dark, had a sweeping mustache, and wore eye-glasses. Upon being assured
that I was Carter Brassfield, he took from his pocket a gold ring, and,
turning it around carefully in the light, read the inscription on its inner
side.

"Is your mother's name Alice?" he asked.

I told him that it was.

"And your father's name Carter?"

"Yes, sir," said I.

Then he showed the ring to me and asked if I had seen it before.

I at once recognized the ring as my mother's. Since I could remember she
had worn it, until recently. Of late she had grown so much thinner that the
ring would no longer stay on her finger, and she was accustomed, therefore,
to keep the circlet in a small drawer of her dresser, secure in an old
purse with some heirlooms of coins; and I was greatly surprised that it
should be in the possession of this stranger. I told him that it was my
mother's ring, and asked him how he came by it.

"Your father put it up in a little game the other day," said he, "and it
fell into my possession." He dropped the ring into his purse, which he then
closed with a snap. "I have been trying for several days to see your father
and give him a chance at the ring before I turned it in to the
pawnbroker's. If your mother has any feeling in the matter, tell her she
can get the ring for ten dollars," he added as he turned away.

I did not know what to do. I was so ashamed and hurt to think that my
father, whom I loved and in whom I had such implicit confidence, should
have gambled away my mother's ring, the very ring--I was old enough to
appreciate--he had given her in pledging to her his love. My eyes filled
with tears, and as I stood, hesitating, Mr. Blodget came forward,
admonishing me not to forget my parcels. He evidently observed my tears,
although I turned my face the other way, for shame of crying. At any rate,
he put his hand on my shoulder and said very kindly:--

"It's pretty tough, Carter, my boy, isn't it?"

He referred, I thought, to my father, for father was uppermost in my
thoughts. Then, lowering his voice, he said:--

"But I will help you out, son, I will help you out."

I forgot all about hiding my tears, and faced about, attracted by his
kindness.

"I will redeem the ring, and keep it for you until you can get the money.
What do you say? You can rest easy then, knowing that it is safe, and you
can take your time. What do you say?"

With some awkwardness I acquiesced to his plan. Then he called the
stranger, and, leading the way back to his desk, paid to him the ten
dollars, requiring him to sign a paper, though I did not understand why. He
then placed the ring carefully in his safe.

"There, Carter," said he, rubbing his hands together, "it is safe now, and
we need not worry."

I held out my hand to him, then without a word took my parcels and started
on a run for home.

That evening father was more restless than usual. He repeatedly lamented
his long-enforced idleness. After retiring that night, I lay awake for a
long time evolving in my mind plans whereby I might earn ten dollars to
redeem the ring. Finally, with my boyish heart full of hope and adventure,
I fell asleep in the wee hours of morning.

After breakfast I took my books, as usual, but, instead of going to school,
I turned my steps toward a box factory where I knew a boy of about my own
age to be working. I confided to him as much of my story as I thought
advisable, and he took me to the superintendent's office and introduced me.
I was put to work, at five dollars a week, with the privilege of stopping
at four each day. Every afternoon I brought my school-books home and
studied as usual till bed-time, and took them with me again in the morning.

During the two weeks I was employed at the factory neither father nor
mother suspected that I had not been to school each day. In fact, I studied
so assiduously at night that I kept up with my classes. But my mother
observed that I grew pale and thin.

At the end of two weeks, when I told the manager I wanted to stop work, he
seemed somewhat disappointed. He paid me two crisp five-dollar notes, and I
went very proudly to Mr. Blodget with the first ten dollars I had ever
earned, and received that gentleman's hearty praise, and my mother's ring.

That evening father was out as usual, and I gave the ring to mother,
telling her all about it, and what I had done. She kissed me, and, holding
me close in her arms for a long time, cried, caressing my hair with her
hand, and told me that I was her dear, good boy. Then we had a long talk
about father, and agreed to lay nothing to him, at present, about the ring.

The next evening, when I returned from school, father met me at the hall
door, and asked if I had been to school. I saw that he had been drinking,
and was not in a very amiable mood.

"I met Clarence Stevenson just now," he said, "and he inquired about you.
He thought you were sick, and said you had not been to school for two
weeks, unless you had gone today." I stood for a moment without answering.
"What do you say to that?" he demanded.

"Clarence told the truth, father," I replied.

"He did, eh? What do you mean by running away from school in this manner?"
He grew very angry, catching me by the shoulder, gave me such a jerk that
my books, which I had under my arm, went flying in all directions. "Why
have you not been to school?" he said thickly.

"I was working, but I did not intend to deceive you father."

"Working! Working! Where have you been working?"

"At Mr. Hazleton's box factory."

"At a _what_ factory?"

"_Box_ factory."

"How much did you earn?" he growled, watching me closely to see if I told
the truth.

"Five dollars a week," I said timidly, feeling all the time that he was
exacting from me a confession that I wished, on his account, to keep
secret.

"Five dollars a week! Where is the money? Show me the money!" he persisted
incredulously.

"I cannot, father. I do not have it."

I was greatly embarrassed and frightened at his conduct.

"Where is it?" he growled.

"I--I--spent it," I said, not thinking what else to say.

A groan escaped through his shut teeth as he reeled across the hall and
took down a short rawhide whip that had been mine to play with. Although he
had never punished me severely, I was now frightened at his anger.

"Don't whip me, father!" I pleaded, as he came staggering toward me with
the whip. "Don't whip me, please!"

I started to make a clean breast of the whole matter, but the cruel lash
cut my sentence short. I had on no coat, only my waist, and I am sure a boy
never received such a whipping as I did.

I did not cry at first. My heart was filled only with pity for my father.
Something lay so heavy in my breast that it seemed to fill up my throat and
choke me. I shut my teeth tightly together, and tried to endure the hurt,
but the biting lash cut deeper and deeper until I could stand it no longer.
Then my spirit broke, and I begged him to stop. This seemed only to anger
him the more, if such a thing could be. I cried for mercy, and called for
mother, who was out at one of the neighbor's. Had she been at home, I am
sure she would have interceded for me. But he kept on and on, his face as
white as the wall. I could feel something wet running down my back, and my
face was slippery with blood, when I put up my hand to protect it. I
thought I should die; everything began to go round and round. The strokes
did not hurt any longer; I could not feel them now. The hall suddenly grew
dark, and I sank upon the floor. Then I suppose he stopped.

When I returned to consciousness, I was lying on the couch in the
dining-room, with a wet cloth about my forehead, and mother was kneeling by
me, fanning me and crying. I put my arms about her neck, and begged her not
to cry, but my head ached so dreadfully that I could not keep back my own
tears. I asked where father was, and she said he went down-town when she
came. He did not return at supper-time, nor did we see him again until the
following morning.

I could eat no supper that night before going to bed, and mother came and
stayed with me. I am sure she did not sleep, for as often as I dropped off
from sheer exhaustion, I was wakened by her sobbing. Then I, too, would
cry. I tried to be brave, but my wounds hurt me so, and my head ached. I
seemed to be thinking all the time of father. My poor father! I felt sorry
for him, and kept wondering where he was. All through the night it seemed
to me that I could see him drinking and drinking, and betting and betting.
My back hurt dreadfully, and mother put some ointment and soft cotton on
it.

It was late in the morning when I awoke, and heard mother and father
talking down-stairs. With great difficulty, I climbed out of bed and
dressed myself. When I went down, mother had a fire in the dining-room
stove, and father was sitting, or rather lying, with both arms stretched
out upon the table, his face buried between them. By him on a plate were
some slices of toast that mother had prepared, and a cup of coffee, which
had lost its steam without being touched.

I went over by the stove and stood looking at father. I had remained there
but a moment, my heart full of sympathy for him, and wondering if he were
ill, when he raised his head and looked at me. I had never before seen him
look so haggard and pale. As his eyes rested on me, the tears started down
my cheeks.

"Carter, my child," he said hoarsely, "I have done you a great wrong. Can
you forgive me?"

In an instant my arms were about his neck--I felt no stiffness nor soreness
now. He folded me to his breast, and cried, as I did. After a long time he
spoke again:--

"If I had only known--your mother has just told me. It was the beer,
Carter, the beer. I will never touch the stuff again, never," he said
faintly. Then he stretched out his arms upon the table, and bowed his head
upon them. I stood awkwardly by, the tears streaming down my cheeks, but
they were tears of joy.

Mother, who was standing in the kitchen doorway with her apron to her eyes,
came and put her arm about him, and said something, very gently, which I
did not understand. Then she kissed me several times. I shall never forget
the happiness of that hour.

For a long time after that father would not go downtown in the evening
unless I could go with him. He lived to a good old age, and was for many
years head bookkeeper for Mr. Blodget. He kept his promise always.

Mother is still living, and still wears the ring.--_Alva H. Sawins, M.D.,
in the Union Signal_.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Lad's Answer


  Our little lad came in one day
    With dusty shoes and weary feet
  His playtime had been hard and long
    Out in the summer's noontide heat.
  "I'm glad I'm home," he cried, and hung
    His torn straw hat up in the hall,
  While in the corner by the door
    He put away his bat and ball.

  "I wonder why," his aunty said,
    "This little lad always comes here,
  When there are many other homes
    As nice as this, and quite as near."
  He stood a moment deep in thought,
    Then, with the love-light in his eye,
  He pointed where his mother sat,
    And said: "Here she lives; that is why '"

  With beaming face the mother heard,
    Her mother-heart was very glad.
  A true, sweet answer he had given,
    That thoughtful, loving little lad.
  And well I know that hosts of lads
    Are just as loving, true, and dear,
  That they would answer as did he,
    "Tis home, for mother's living here."

           ARTHUR V. FOX.




THE BRIDAL WINE-CUP


"Pledge with wine! Pledge with wine!" cried young and thoughtless Harvey
Wood. "Pledge with wine!" ran through the bridal party.

The beautiful bride grew pale; the decisive hour had come. She pressed her
white hands together, and the leaves of the bridal wreath trembled on her
brow. Her breath came quicker, and her heart beat wilder.

"Yes, Marian, lay aside your scruples for this once," said the judge in a
low tone, going toward his daughter; "the company expects it. Do not so
seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette. In your own home do as you
please; but in mine, for this once, please me."

Pouring a brimming cup, they held it, with tempting smiles, toward Marian.
She was very pale, though composed; and her hand shook not, as, smiling
back, she gracefully accepted the crystal tempter, and raised it to her
lips. But scarcely had she done so when every hand was arrested by her
piercing exclamation of "O, how terrible!"

"What is it?" cried one and all, thronging together, for she had slowly
carried the glass at arm's length and was fixedly regarding it.

"Wait," she answered, while a light, which seemed inspired, shone from her
dark eyes--"wait, and I will tell you. I see," she added slowly, pointing
one finger at the sparkling ruby liquid, "a sight that beggars all
description; and yet, listen! I will paint it for you, if I can. It is a
lovely spot. Tall mountains, crowned with verdure, rise in awful sublimity
around; a river runs through, and bright flowers grow to the water's edge.
But there a group of Indians gather. They flit to and fro, with something
like sorrow upon their dark brows. In their midst lies a manly form, but
his cheek, how deathly! His eyes are wild with the fitful fire of fever.
One friend stands before him--nay, I should say, kneels; for see, he is
pillowing that poor head upon his breast.

"O, the high, holy-looking brow! Why should death mark it, and he so young?
Look, how he throws back the damp curls! See him clasp his hands! Hear his
thrilling shrieks for life! Mark how he clutches at the form of his
companion, imploring to be saved! O, hear him call piteously his father's
name! See him twine his fingers together as he shrieks for his sister--his
only sister, the twin of his soul, weeping for him in his distant native
land!

"See!" she exclaimed, while the bridal party shrank back, the untasted wine
trembling in their faltering grasp, and the judge fell overpowered upon his
seat--"see! his arms are lifted to heaven--he prays--how wildly!--for
mercy. Hot fever rushes through his veins. He moves not; his eyes are set
in their sockets; dim are their piercing glances. In vain his friend
whispers the name of father and sister--death is there. Death--and no soft
hand, no gentle voice to soothe him. His head sinks back; one convulsive
shudder--he is dead!"

A groan ran through the assembly. So vivid was description, so unearthly
her look, so inspired her manner, that what she described seemed actually
to have taken place then and there. They noticed, also, that the bridegroom
hid his face in his hands, and was weeping.

"Dead!" she repeated again, her lips quivering faster and faster, and her
voice more broken. "And there they scoop him a grave; and there, without a
shroud, they lay him down in that damp, reeking earth, the only son of a
proud father, the only idolized brother of a fond sister. There he lies, my
father's son, my own twin brother, a victim to this deadly poison. Father,"
she exclaimed, turning suddenly, while the tears rained down her beautiful
cheeks, "father, shall I drink it now?"

The form of the old judge was convulsed with agony. He raised not his head,
but in a smothered voice he faltered:--

"No, no, my child; no!"

She lifted the glittering goblet, and let it suddenly fall to the floor,
where it was dashed in a thousand pieces. Many a tearful eye watched her
movement, and instantaneously every wine-glass was transferred to the
marble table on which it had been prepared. Then, as she looked at the
fragments of crystal, she turned to the company, saying: "Let no friend
hereafter who loves me tempt me to peril my soul for wine. Not firmer are
the everlasting hills than my resolve, God helping me, never to touch or
taste the poison cup. And he to whom I have given my hand, who watched over
my brother's dying form in that last solemn hour, and buried the dear
wanderer there by the river in that land of gold, will, I trust, sustain me
in that resolve."

His glistening eyes, his sad, sweet smile, were her answer. The judge left
the room. When, an hour after, he returned, and with a more subdued manner
took part in the entertainment of the bridal guests, no one could fail to
read that he had determined to banish the enemy forever from his princely
home.--"_Touching Incidents and Remarkable Answers to Prayer."_




A MOTHER'S SORROW


A company of Southern ladies, assembled in a parlor, were one day talking
about their different troubles. Each had something to say about her own
trials. But there was one in the company, pale and sad-looking, who for a
while remained silent. Suddenly rousing herself, she said:--

"My friends, you do not any of you know what trouble is."

"Will you please, Mrs. Gray," said the kind voice of one who knew her
story, "tell the ladies what you call trouble?"

"I will, if you desire it; for, in the words of the prophet, 'I am the one
who hath seen affliction.'

"My parents were very well off; and my girlhood was surrounded by all the
comforts of life. Every wish of my heart was gratified, and I was cheerful
and happy.

"At the age of nineteen I married one whom I loved more than all the world
besides. Our home was retired; but the sun never shone upon a lovelier spot
or a happier household. Years rolled on peacefully. Five lovely children
sat around our table, and a little curly head still nestled in my bosom.

"One night about sundown one of those fierce, black storms came up, which
are so common to our Southern climate. For many hours the rain poured down
incessantly. Morning dawned, but still the elements raged. The country
around us was overflowed. The little stream near our dwelling became a
foaming torrent. Before we were aware of it, our house was surrounded by
water. I managed, with my babe, to reach a little elevated spot, where the
thick foliage of a few wide-spread trees afforded some protection, while my
husband and sons strove to save what they could of our property. At last a
fearful surge swept away my husband, and he never rose again. Ladies, no
one ever loved a husband more. But that was not trouble.

"Presently my sons saw their danger, and the struggle for life became the
only consideration. They were as brave, loving boys as ever blessed a
mother's heart; and I watched their efforts to escape, with such an agony
as only mothers can feel. They were so far off that I could not speak to
them; but I could see them closing nearer and nearer to each other, as
their little island grew smaller and smaller.

"The swollen river raged fearfully around the huge trees. Dead branches,
upturned trunks, wrecks of houses, drowning cattle, and masses of rubbish,
all went floating past us. My boys waved their hands to me, and then
pointed upward. I knew it was their farewell signal; and you, mothers, can
imagine my anguish. I saw them perish--all perish. Yet that was not
trouble.

"I hugged my baby close to my heart; and when the water rose at my feet, I
climbed into the low branches of the tree, and so kept retiring before it,
till the hand of God stayed the waters, that they should rise no farther. I
was saved. All my worldly possessions were swept away; all my earthly hopes
were blighted. Yet that was not trouble.

"My baby was all I had left on earth. I labored day and night to support
him and myself, and sought to train him in the right way. But, as he grew
older, evil companions won him away from me. He ceased to care for his
mother's counsels; he sneered at her entreaties and agonizing prayers. He
became fond of drink. He left my humble roof, that he might be unrestrained
in his evil ways. And at last one night, when heated by wine, he took the
life of a fellow creature. He ended his days upon the gallows. God had
filled my cup of sorrow before; now it ran over. That was trouble, my
friends, such as I hope the Lord of mercy will spare you from ever
knowing."

Boys and girls, can you bear to think that you might bring such sorrow on
your dear father or mother? If you would not, be on your guard against
intemperance. Let wine and liquors alone. Never touch them.--_Selected_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  "Ah, none but a mother can tell you, sir, how a mother's heart will ache
  With the sorrow that comes of a sinning child,
    with grief for a lost one's sake,
  When she knows the feet she trained to walk have gone so far astray,
  And the lips grown bold with curses that she taught to sing and pray!
  A child may fear, a wife may weep, but of all sad things none other
  Seems half so sorrowful to me as being a drunkard's mother."



THE REPRIMAND


At the sound of Mr. Troy's bell, Eleanor Graves vanished into his private
office. Ten minutes later she came out, with a deep flush on her face and
tears in her eyes.

"He lectured me on the spelling of a couple of words and a mistake in a
date," she complained to Jim Forbes. "Anybody's liable to misspell a word
or two in typing, and I know I took the date down exactly as he gave it to
me."

Jim looked uncomfortable. "I would not mind," he said awkwardly. "We all
have to take it sometime or other. Besides," he glanced hesitatingly at the
pretty, indignant face, "I suppose the boss thinks we ought not to make
mistakes."

"As if I wanted to!" Eleanor retorted, stiffly.

But she worked more carefully the next week; for her pride was touched.
Then, with restored confidence, came renewed carelessness, and an error
crept into one of the reports she was copying. The error was slight, but it
brought her a sharp reprimand from Mr. Troy. It was the second time, he
reminded her, that she had made that blunder. At the reproof the girl's
face flushed painfully, and then paled.

"If my work is not satisfactory, you had better find some one who can do it
better," she said.

Whirling round in his swivel-chair, Mr. Troy looked at her. He had really
never noticed his latest stenographer before, but now his keen eyes saw
many things that showed that she came from a home where she had been petted
and cared for.

"How long have you been at work?" he asked.

"This is my first position," Eleanor answered.

Mr. Troy nodded. "I understand. Now, Miss Graves, let me tell you
something. You have many of the qualities of a good business woman; you are
punctual, you are not afraid of work, you are fairly accurate. I have an
idea that you take pride in turning out a good piece of work. But you must
learn to stand criticism and profit by it. We must all take it sometime,
every one of us. A weakling goes under. A strong man or woman learns to
value it, to make every bit of it count. That is what I hope you will do."

Eleanor braced herself to meet his eyes.

"If you will let me, I will try again," she said.--_Youth's Companion_.

       *       *       *       *       *



The Kingfisher


  A kingfisher sat on a flagpole slim,
  And watched for a fish till his eye was dim.
  "I wonder," said he, "if the fishes know
  That I, their enemy, love them so!
  I sit and watch and blink my eye
  And watch for fish and passers-by;
  I must occasionally take to wing
  On account of the stones that past me sing.
  *
  "I nearly always work alone;
  For past experience has shown
  That I can't gather something to eat,
  And visit my neighbor across the street.
  So whether I'm fishing early or late,
  I usually work without a mate,
  Since I can't visit and watch my game;
  For fishing's my business, and Fisher's my name.
  Maybe by watching, from day to day,
  My life and habits in every way,
  You might be taught a lesson or two
  That all through life might profit you;
  Or if you only closely look,
  This sketch may prove an open book,
  And teach a lesson you should learn.
  Look closely, and you will discern."

  CHAS. E.E. SANBORN.




AN EXAMPLE


Stealing away from the ones at home, who would be sad when they found out
about it; stealing away from honor, purity, cleanliness, goodness, and
manliness, the minister's boy and the boy next door were preparing to smoke
their first cigarettes. They had skulked across the back pasture, and were
nearing the stone wall that separated Mr. Meadow's corn-field from the
road; and here, screened by the wall on one side and by corn on the other,
they intended to roll the little "coffin nails," and smoke them unseen.

The minister's boy, whose name was Johnny Brighton, and who was an
innocent, unsuspicious child, agreed that it would be a fine, manly thing
to smoke. So the lads waited and planned, and now their opportunity had
come. The boy next door, whose name was Albert Beecher, saw old Jerry
Grimes, the worst character in Roseland, drop a small bag of tobacco and
some cigarette-papers. The lad, being unobserved, transferred the stuff
from the sidewalk to his pocket, then hid it in the wood-shed.

At last their plan seemed about to be carried out. Albert's mother was
nursing a sick friend, and the minister, secure in his study, was preparing
a sermon. Johnny's mother was dead. His aunt Priscilla was his father's
housekeeper, and she was usually so busy that she had little time for small
boys. Today, as she began her sewing, Johnny slipped quietly from the house
and joined his chum.

The boys reached the stone wall and sat down, with the tobacco between
them, to enjoy (?) what they considered a manly deed. After considerable
talk and a few blunders, each succeeded in rolling a cigarette, and was
about to pass it to his lips, when a strange voice, almost directly above
their heads, said, pleasantly, "Trying to kill yourselves, boys?"

With a guilty start, Johnny and Albert turned instantly, and beheld the
strangest specimen of humanity that either had ever seen. An unmistakable
tramp, with a pale, sickly face, covered partly with grime and partly with
stubby black beard, stood leaning with his arms on top of the wall, looking
down at them. Although it was summer, he wore a greasy winter cap, and his
coat, too, spoke of many rough journeys through dirt and bad weather. His
lips were screwed into something resembling a smile; but as he spoke, his
haunted, sunken eyes roved restlessly from one upturned face to the other.

As the only answer the boys gave him was an astonished, frightened stare,
the man continued: "I would not do it, boys. It is an awful thing--awful! I
was trying to get a little sleep over here," he continued, "when I heard
your voices, and thought I would see what was going on. Did not any one
ever tell you about cigarettes? Why, each one contains enough poison to
kill a cat; if it was fixed right, I mean." He passed a thin, shaking hand
over his face, and went on: "Do you want to fool with such things?--Not if
you are wise. You see, the cigarette habit will kill you sometime, by
inches, if not right away, or else drive you crazy; and no sane person
wants to kill himself or spoil his health. That is what I am doing,
though," he admitted, with a bitter smile and a sad shake of his head. "But
I cannot stop it now. I have gone too far, and I cannot help myself. I am a
wreck, a blot on the face of the earth."

Both lads had thrown their cigarettes to the ground, scrambled to their
feet. Johnny, sober-faced and round-eyed, was gazing intently up at the
man; but Albert, feigning indifference, stood digging his toe into the
earth. He was listening, however.

"It is this way with me," the stranger went on, seeing he had an audience:
"I have gone from bad to worse till I cannot stop, no matter how hard I
try. Why, I was once a clean little chap like you, but I got to reading
trash, and then I began to smoke, and pretty soon I had drifted so far into
evil ways that I had no control over myself."

Here Johnny and Albert exchanged a painful glance.

"The worst thing about cigarettes," the man continued, "is that they
usually lead to something worse. I am a drunkard and a thief, because of
evil associations. Tramps never have any ready money; so when I have to
have cigarettes, which is all the time, I either steal them or steal the
money to buy them with. Besides," with another sad shake of the head, "I am
what is known as a drug fiend, and--yes, I guess I am everything bad. If
your folks knew who was talking to you, their blood would run cold.

"And it is all principally due to cigarettes!" he broke forth, savagely,
emphasizing his words with his fist and speaking more excitedly. "Just look
at me and behold a splendid example of the cigarette curse. Why, I was
naturally bright; I might have been a man to honor. But a bad habit,
uncontrolled, soon ruins one. My nerves are gone. I am only a fit companion
for jailbirds and criminals. I cannot even look an honest man in the face,
yet I am not naturally bad at heart. The best way is never to begin; then
you will never have to suffer. Cigarettes will surely hurt you some day,
though you may not be able to see the effects at first."

The speaker's manner had changed greatly during the past few moments. At
first he had spoken calmly, but he was now more than agitated. His eyes
rolled and flashed in their dark caverns, and he spoke vehemently, with
excited gestures. Johnny and Albert stood close together, regarding him
with frightened eyes.

"I wish I could reform," he exclaimed, "but I cannot! The poison is in my
veins. A thousand devils seem dragging me down. I wish I could make every
boy stop smoking those things. I wish I could warn them of the horrible
end."

With a sudden shriek, the man threw up his hands, fell backward, and
disappeared. After a second's hesitation, both lads ran to the wall,
climbed up, and looked over. In an unmistakable fit, the man was writhing
on the ground. Johnny and Albert ran quickly across lots and into Rev. Paul
Brighton's study. After learning that the boys had found a man in a fit,
Johnny's father hailed two passing neighbors, and the little party of
rescuers followed the lads to the scene of the strange experience.

It was a sorry spectacle that greeted them. The poor fellow's paroxysm had
passed, and he lay still and apparently lifeless, covered with dust and
grime. The minister bent over him, and, ascertaining that he was alive and
conscious, lifted him up; then, with the help of the two men, took the
outcast to the parsonage.

That evening, before the minister had asked his boy three questions, Johnny
broke into convulsive sobs, and made a clean breast of the matter from the
beginning. Blaming himself for not having won the child's heart securely
long before this, the minister did not censure him severely. He knew that
after such an example, the sensitive lad would never go wrong as far as
cigarettes were concerned.

Aunt Priscilla took her nephew in her arms, and, kissing the lips that were
yet sweet and pure, said, "If I have neglected you, Johnny, I am sorry; and
after this I am going to spend considerable time being good to my precious
laddie."

Johnny slipped an arm around Aunt Priscilla's neck. "That is just what I
want," he said, happily.

"I hope this will teach you a lesson, Albert," said Mrs. Beecher to her
son, when he, with the help and advice of the minister, had made a full
confession of his share in the matter. "After such an example, I should
think you would never want to see another cigarette."

"I do not," said Albert, soberly, "and if I can help it, I am not going to;
I will fight them. Cigarettes certainly did not make a man of that fellow.
They _unmade_ him."

For several days, during which the minister thought of what could be done
for him, the outcast stayed at the parsonage. He was invited to try the
gospel cure. "If you will put yourself unreservedly in the hands of God,
and remain steadfast," said Mr. Brighton, "there is hope for you. Besides,
I know of some medical missionaries who can help doctor the poison out of
your system, if you will let them."

At last the poor fellow yielded. And after a hard, bitter struggle, during
which a higher power helped him, he won the victory. He joined a band of
religious people whose work is to help rebuild wrecked lives; and although
weak at first and never robust, he was still able to point the right way to
many an erring mortal. He did much good; and Johnny and Albert, at least,
never forgot the practical example he gave them of what the cigarette can
accomplish for its slaves. BENJAMIN KEECH.




FIGHTING THE GOOD FIGHT


A number of years ago, at an orphan asylum in a Northern State, there lived
a boy whom we shall call Will Jones. He was just an ordinary boy. No, he
was not so in one respect, which I must point out, to his discredit. Will
Jones had a temper that distinguished him from the general run of boys.
Will's temper might have been inherited from a Spanish pirate, and yet Will
was a boy whom every one loved; but this hair-trigger temper at times
terribly spoiled things. It would be tedious to recount his uprisings of
anger, and the direful consequences that often followed.

Mr. Custer, the superintendent of the asylum, had hopefully striven to lead
Will to the paths of right; but it was a difficult task.

Sometimes it needs but one small breach to begin the overthrow of a giant
wall. One small key, if it is the right one, will open the most resisting
door. One small phrase may start a germ-thought growing in a human mind
which in after-years may become a mighty oak of character. So Will Jones,
the incorrigible fighter was to demonstrate this principle, as we shall
see.

On a Sabbath evening, as the hundred or more orphans met at vespers and
sang, "Onward, Christian Soldiers!" they saw a stranger seated at the
speaker's desk in the home chapel. He was a venerable old Wan, straight and
dignified, his hoary head a crown of honor; for he was all that he
appeared--a father in Israel.

In a brief speech he told the boys that he had once been a Union soldier,
and had fought in the battles of his country. He told of the courage it
required to face death upon the battle-field. He described the charges his
company had made and met, the sieges and the marches, the sufferings they
endured, and, lastly, the joys that victory and the end of the conflict
brought.

Then, when the boys were at the height of interested expectancy, he
skilfully drew the lesson he wanted them to learn. He told of a greater
warfare, requiring a higher courage, and bringing as a reward a larger and
more enduring victory. "Boys," he said, "the real soldiers are the
Christian soldiers; the real battle is the battle against sin; the real
battle-ground is where that silent struggle is constantly waging within our
minds." Then he told of Paul, who said, "I have fought a good fight." "Did
any of you boys ever fight a bad fight?" Every head but one turned to a
common point at this juncture, and the eyes of only one boy remained upon
the speaker. Will Jones had the record for bad fights, and that is why
about ninety-nine pairs of eyes had involuntarily sought him out when the
speaker asked the question, which he hoped each would ask himself. And the
reason Will Jones did not look around accusingly at any of the other boys
was because he had taken to heart all that had been said; and, because of
this, the turning-point had come; his conversion had begun. Henceforth he
determined so to live that he could say with Paul, "I have fought a good
fight."

No sooner does a boy determine to fight the good fight than Satan accepts
the challenge, and gives him a combat such as will seem like a "fiery
trial" to try him. These struggles develop the moral backbone; and if a boy
does not give in, he will find his moral courage increasing with each moral
fight. Just let that thought stay in your mind, underscored in bold-faced
italics, and printed in indelible ink; and if you have a tendency to be a
spiritual "jelly-back," it will be like a rod of steel to your spine.

The fear of Will Jones's knuckles had won a degree of peace for him. He had
lived a sort of armed truce, so to speak. Now he was subjected to petty
persecutions by mean boys who took advantage of his new stand. He did not
put on the look of a martyr either, but kept good-natured even when the old
volcano within was rumbling and threatening to bury the tormentors in hot
lava and ashes. The old desire to fight the bad fight was turned into the
new channel of determination to fight the good fight. Today Will Jones is
still a good fighter, and I hope he always will be, and some day will be
crowned with eternal victory; for he who fights the good fight is fighting
for eternity.

Will you not try so to live each day, subduing every sinful thought, that
at night when you kneel to pray you can say to the Lord, "I have fought a
good fight today"?

S. W. VAN TRUMP.

       *       *       *       *       *



Our Help Is Near


  Temptations dark and trials fall
    On all who labor here;
  But we have One on whom to call:
    Our Lord is ever near.
  So let us when these trials come,
    Lean on his strength alone,
  Till we have reached the promised home
    Where sorrows are unknown.

MAX HILL.




TIGHTENING THE SADDLE-GIRTH


A time of grave crisis; upon the events of the next few minutes would hang
the issue of a hard-fought battle. Already at one end of the line the
troops seemed to be wavering. Was it indeed defeat?

Just where the fight was most fierce, a young officer was seen to leap from
his horse. His followers, sore pressed though they were, could not help
turning toward him, wondering what had happened. The bullets flew like hail
everywhere; and yet, with steady hand, the gallant soldier stood by the
side of his horse and drew the girth of his saddle tight. He had felt it
slip under him, and he knew that upon just such a little thing as a loose
buckle might hinge his own life, and, perhaps, the turn of the battle.
Having secured the girth, he bounded into the saddle, rallied his men, and
swept on to victory.

Many a battle has been lost on account of no greater thing than a loose
saddle-girth. A loose screw will disable the mightiest engine in the world.
A bit of sand in the bearing of an axle has brought many a locomotive to a
standstill, and thrown out of order every train on the division. Lives have
been lost, business houses wrecked, private fortunes laid in the balance,
just because some one did not tighten his saddle-girth!

Does it seem a small thing to you that you forgot some seemingly
unimportant thing this morning? Stop right where you are and go back and do
the thing you know you should have done in the first place.

One of the finest teachers in the leading school of one of our cities puts
stress day after day on that one thing of cultivating the memory so that it
will not fail in time of stress. "Do the thing when it should be done," she
insists. "If you forget, go back and do it. You have no right to forget; no
one has."

Tighten up the loose screw the moment you see it is loose. Pull the strap
through the buckle as soon as you feel it give. Wipe the axle over which
you have charge, clean of dust or grit. If your soul is in the balance,
stop now, today, this very moment, and see that all is right between you
and God.--_Kind Words_.

       *       *       *       *       *



If You But Knew


  O lad, my lad, if you but knew
  The glowing dreams I dream of you,--
  The true, straight course of duty run,
  The noble deeds, the victories won,
    And you the hero of them all,--
  I know that you would strive to be
  The lad that in my dreams I see;
    No tempter's voice could make you fall.

  Ah, lad, my lad, your frank, free smile
  Has cheered me many a weary mile;
  And in your face, e'en in my dreams,
  Potent of future manhood beams,--
    Manhood that lives above the small;
  Manhood all pure and good and clean,
  That scorns the base, the vile, the mean,
    That hears and answers duty's call

  And lad, my lad, so strong and true,
  This is the prayer I pray for you:
  Lord, take my boy, and guide his life
  Through all the pitfalls of the strife;
    Lead him to follow out thy plan,
  To do the deeds he ought to do,
  To all thy precepts ever true;
    Make him a clean and noble man.

MAX HILL.




"HERRINGS FOR NOTHING"


I want you to think of a bitter, east windy day, fast-falling snow, and a
short, muddy street in London. Put these thoughts together, and add to them
the picture of a tall, stout man, in a rough greatcoat, and with a large
comforter round his neck, buffeting through wind and storm. The darkness is
coming rapidly, as a man with a basket on his head turns the corner of the
street, and there are two of us on opposite sides. He cries loudly as he
goes: "Herrings! three a penny! Red herrings, good and cheap, three a
penny!" So crying, he passes along the street, crosses at its end, and
comes to where I am standing at the corner. Here he pauses, evidently
wishing to fraternize with somebody, as a relief from the dull time and
disappointed hopes of trade. I presume I appear a suitable object, as he
comes close to me and begins conversation:--

"Governor, what do you think of these yer herrings?"--three in his hand,
while the remaining stock are deftly balanced in the basket on his head.
"Don't you think they're good?" and he offered me the opportunity of
testing them by scent, which I courteously but firmly declined, "and don't
you think they're cheap as well?"

I asserted my decided opinion that they were good and cheap.

"Then, look you, governor, why can't I sell 'em? Yet have I walked a mile
and a half along this dismal place, offering these good and cheap 'uns; and
nobody don't buy none!"

"I do not wonder at all at that," I answered, to his astonishment.

"Tell us why not, governor."

"The people have no work, and are starving; there are plenty of houses
round here that have not a single penny in them," was my reply.

"Ah! then, governor," he rejoined, "I've put my foot in it this time; I
knew they was werry poor, but I thought three a penny 'ud tempt 'em. But if
they haven't the ha-pence, they can't spend 'em, sure enough; so there's
nothing for it but to carry 'em back, and try and sell 'em elsewhere. I
thought by selling cheap, arter buying cheap, I could do them good, and
earn a trifle for myself. But I'm done this time."

"How much will you take for the lot?" I inquired.

First a keen look at me, then down came the basket from his head, then a
rapid calculation, then a grinning inquiry, "Do you mean profit an' all,
governor?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll take four shillin', and be glad to get 'em."

I put my hand in my pocket, produced that amount, and handed it to him.

"Right, governor, thank'ee! Now what'll I do with 'em?" he said, as he
quickly transferred the coins to his own pocket.

"Go round this corner into the middle of the road, and shout with all your
might, 'Herrings for nothing!' and give three to every man, woman, or child
that comes to you, till the basket is emptied."

On hearing these instructions, he immediately reproduced the money, and
examined it. Being satisfied of its genuineness, he again replaced it, and
then looked keenly and questioningly at me.

"Well," I said, "is it all right and good?"

"Yes," replied he.

"Then the herrings are my property, and I can do as I like with them; but
if you do not like to do as I tell you, give me back my money."

"All right, governor, an' they are yours; so if you say it, here goes!"
Accordingly, he proceeded into the middle of the adjoining street, and went
along, shouting aloud: "Herrings for nothing! Good red herrings for
nothing!"

Out of sight myself, I stood at the corner to watch his progress; and
speedily he neared the house where a tall woman stood at the first-floor
window, looking out upon him.

"Here you are, missus," he bawled, "herrings for nothing! A fine chance for
yer! Come an' take 'em."

The woman shook her head unbelievingly, and left the window.

"Vot a fool!" said he. "But they won't be all so. Herrings for nothing!" A
little child came out to look at him, and he called to her, "Yer, my dear,
take these in to your mother. Tell her how cheap they are--herrings for
nothing." But the child was afraid of him and them, and ran indoors.

So down the street, in the snowy slush and mud, went the cheap fish, the
vender crying loudly as he went, "Herrings for nothing!" and then adding
savagely, "O you fools!" Thus he reached the very end; and, turning to
retrace his steps, he continued his double cry as he came, "Herrings for
nothing!" and then in a lower key, "O you fools!"

"Well?" I said to him calmly, as he reached me at the corner.

"Well!" he replied, "if yer think so! When you gave me the money for
herrings as yer didn't want, I thought you was training for a lunatic
'sylum. Now I thinks all the people round here are fit company for yer. But
what'll I do with the herrings, if yer don't want 'em and they won't have
'em?"

"We will try again together," I replied. "I will come with you, and we will
both shout."

Into the road we both went; and he shouted, "Herrings for nothing!" and
then I called out also, "Will any one have some herrings for tea?"

They heard the voice, and they knew it well; and they came out at once, in
twos and threes and sixes, men and women and children, all striving eagerly
to reach the welcome food.

As fast as I could take them from the basket, I handed three to each eager
applicant, until all were speedily disposed of. When the basket was empty,
the hungry crowd who had none, was far greater than those that had been
supplied; but they were too late; there were no more herrings.

Foremost among the disappointed was the tall woman, who, with a bitter
tongue, began vehemently: "Why haven't I got any? Ain't I as good as they?
Ain't my children as hungry as theirs?"

Before I had time to reply, the vender stretched out his arm toward her,
saying, "Why, governor, that's the very woman as I offered 'em to first,
and she turned up her nose at 'em."

"I didn't," she rejoined passionately; "I didn't believe you meant it!"

"Yer just goes without, then, for yer unbelief!" he replied. "Good night,
and thank'ee, governor!"

You smile at the story, which is strictly true. Are you sure you are not
ten thousand times worse? Their unbelief cost them only a hungry stomach;
but what may your unbelief of God's offer cost you? God--not man--God has
sent his messenger to you repeatedly for years, to offer pardon for
nothing! Salvation for nothing! He has sent to your homes, your hearts, the
most loving and tender offers that even an Almighty could frame; and what
have you replied? Have you not turned away, in scornful unbelief, like the
woman?

God says, "Because I have called, and ye refused; I have stretched out my
hand, and no man regarded;... I also will laugh at your calamity; I will
mock when your fear cometh." Prov. I:24-26. But he also says, "Ho, every
one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money; come
ye, buy, and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money and without
price." Isa. 55:1. "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only
begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have
everlasting life." John 3: 16.

Answer him. Will you have it?--_C. J. Whitmore_.



Come


  Ho, every one that thirsteth,
    Come to the living stream,
  And satisfy your longing soul
    Where silver fountains gleam.

  Come, weary, faint, and hungry;
    Before you now is spread
  A rich supply for all your needs;
    Receive the living Bread.

  Why do you linger longer?
    Come while 'tis called today.
  Here's milk and honey without price;
    O, do not turn away!

  Why feed on husks that perish?
    Enter the open door.
  Thy Saviour stands with outstretched hands;
    Eat, drink, and want no more.

MAY WAKEHAM.




THE POWER OF SONG

My Own Experience


Near the summit of a mountain in Pennsylvania is a small hamlet called
Honeyville, consisting of two log houses, two shanties, a rickety old barn,
and a small shed, surrounded by a few acres of cleared land. In one of
these houses lived a family of seven,--father, mother, three boys, and two
girls. They had recently moved from Michigan. The mother's health was poor,
and she longed to be out on the beautiful old mountain where she had spent
most of her childhood. Their household goods had arrived in Pennsylvania
just in time to be swept away by the great Johnstown flood of 1889.

The mother and her two little girls, Nina and Dot, were Christians, and
their voices were often lifted in praise to God as they sang from an old
hymn-book, one of their most cherished possessions.

One morning the mother sent Nina and Dot on an errand to their sister's
home three and one-half miles distant. The first two miles took them
through dense woods, while the rest of the way led past houses and through
small clearings. She charged them to start on their return home in time to
arrive before dark, as many wild beasts--bears, catamounts, and
occasionally a panther--were prowling around. These animals were hungry at
this time of the year; for they were getting ready to "hole up," or lie
down in some cozy cave or hole for their winter's nap.

The girls started off, merrily chasing each other along the way, and
arrived at their sister's in good time, and had a jolly romp with the baby.
After dinner the sister was so busy, and the children were so absorbed in
their play, that the time passed unheeded until the clock struck four. Then
the girls hurriedly started for home, in the hope that they might arrive
there before it grew very dark. The older sister watched until they
disappeared up the road, anxiously wishing some one was there to go with
them.

Nina and Dot made good time until they entered the long stretch of woods,
when Nina said:--

"O, I know where there is such a large patch of wintergreen berries, right
by the road! Let's pick some for mama."

So they climbed over a few stones and logs, and, sure enough, the berries
were plentiful. They picked and talked, sometimes playing hide-and-seek
among the bushes. When they started on again, the sun was sinking low in
the west, and the trees were casting heavy shadows over the road, which
lengthened rapidly. When about half of the distance was covered, Dot began
to feel tired and afraid. Nina tried to cheer her, saying, "Over one more
long hill, and we shall be home." But now they could only see the sun
shining on the top of the trees on the hill.

They had often played trying to scare each other by one saying, "O, I see a
bear or a wolf up the road!" and pretending to be afraid. So Dot said:
"Let's scare each other. You try to scare me." Nina said, "All right."
Then, pointing up the road, she said, "O, look up the road by that black
stump! I see a--" She did not finish; for suddenly, from almost the very
spot where she had pointed, a large panther stepped out of the bushes,
turning his head first one way and then another. Then, as if seeing the
girls for the first time, he crouched down, and, crawling, sneaking along,
like a cat after a mouse, he moved toward them. The girls stopped and
looked at each other. Then Dot began to cry, and said, in a half-smothered
whisper, "O Nina, let's run!" But Nina thought of the long, dark, lonely
road behind, and knew that running was useless. Then, thinking of what she
had heard her father say about showing fear, she seized her little sister's
hand, and said: "No, let's pass it. God will help us." And she started up
the road toward the animal.

When the children moved, the panther stopped, and straightened himself up.
Then he crouched again, moving slowly, uneasily, toward them. When they had
nearly reached him, and Nina, who was nearest, saw his body almost rising
for the spring, there flashed through her mind the memory of hearing it
said that a wild beast would not attack any one who was singing. What
should she sing? In vain she tried to recall some song, but her mind seemed
a blank. In despair she looked up, and breathed a little prayer for help;
then, catching a glimpse of the last rays of the setting sun touching the
tops of the trees on the hill, she began the beautiful hymn,--

  "There is sunlight on the hilltop,
    There is sunlight on the sea."

Her sister joined in, and although their voices were faint and trembling at
first, by the time the children were opposite the panther, the words of the
song rang out sweet and clear on the evening air.

The panther stopped, and straightened himself to his height. His tail,
which had been lashing and switching, became quiet as he seemed to listen.
The girls passed on, hand in hand, never looking behind them. How sweet the
words,--

  "O the sunlight! beautiful sunlight!
    O the sunlight in the heart!"

sounded as they echoed and reechoed through the woods.

As the children neared the top of the hill, the rumbling of a wagon fell
upon their ears, so they knew that help was near, but still they sang. When
they gained the top, at the same time the wagon rattled up, for the first
time they turned and looked back, just in time to catch a last glimpse of
the panther as he disappeared into the woods.

The mother had looked often and anxiously down the road, and each time was
disappointed in not seeing the children coming. Finally she could wait no
longer, and started to meet them. When about half-way there, she heard the
words,--

  "O the sunlight! beautiful sunlight!
    O the sunlight in the heart!
  Jesus' smile can banish sadness;
    It is sunlight in the heart."

At first a happy smile of relief passed over her face; but it faded as she
listened. There was such an unearthly sweetness in the song, so strong and
clear, that it seemed like angels' music instead of her own little girls'.
The song ceased, and the children appeared over the hill. She saw their
white faces, and hurried toward them. When they saw her, how their little
feet flew! But it was some time before they could tell her what had
happened.

What a joyful season of worship they had that night, and what a meaning
that dear old hymn has had to them ever since!

A few days later, a party of organized hunters killed the panther that had
given the children such a fright. But the memory of that thrilling
experience will never fade from the mind of the writer, who was one of the
actors in it.--_Nina Case_.




JACK'S FIDELITY


There was held, in Hartford, some years ago, a convention of the colored
Baptist Association of New England. I was invited to address one of the
sessions. To show what those converted in early life are sometimes enabled
to endure by God's grace, I related the following story:--

"What's dat, Willie?"

"That's a spelling-book, Jack."

"What's de spellin'-book for?"

"To learn how to read."

"How's you do it?"

"We learn those things first."

And so Jack learned A, B, C, etc., mastered the spelling-book, and then
learned to read a little, though the law forbade any colored person to do
it.

One day Willie brought home a little black book, and Jack said:--

"What's dat, Willie?"

"That is the New Testament, that tells about Jesus."

And, erelong, Jack learned to read the New Testament, and when he read that
"God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever
believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life," and that he
really loved us and died for us, and that "if we confess our sins, he is
faithful and just to forgive us our sins," his heart went out in love to
Jesus. He believed in him, his sins were forgiven, his heart was changed,
and he became a happy Christian.

Though a mere child, he at once began to tell others of Jesus' love. When
he became a young man, he was still at work for the Lord. He used to go to
the neighboring plantations, read his Bible, and explain it to the people.

One day the master said to him, "Jack, I am told that you go off preaching
every Sunday."

"Yes, mas'r, I must tell sinners how Jesus died on de cross for dem."

"Jack, if you go off preaching on Sunday, I will tell you what I will do on
Monday."

"What will do you on Monday, mas'r?"

"I will tie you to that tree, take this whip, and flog all this religion
out of you."

Jack knew that his master was a determined man, but when he thought of
Christ's sufferings for us, and heard his Lord saying unto him, "Be thou
faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life," he resolved to
continue his work for the Lord the next Sunday.

With his New Testament in hand, he went down to the plantation and told
them that his master might whip him half to death the next day, but if he
did, he would not suffer more than Christ had suffered for us.

The next morning his master said, "Jack, I hear you were preaching again
yesterday."

"Yes, mas'r. I must go and tell sinners how Jesus was whipped that we might
go free."

"But, Jack, I told you that if you went off preaching Sunday, I should whip
you on Monday, and now I will do it."

Blow after blow fell upon Jack's back, while oaths fell from the master's
lips. Then he said:--

"There, Jack, I don't believe you will preach next Sunday. Now go down to
the cottonfield and go to work."

When next Sunday came, Jack could not stand straight, for his back was
covered with sores and scars. But, with his Testament in his hand, he stood
before the people of the plantation, and said, "Mas'r whip me mos' ter
death last Monday, an' I don't know but he will kill me tomorrow, but if he
does, I shall not suffer more than Jesus did when he died on the cross for
us."

Monday morning the master called him and said,

"Jack, I hear you have been preaching again."

"Yes, mas'r. I must go an' tell sinners how Christ was wounded for our
transgressions, how he sweat drops of blood for us in the garden, an' wore
that cruel crown of thorns that we might wear a crown of joy when he
comes."

"But I don't want to hear your preaching. Now bare your back, and take the
flogging I told you I should give you if you went off preaching."

Fast flew the cruel lashes, until Jack's back was covered with wounds and
blood.

"Now, Jack, go down to the cotton-field and go to work. I reckon you'll
never want to preach again."

When the next Sunday came, Jack's back was in a terrible condition. But,
hobbling along, he found his friends in the neighboring plantation, and
said:--

"Mas'r whipped me mos' ter death last Monday, but if I can only get you to
come to Jesus and love him, I am willing to die for your sake tomorrow."

If there were scoffers there, do you not think they were led to believe
there was a reality in religion? If any were there who were inclined to
think that ministers preach only when they get money for it, do you not
think they changed their minds when they saw what wages Jack got? Many were
in tears, and some gave themselves to that Saviour for whose sake Jack was
willing to die the death of a martyr.

Next morning the master called Jack, and said,

"Make bare your back again; for I told you that just as sure as you went
off preaching, I would whip you till you gave it up."

The master raised the ugly whip, and as he looked at Jack's back, all
lacerated, he could find no new place to strike, and said:--

"Why do you do it, Jack? You know that as surely as you go off preaching
Sunday, I will whip you most to death the next day. No one pays you
anything for it. All you get is a terrible flogging, which is taking your
life from you."

"Yer ax me, mas'r, what I'se doin' it fer. I'll tell you, mas'r. I'se goin'
ter tak all dos stripes an' all dos scars, mas'r, up to Jesus, by an' by,
to show him how faithful I'se been, 'cause he loved you an' me, mas'r, an'
bled an' died on the cross for you an' me, mas'r."

The whip dropped, and that master could not strike another blow. In a
subdued tone he said:--

"Go down in the cotton-field."

Do you think Jack went away cursing his master, saying, "O Lord, punish him
for all his cruelty to me"?

No, no! His prayer was, "Lord, forgive him, for Jesus Christ's sake."

About three o'clock, a messenger came down to the cotton-field, crying:
"Mas'r dyin'! Mas'r's dyin'! Come quick, Jack. Mas'r's dyin'!"

In his private room, Jack found his master on the floor in agony, crying:
"O Jack, I'm sinking down to hell! Pray for me! Pray for me!"

"I'se been prayin' for you all de time, mas'r. You mus' pray for yourse'f."

"I don't know how to pray, Jack. I know how to swear, but I don't know how
to pray."

"You mus' pray, mas'r."

And finally they both prayed, and God revealed Christ on the cross to him,
and then and there he became a changed man.

A few days after, he called Jack to him and said:--

"Jack, here are your freedom papers. They give you your liberty. Go and
preach the gospel wherever you will, and may the Lord's blessing go with
you."

While telling this story at the convention, I noticed a man, perhaps sixty
years of age, with quite gray hair, who was deeply moved. When I had
finished, he sprang to his feet, and, with a clear but tremulous voice,
said:--

"I stand for Jack. Mr. Hammond has been speaking of me. He has been trying
to tell my sufferings, but he cannot describe the terrible agony I endured
at the hands of my master, who, because I was determined to preach the
gospel on the plantations around us, every Monday morning for three weeks
called me up and laid the cruel lash upon my back with his own hands until
my back was like raw beef. But God helped me to pray for him, until he was
forgiven and saved through Christ. And, thank God, Jack still lives."

I have given you only a few of his burning words, but I can tell you there
were many eyes filled with tears during this touching scene, which will not
soon be forgotten by those who witnessed it.--_E. Hammond, in "Early
Conversion."_




HONOR THY FATHER AND THY MOTHER


Here is a touching story told of the famous Dr. Samuel Johnson which has
had an influence on many a boy who has heard it. Samuel's father Michael
Johnson, was a poor bookseller in Lichfield, England. On market-days he
used to carry a package of books to the village of Ottoxeter, and sell them
from a stall in the market-place. One day the bookseller was sick, and
asked his son to go and sell the books in his place. Samuel, from a silly
pride, refused to obey.

Fifty years afterward Johnson became the celebrated author, the compiler of
the English Dictionary, and one of the most distinguished scholars in
England; but he never forgot his act of unkindness to his poor,
hard-toiling father. So when he visited Ottoxeter, he determined to show
his sorrow and repentance. He went into the market-place at the time of
business, uncovered his head, and stood there for an hour in the pouring
rain, on the very spot where the bookstall used to stand. "This," he says,
"was an act of contrition for my disobedience to my kind father."

The spectacle of the great Dr. Johnson standing bareheaded in the storm to
atone for the wrong done by him fifty years before, is a grand and touching
one. There is a representation of it in marble on the doctor's monument.

Many a man in after-life has felt something harder and heavier than a storm
of rain beating upon his heart when he remembered his acts of unkindness to
a good father or mother now in the grave.

Dr. John Todd, of Pittsfield, the eminent writer, never forgot how, when
his old father was very sick, and sent him away for medicine, he, a little
lad, been unwilling to go, and made up a lie, saying that the druggist had
no such medicine.

The old man was dying when little Johnny came in, but he said to Johnny,
"My boy, your father suffers great pain for want of that medicine."

Johnny started, in great distress, for the medicine, but it was too late.
On his return the father was almost gone. He could only say to the weeping
boy, "Love God, and always speak the truth; for the eye of God is always
upon you. Now kiss me once more, and farewell."

Through all his after-life, Dr. Todd often had a heartache over that act of
falsehood and disobedience to his dying father. It takes more than a shower
to wash away the memory of such sins.

The words, "Honor thy father and thy mother," mean three things,--always do
what they bid you, always treat them lovingly, and take care of them when
they are sick and grown old. I never yet knew a boy who trampled on the
wishes of his parents who turned out well. God never blesses a wilful boy.

When Washington was sixteen years old, he determined to leave home and
become a midshipman in the colonial navy. After he had sent off his trunk,
he went to bid his mother good-by. She wept so bitterly because he was
going away that he said to his Negro servant: "Bring back my trunk. I am
not going to wake my mother suffer so, by leaving her."

He remained at home to please his mother. This decision led to his becoming
a surveyor, and afterward a soldier. His whole glorious career in life
turned on simple act of trying to make his mother happy, happy, too, will
be the child who never has occasion to shed bitter tears for any act of
unkindness to his parents. Let us not forget that God has said,

"Honor thy father and thy mother."--_Theodore L. Cuyler, in Pittsburgh
Christian Advocate_.




THE SLEIGH-RIDE


In one of the larger cities of New England, fifty years ago, a party of
lads, all members of the same school, got up a grand sleigh-ride. There
were about twenty-five or thirty boys engaged in the frolic. The sleigh was
a large and splendid conveyance drawn by six gray horses. The afternoon was
as beautiful as anybody could desire, and the merry group enjoyed
themselves in the highest degree. It was a common custom of the school to
which they belonged, and on previous occasions their teacher had
accompanied them. Some engagement upon important business, however,
occupying him, he was not at this time with them. It is quite likely, had
it been otherwise, that the restraining influence of his presence would
have prevented the scene which occurred.

On the day following the ride, as he entered the schoolroom, he found his
pupils grouped about the stove, in high merriment, as they chatted about
the fun and frolic of their excursion. He stopped awhile and listened; and,
in answer to some inquiries which he made about the matter, one of the
lads, a fine, frank, manly boy, whose heart was in the right place, though
his love of sport sometimes led him astray, volunteered to give a narrative
of their trip and its various incidents. As he drew near the end of his
story, he exclaimed:--

"O, sir, there was one little circumstance which I almost forgot to tell
you! Toward the latter part of the afternoon, as we were coming home, we
saw, at some distance ahead of us, a queer-looking affair in the road. We
could not exactly make out what it was. It seemed to be a sort of
half-and-half monstrosity. As we approached it, it proved to be a rusty old
sleigh fastened behind a covered wagon, proceeding at a very slow rate, and
taking up the whole road. Finding that the owner was disposed not to turn
out, we determined upon a volley of snowballs and a good hurrah. These we
gave with a relish, and they produced the right effect, and a little more;
for the crazy machine turned out into the deep snow by the side of the
road, and the skinny old pony started on a full trot. As we passed, some
one who had the whip gave the jilt of a horse a good crack, which made him
run faster than he ever did before, I'll warrant. And so, with another
volley of snowballs pitched into the front of the wagon, and three times
three cheers, we rushed by. With that, an old fellow in the wagon, who was
buried up under an old hat and beneath a rusty cloak, and who had dropped
the reins, bawled out, 'Why do you frighten my horse?'

"'Why don't you turn out, then?' said the driver.

"So we gave him three rousing cheers more. His horse was frightened again,
and ran up against a loaded team, and, I believe, almost capsized the old
man; and so we left him."

"Well, boys," replied the instructor, "that is quite an incident. But take
your seats; and after our morning service is ended, I will take my turn and
tell you a story, and all about a sleigh-ride, too."

Having finished the reading of a chapter in the Bible, and all having
joined in the Lord's Prayer, he began as follows:--

"Yesterday afternoon a very venerable and respectable old man, a clergyman
by profession, was on his way from Boston to Salem to pass the residue of
the winter at the house of his son. That he might be prepared for
journeying, as he proposed to do in the spring, he took with him his light
wagon, and for the winter his sleigh, which he fastened behind the wagon.
He was, as I have just told you, very old and infirm. His temples were
covered with thinned locks which the frosts of eighty years had whitened.
His sight, and hearing, too, were somewhat blunted by age, as yours will be
should you live to be as old.

"He was proceeding very slowly and quietly, for his horse was old and
feeble, like his owner. His thoughts reverted to the scenes of his youth,
when he had periled his life in fighting for the liberties of his country;
to the scenes of his manhood, when he had preached the gospel of his divine
Master to the heathen of the remote wilderness; and to the scenes of riper
years, when the hard hand of penury had lain heavily upon him. While thus
occupied, almost forgetting himself in the multitude of his thoughts, he
was suddenly disturbed, and even terrified, by loud hurrahs from behind,
and by a furious pelting and clattering of balls of snow and ice upon the
top of his wagon. In his trepidation he dropped his reins; and as his aged
and feeble hands were quite benumbed with cold, he found it impossible to
gather them up, and his horse began to run away.

"In the midst of the old man's troubles, there rushed by him, with loud
shouts, a large party of boys in a sleigh drawn by six horses.

"'Turn out, turn out, old fellow!' 'Give us the road, old boy!' 'What'll
you take for your pony, old daddy?' 'Go it, frozen nose!' 'What's the price
of oats?' were the various cries that met his ear.

"'Pray, do not frighten my horse,' exclaimed the infirm driver.

"'Turn out, then! Turn out!' was the answer, which was followed by repeated
cracks and blows from the long whip of the grand sleigh, with showers of
snowballs, and tremendous hurrahs from the boys.

"The terror of the old man and his horse was increased; and the latter ran
away, to the imminent danger of the man's life. He contrived, however,
after some exertion, to secure the reins, which had been out of his hands
during the whole of the affray, and to stop his horse just in season to
prevent his being dashed against a loaded team.

"As he approached Salem, he overtook a young man who was walking toward the
same place, whom he invited to ride. The young man alluded to the grand
sleigh which had just passed, which induced the old gentleman to inquire if
he knew who the boys were. He replied that he did; that they all belonged
to one school, and were a set of wild fellows.

"'Aha!' exclaimed the former, with a hearty laugh, for his constant good
nature had not been disturbed, 'do they, indeed? Why, their master is very
well known to me. I am now going to his house, and I think I shall give him
the benefit of the affair.'

"A short distance brought him to his journey's end, the home of his son.
His old horse was comfortably housed and fed, and he himself provided for.

"That son, boys, is your instructor; and that aged and infirm old man, that
'old fellow,' that 'old boy,' who did not turn out for you, but who would
gladly have given you the whole road had he heard your approach, that 'old
boy,' that 'old daddy,' and 'frozen nose,' is Rev. Daniel Oliver, your
master's father, now at my home, where he and I will gladly welcome any and
all of you."

As the master, with an undisturbed and serene countenance, gave this
version of the ride, it was very manifest from the expression of the boys'
faces, and the glances they exchanged, that they recognized the history of
their doings of the previous day; and it is not easy to describe nor to
imagine the effect produced by this new translation of their own narrative.
Some buried their heads behind their desks; some cried; some looked askance
at one another; and many hastened down to the desk of the teacher, with
apologies, regrets, and acknowledgments without end.

"We did not know it was your father," they said.

"Ah, my lads," replied the teacher, "what odds does it make whose father it
was? It was probably somebody's father,--an inoffensive traveler, an aged
and venerable man, entitled to kind treatment from you and everybody else.
But never mind; he forgives it all, and so do I."

Freely pardoned, they were cautioned that they should be more civil for the
future to inoffensive travelers, and more respectful to the aged and
infirm.

Years have passed by. The lads are men, though some have found an early
grave. The boy who related the incident to his master is "in the deep bosom
of the ocean buried." They who survive, should this story meet their eye,
will easily recall its scenes and throw their memories back to the
schoolhouse in Federal Street, Salem, and to their friend and teacher.

--_Henry K. Oliver_.

       *       *       *       *       *



The Tongue Can No Man Tame


  Lord, tame my tongue, and make it pure,
    And teach it only to repeat
  Thy promises, all safe, all sure;
    To tell thy love, so strong and sweet.

  Lord, tame my tongue, and make it kind
    The faults of others to conceal
  And all their virtues call to mind;
    Teach it to soothe, to bless, to heal.

ELIZABETH ROSSER




SAMUEL SMILES, THE AUTHOR OF "SELF-HELP"


When Samuel Smiles was a schoolboy in Scotland, he was fonder of frolic
than of learning. He was not a prize-winner, and so was not one of his
teacher's favorites. One day his master, vexed by his dulness, cried out,
"Smiles, you will never be fit for anything but sweeping the streets of
your native borough!" From that day the boy's mates called him by the name
of the street sweeper in the little town. But he was not discouraged.

"If I have done anything worthy of being remembered," he wrote, more than
sixty years later, when his name was known over the whole world, "it has
not been through any superiority of gifts, but only through a moderate
portion of them, accompanied, it is true, with energy and the habit of
industry and application. As in the case of every one else, I had for the
most part to teach myself.... Then I enjoyed good health, and health is
more excellent than prizes. Exercise, the joy of interest and of activity,
the play of the faculties, is the true life of a boy, as of a man. I had
also the benefit of living in the country, with its many pleasures and
wonders."

When he was fourteen, he was apprenticed to a physician. In the intervals
of his work, he sought to continue his education by reading. Books were
expensive then, but several libraries were open to him.

The death of his father near the end of his medical course, and consequent
financial reverses, made him hesitate as to the wisdom of finishing his
studies. In speaking of this, he made mention for the first time of his
indebtedness to his mother. "You must go back to Edinburgh," she said, "and
do as your father desired. God will provide." She had the most perfect
faith in Providence, and believed that if she did her duty, she would be
supported to the end. She had wonderful pluck and abundant common sense.
Her character seemed to develop with the calls made upon her. Difficulties
only brought out the essence of her nature. "I could not fail to be
influenced by so good a mother."

But he was not to find his life-work as a doctor. For some years he
practised medicine. Then he became editor of a political paper. Later, he
was a railroad manager. Experience in writing gained in the newspaper
office prepared him for literary work, by which he is best known.

These being the chief events and influences of his boyhood, the story of
his most famous book, "Self-Help," is just what might be expected. It is a
story full of inspiration.

In 1845, at the request of a committee of working men, he made an address
to the society which they represented, on "The Education of the Working
Classes." This excited such favorable comment that he determined to enlarge
the lecture into a book. Thus "Self-Help" was written. But it was not to be
published for many years. In 1854 the manuscript was submitted anonymously
to a London publisher, and was politely declined. Undaunted, he laid it
aside and began an account of the life of George Stephenson, with whom he
had been associated in railway work. This biography was a great success.

Thus encouraged, he took from the drawer, where it had lain for four years,
the rejected manuscript of "Self-Help," rewrote it, and offered it to his
publishers. It was not his intention, even then, to use his name as author,
so little did he think of himself. But, listening to the advice of friends,
he permitted his name to appear. Very soon he was famous, for thirty-five
thousand copies were sold during the first two years. In less than forty
years two hundred and fifty-eight thousand copies have been disposed of in
England alone. American publishers reprinted the book almost at once, and
it soon became a favorite in school libraries in many States. It was
translated into Dutch, German, Swedish, French, Portuguese, Czech,
Croatian, Russian, Italian, Spanish, Turkish, Danish, Polish, Chinese,
Siamese, Arabic, and several dialects of India.

But the author did not look on the fame and fortune brought to him by his
book as his chief reward. It had been his desire to be helpful to the
plodding, discouraged men and boys. As he expressed it himself: "It seemed
to me that the most important results in daily life are to be obtained, not
through the exercise of extraordinary powers, but through the energetic use
of simple means, and ordinary qualities, with which all have been more or
less endowed."

As his greatest reward he looked upon the grateful testimony of men of many
countries who had been inspired by the book to greater effort, and so
spurred on to success. An emigrant in New England wrote that he thanked God
for the volume, which had been the cause of an entire alteration in his
life. A working man wrote: "Since perusing the book I have experienced an
entire revolution in my habits. Instead of regarding life as a weary
course, which has to be gotten over as a task, I now view it in the light
of a trust, of which I must make the most." A country schoolboy received a
copy as a prize, and his life was transformed by the reading. By
perseverance he secured an education, and became a surgeon. After a few
years he lost his life in an attempt to help others. Such testimonies as
these made Mr. Smiles happy, and are a fitting memorial to him. He died in
1904, at the age of ninety-two.

How much more satisfying to look back on a life of such usefulness than to
say, as Jules Verne, author of many books, was compelled to say, "I amount
to nothing ... in literature."--_John T. Faris, D. D., in "Self-Help"
published by Frederick A. Stokes Company, New York_.

       *       *       *       *       *



Life's Battles


  Life's battles thou must fight all single-handed;
    No friend, however dear, can bear thy pain.
  No other soul can ever bear thy burdens,
    No other hand for thee the prize may gain

  Lonely we journey through this vale of sorrow;
    No heart in full respondeth to our own:
  Each one alone must meet his own tomorrow,
    Each one must tread the weary way alone

  Ah, weary heart! why art thou sad and lonely?
    Why this vain longing for an answering sigh?
  Thy griefs, thy longings, trials, and temptations
    Are known and felt by Him who reigns on high.

ARTHUR V. FOX




DAVID LIVINGSTONE


On March 19, 1813, a hero was born in Blantyre, central Scotland. It was an
age of great missionary activity, and the literal fulfilment of the spirit
of the great commission had led Carey, Judson, Moffat, and scores of others
to give their lives to the promulgation of the gospel of the kingdom of God
in heathen lands. A dozen missionary societies were then in their youth.
Interest in travel and exploration was at its height, and the attention of
adventurers centered in the Dark Continent, the last of the great unknown
regions of the world to be explored. Into the kingdom for such a time, and
to do a divinely appointed work, came David Livingstone.

His home was a humble cottage. A rugged constitution came to him as a
birthright, for his parents were of sturdy peasant stock. They served God
devoutly, and though poor in this world's goods, were honest and
industrious, being able to teach their children lessons in economy and
thrift which proved of lifelong help to them.

David was a merry, brown-eyed lad, and a general favorite. Perseverance
seemed bred in his very bone. When only nine years old, he received from
his Sunday-school teacher a copy of the New Testament as a reward for
repeating the one hundred nineteenth psalm on two successive evenings with
only five errors. The following year, at the age of ten, he went to work in
the cotton factory near his home, as a "piecer." Out of his first week's
wages he saved enough to purchase a Latin grammar, and set himself
resolutely to the task of thoroughly mastering its contents, studying for
the most part alone after leaving his work at eight o'clock in the evening.
His biographer tells us that he often continued his studies until after
midnight, returning to work in the factory at six in the morning.
Livingstone was not brighter than other boys, nor precocious in anything
save determination. He was very fond of reading, and devised the plan of
fastening a book on his spinning-jenny in the factory so that he could
catch a sentence now and then while tending the machines. In this way he
familiarized himself with many of the classics.

His aptitude for scientific pursuits early revealed itself, and he had a
perfect passion for exploration. When only a boy, he usually chose to spend
his holidays scouring the country for botanical, geological, and zoological
specimens.

In his twentieth year the embryo missionary and explorer was led to accept
Jesus Christ as his personal Saviour. Out of the fulness of peace, joy, and
satisfaction which filled his heart, he wrote, "It is my desire to show my
attachment to the cause of him who died for me by devoting my life to his
service." The reading of an appeal by Mr. Gutzlaff to the churches of
Britain and America in behalf of China brought to the young student's
attention the need of qualified missionaries, and led him to dedicate his
own life as well as all that he possessed to foreign service.

As a surgeon carefully selects the instruments with which he works, so it
is ever with the divine Physician; and though Livingstone was anxious to
enter his chosen field, providence led him to tarry for a little while in
preparation. During this time of waiting he put into practise the motto
which in later life he gave to the pupils in a Sunday-school, "Trust God
and work hard." Having set his face toward China, he had no notion of
turning back in the face of difficulties, and finally, after four years of
untiring effort, he earned in 1840 a medical diploma, thus equipping
himself with a training indispensable for one whose life was to be hidden
for years in the fever jungles of Africa. He wrote, "With unfeigned delight
I became a member of a profession which with unwearied energy pursues from
age to age its endeavors to lessen human woe."

Livingstone also secured the necessary theological training, and was duly
accepted by the London Missionary Society as a candidate for China. But the
breaking out of the Opium war effectually closed the doors of that field.
Just at this time came his providential acquaintance with Robert Moffat.
The missionary was home on a furlough, and at a meeting which the young
physician attended, stated that sometimes he had seen in the morning
sunlight the smoke of a thousand villages in the Dark Continent where no
missionary had ever been to tell the sweet old story of redeeming love.
This message came to Livingstone as a Macedonian cry, and he willingly
answered, "Here am I; send me." The purpose once formed, he never swerved
from it.

The change of fields caused some alteration in his plans, and he remained
for a time in England, further preparing for his mission with scrupulous
care. On Nov. 17, 1840, Dr. Livingstone spent the last evening with his
loved ones in the humble Blantyre home, going at once to London, where he
was ordained as a missionary. He sailed for the Cape of Good Hope on the
eighth of December.

Arrived in Africa, the new recruit immediately turned his steps toward the
interior, where there were real things to do. After a brief stop at
Kuruman, the home of the Moffats, he spent six months alone among the
Bakwains, acquainting himself with their language, laws, and customs. In
that time he gained not only these points, but the good will and affection
of the natives as well. His door of opportunity had opened, and from the
Bakwains he pressed farther north, until, within the first three years of
his service in the Dark Continent, he was giving the gospel to heathen far
beyond any point before visited by white men.

Both Livingstone and his wife learned early the secret of power that comes
from living _with_ the heathen, rather than merely living _among_ them. He
possessed a certain indefinable power of discipline over the native mind,
which made for orderly, thorough, and effective service. The natives knew
him for their friend as well as their teacher. Under his loving care,
heathen chiefs became Christian leaders of their own people; Christian
customs replaced heathen practises; and peace settled down where trouble
had been rife.

Leaving his well-established work among the Namangwato, the Bakaa, the
Makalaka, and the Bechuana tribes to be carried on by trained native
helpers, this fearless man pressed on--always toward the dark interior.
When his course was criticized, he wrote, "I will go anywhere, provided it
be forward," and "forward" he went.

Livingstone's mind was one of that broad character which at the outset
grasps the whole of a problem, and to those who have followed his later
course it is clear why he saw no duty in settling down on one fixed spot to
teach and preach in a slavery-harrowed land. He knew that, first, there
must be a mighty clearing out of this evil. As for his own intent, he said,
"Cannot the love of Christ carry the missionary where the slave-trade
carries the trader?" And so, right through to the west coast he marched,
carrying and diffusing everywhere a knowledge of the redeeming Christ, and
illustrating by his own kindly life and words and deeds the loving mercies
of the Lord.

The physician and the scientist, the minister and the reformer, were all
combined in this one purposeful man. The people believed him to be a
wizard, and even credited him with power to raise the dead. Heathen, sick
and curious, crowded about his wagon, but not an article was stolen. One
day the chief of a savage tribe said: "I wish you would change my heart.
Give me medicine to change it; for it is proud, proud and angry, angry
always."

Livingstone left on record in his journals invaluable data of rivers,
lakes, and streams, treacherous bogs, and boiling fountains, plants,
animals, seasons, products, and tribes, together with the most accurate
maps.

Near the mighty but then unknown Zambesi, Livingstone found the Makololo
people, a tribe from which came his most devoted native helpers. When he
left them to journey toward the west coast, as many men as he needed
willingly agreed to accompany him. After a terrible journey of seven
months, involving imminent starvation and endless exposure, the party at
last reached their destination, St. Paul de Loanda, a Portuguese
settlement.

Full as this journey was of incident, one of the most impressive things
about it all was the horrors of the slave-trade, which came home to the
missionary with heart-rending directness. "Every day he saw families torn
asunder, dead bodies along the way, gangs chained and yoked, skeletons
grinning against the trees by the roadside. As he rowed along on the
beautiful river Shire, the paddles of his boat were clogged in the morning
with the bodies of women and children who had died during the night, and
were thus disposed of by their masters." And when he was sure that the
wretched system was entrenched from the center of the continent to the
coast, is it any wonder that he determined to make the exposure of this
gigantic iniquity his principal work until "the open sore of the world"
should be healed?

The slave-raiders were Livingstone's bitter enemies, and did everything
possible to hinder his work. Just a story:--

Into a quiet little village on the shores of Lake Nyassa came some
strangers one beautiful afternoon. The king sent to inquire as to their
business. "We are Livingstone's children," they said. "Our master has found
a road to the coast, and sent us back for his supplies. The day is late; we
wish to spend the night in your village." "The white master is our friend,"
said the king, and he commanded his men to prepare the best huts for
Livingstone's children. Some of the servants left at once to carry out the
king's command, and soon the visitors were comfortably settled. The people
flocked to their huts, bringing many gifts, and lingered about until the
day was ended.

Late that night, when all the village was asleep, suddenly there was a
piercing scream, then another, and another. The people rushed from their
huts; for many of their homes were on fire. The white men, who called
themselves Livingstone's children, were seizing women and children, and
binding them with strong cords of leather. Around the necks of the men they
fastened great Y-shaped sticks, riveting the forked ends together with
iron. "We have been deceived," cried the natives. "The visitors were not
Livingstone's children. They were slave-raiders. O! why did we ever trust
them? If the white master were here, he would save us. He never takes
slaves."

In the gray light of the morning, leaving their village a heap of
smoldering ruins, the sad procession was marched off, heavily guarded. For
two days their merciless captors drove them under the hot tropical sun
without food or water. Late the second afternoon, they suddenly came upon a
camp, at a sharp bend of the road, and there, in plain view, stood Dr.
Livingstone. Every slave-driver took to his heels and disappeared in the
thickets. They had all respect for that one white man. They knew he was in
Africa to stop the slave-trade. The whole procession of slaves fell on
their knees in thanksgiving, rejoicing in this unexpected deliverance, and
were soon returning to their own country.

Do you wonder that the poor heathen loved the missionary? He never once
betrayed their confidence. Almost immediately after reaching the Portuguese
settlement on the coast, he was prostrated with a very severe illness. An
English ship in the harbor was about to sail. In his great weakness,
Livingstone longed for the bracing air of the Scottish highlands, and a
sight of his beloved wife and children in the home land. But he prepared
his reports, charts, and observations, put them aboard the ship, and, after
watching it set sail, made ready to march back into the interior. Why did
he not go home?--There was just one reason. He had promised his native
helpers that if they would journey with him to the coast, he would see them
back safely to their homes, and "his word to the black men of Africa was
just as sacred as it would have been if pledged to the queen. He kept it as
faithfully as an oath made to Almighty God. It involved a journey of nearly
two years in length, a line of march two thousand miles long, through
jungles, swamps, and desert, through scenes of surpassing beauty." But the
result was worth the cost; for two years later, when he came out on the
east coast at Quilimane, "he was the best known, best loved, and most
perfectly trusted man in Africa."

Many times through all these wanderings he was in danger. Once, during his
early explorations, he had an adventure with a lion, which nearly cost his
life. He says of it in a letter: "The beast rushed from the bushes and bit
me on the arm, breaking the bone. I hope I shall never forget God's mercy.
It will be well before this reaches you. Do not mention it to any one. I do
not like to be talked about." He never voluntarily referred to it; but "for
thirty years thereafter, all adventures and exposures and hardships were
undertaken with an arm so maimed that it was painful to raise a
fowling-piece to his shoulder." After his death, the body was identified by
that scar and the compound fracture made by the lion's teeth.

Livingstone's visits to the home land were brief, and each day was filled
to the brim with interviews, lectures, and literary work. He returned to
Africa for the third and last time in 1866, ascended the Rovuma, and for
three years was lost to the outside world. During this time he visited
lakes Meroe and Tanganyika, preaching the gospel to thousands and tens of
thousands waiting in heathen darkness.

In 1871 his strength utterly gave way, and on October 23, reduced to a
living skeleton, he reached Ujiji, after a perilous journey of six hundred
miles taken expressly to secure supplies. He was bitterly disappointed to
find that the rascal to whom the delivery of the goods had been charged had
disposed of the whole lot. For eighty days he was obliged to keep his bed,
and during this time he read his Bible through four times. On the fly-leaf
he wrote: "No letters for three years. I have a sore longing to finish and
go home, if God wills." Relief, letters, and supplies had all been sent
him, but he never received them. Many of the letters which he wrote never
even reached the coast, as the Portuguese destroyed them whenever possible.

During all this time England--and, in fact, the world--waited with intense
anxiety for news of the hero. A report came that he was dead. Then a relief
expedition brought back the word that Livingstone was alive, and in Africa,
but that they had not been able to find him.

Just at this crucial moment Henry M. Stanley was sent out by James Gordon
Bennett, of the New York _Herald_, with the order: "Take what money you
want, but find Livingstone. You can act according to your own plans in your
search, but whatever you do, _find Livingstone_--dead or alive." Stanley
went. For eleven months he endured incredible hardships, but his expedition
pressed forward into the interior. One day a caravan passed and reported
that a white man had just reached Ujiji. "Was he young or old?" questioned
Stanley anxiously. "He is old; he has white hair on his face; he is sick,"
replied the natives. As the searching party neared the village, flags were
unfurled, and a salute fired from the guns. They were answered by shouts
from hundreds of Africans. Stanley was greeted by Susi, Livingstone's
servant, and soon stood face to face with the great missionary-explorer. He
had found Livingstone.

The brief visit which they enjoyed meant much to both men. In vain did
Stanley plead with the doctor to go home with him. The old explorer's heart
was resolute, and he set his face as a flint. He did not feel that his work
was done. At length the newspaper man and his company started eastward.
Livingstone went some distance with them, and then, a broken old man, "clad
in faded gray clothes," with bowed head and slow step, returned to his
chosen solitude. Five months later the relief party reached Zanzibar, and
news of Livingstone's safety and whereabouts was flashed to all parts of
the world.

As the explorer again took up his weary way, physically weak and in
constant pain, the buoyant spirit rose above hardship, and Scotch pluck
smiled at impossibilities. He wrote in his diary: "Nothing earthly will
make me give up my work in despair. I encourage myself in the Lord my God,
and go forward." Weary months followed, filled with travel, toil, and
physical suffering. The last of April, 1873, a year after Stanley left him,
he reached the village of Ilala, at the southern end of Lake Bangweolo. He
was so ill that his attendants were obliged to carry him as they journeyed,
but the heroic spirit was still struggling to finish a work which would
make possible the evangelization of the Dark Continent.

While the spirit was willing, the flesh was weak indeed, and on the morning
of the first of May, his faithful servants found him kneeling at the
bedside, with his head buried in his hands upon the pillow. "He had passed
away without a single attendant, on the farthest of all his journeys. But
he had died in the act of prayer--prayer offered in that reverential
attitude about which he was always so particular; commending his own
spirit, with all his dear ones, as was his wont, into the hands of his
Saviour; and commending Africa, his own dear Africa, with all her woes and
sins and wrongs, to the Avenger of the oppressed and the Redeemer of the
lost."

LORA CLEMENT.




A TRUE INCIDENT OF THE SAN FRANCISCO EARTHQUAKE


He was by no means handsome; he had a turned-up nose, and a little squint
in one eye; and Jennie Mills said you could not stick a pin anywhere on his
face where there was not a freckle. And his hair, she said, was carrot
color, which pleased the children so much that they called him "Carroty"
for short. O, nobody ever thought of calling Tommy Carter handsome! For
that matter, no one thought him a hero; yet even then he had some of the
qualities which help to make heroes.

For instance, he was brave enough to go to school day after day with
patched knees and elbows, the patches of quite a different color from the
trousers and shirt-waist, and to say not a word at home of the boys who
shouted, "Hello, Patchey!" or of Jennie Mills's asking whether she should
not bring him a piece of her yellow cashmere for patches, to match his hair
and freckles.

He had shed a few tears in private that day. The boys yelled and shouted so
over what Jennie said that he could not help it. The scholars were used to
laughing at Jennie Mills's sayings, and she was spoiling her character by
always trying to think of something to say that would make people laugh.
But on his way home Tommy stopped at the fountain on the square, and gave
his eyes a good wash, so his mother would not suspect tears. Tommy knew
that he had his mother to think about; she had been left in his care.

Tommy was only seven when his father, Tom Carter, was crushed between two
engines. Nobody seemed to know just how it happened, only the man who had
charge of the other engine had been drinking; anyway, it happened. They
took Tom Carter home on a stretcher. Just before he died, he said;
"Good-by, Tommy. Father trusts you to take care of mother and Sissy." After
that would Tommy say anything to his mother about patches or teasing, or
let her see tears?

There was another thing that Tommy had courage to do; that was to take
constant care of Sissy. All day Saturday and all day Sunday, and just as
much time as he could spare on school-days, Tommy gave to Sissy. It was he
who fed her, and washed her face a great many times a day, and coaxed her
to sleep, and took her to ride in her little cart, or walked very slowly
when she chose to toddle along by his side, and changed her dress when she
tumbled into the coal-box or sat down in a mud puddle. And he had been
known to wash out a dress and a nightgown for Sissy when his mother was
ill. There was really nothing too hard or too "girlish" for Tommy to do for
his little sister. Once, somebody who saw him trying to mend a hole in the
baby's petticoat called him "Sissy," and the name clung; for a time the
school yard rang with shouts of "Sissy Carter." But not one word of this
did Mother Carter hear.

"Did you have a good time today?" his mother would ask, and Tommy, with
Sissy in his arms, crowing with delight that she had got him again, would
answer, cheerfully: "A first-rate time. I got a big A for spelling, and
teacher said I had improved in my writing." And not a word would be hinted
about the nicknames or the jeers.

But better school-days came to Tommy before the last thing happened by
which the people found out that he was a hero.

A new little girl came into the fourth grade. She was a pretty girl, and
wore pretty dresses, and had a fluff of brown curls about her face. She was
"smart," too, the boys said; they said she could say "lots funnier things
than Jennie Mills." Then her name pleased them very much; it was Angela.

Whether or not she was smarter than Jennie Mills, it is true that Angela
said some things that Jennie had never thought of.

"Tommy Carter is real good-natured," she said one day. "And he is not one
bit selfish. Don't you know how he gave the best seat to little Eddie
Cooper this morning, and stood off in a corner where he could not see much?
I like Tommy."

The scholars stared. Somehow it had never occurred to them to "like Tommy;"
but, when once it had been mentioned, they seemed to wonder that they had
not thought of it. Tommy was good-natured and very obliging. Not a day
passed in which he did not in some small way prove this. As for his
patches, Angela did not seem to notice them at all; and, if she did not,
why should anybody? So in a few days a queer thing happened. The boys
stopped teasing Tommy, and began in little ways to be kind to him. Some of
the older ones, when they happened to have an extra apple or pear, fell
into the habit of saying, "Here, want this?" and would toss it to Tommy.
And when they discovered that he saved a piece of everything for Sissy,
they did not laugh at all, for Angela said, "How nice for him to do that!"

Soon they began to save up bright little things themselves for Sissy--bits
of paper, half-worn toys, once a new red ball. None of them realized it,
but this really the influence of the new little girl with brown curls.

In that way it came to pass that Tommy lost many of his chances for being a
hero; but a new chance was coming.

Tommy lived in a large tenement-house on one of the back streets of San
Francisco. Seven other families lived in the same house. One Tuesday
evening, Mrs. Carter told the woman who lived across the hall that she had
done the hardest day's work of her life, and was so dead tired that she
felt as if she would like to go to bed and never get up.

At five o'clock the next morning, she, Sissy, close beside her, and Tommy,
in a little cot at the farther end of the room, were all sound asleep.
Suddenly the walls of the big tenement-house began to sway from side to
side in the strangest manner, and there was at the same second a terrible
crashing noise. The kitchen table in the corner tipped over, and the dishes
in the corner cupboard slid to the floor and went to pieces. The big
wardrobe, which was a bureau and a clothes-closet all in one, moved out
into the middle of the room, and the stove fell down. All these things
happened so fast, and the earth was full of such strange, wild noises, that
for a second nobody knew what was the matter.

Tommy Carter got to his mother's side before the noise was over, but he
found that she could not stir; her bed was covered with bricks, and there
was a great hole in the wall. Tommy did not know it then, but he understood
afterward that the chimney had fallen on his mother's bed.

"Tommy," she gasped, "it is an earthquake! Take Sissy and run."

"But, mother," he cried, "O mother, I cannot leave you!"

"Never mind me, Tommy; take her quick! She is not hurt. Maybe there will be
another. Tommy? you take care of Sissy! _Run_!"

And Tommy ran, with just the little shirt on in which he had been sleeping,
and with an old quilt that his mother's hands had wrapped around the
sleeping baby.

What an awful street was that into which he ran! What an awful road he had
to go to get to it! Part of the side wall of the house was gone, and the
stairs swayed from side to side as he stepped on them; but he reached the
street, and it looked as if everything on it had tumbled down, and all the
people in the world were running about, wringing their hands, and crying.
Then suddenly an awful cry arose, "Fire! Fire! Fire!"

"Mother! O mother!" Tommy screamed, and he hurried to scramble back over
the fallen walls by which he had come. He must take care of his mother. But
a strong hand held him.

"Keep away, youngster. Don't you see that the wall is falling! Run!"

But where should he run? The whole city seemed to be burning, and
everywhere was horror and terror. In trying to cross a street, Tommy was
knocked down, and was for a second under the feet of a plunging horse. But
he got out, and reached the sidewalk, with Sissy still safe, and he did not
know that his arm was broken.

"Wasn't it lucky that Sissy was on the other arm?" he said, speaking to no
one.

That awful day! Nobody who lived through it will ever forget it. Tommy
Carter spent it struggling, pushing, panting, tugging, trying to get
somewhere with Sissy. And Sissy cried for food and then for water, and
there was none of either to give her; and then she lay back still, and he
thought she was dying. The crowds swarmed and surged about him, crying,
groaning, praying, cursing, yelling orders; and above all that fearful din
arose the terrifying roar of the fire. The city was burning up! O, _where_
was mother? And where was a safe place for Sissy? And why did his arm hurt
so? What was the matter with him? His head was whirling round and round.
Was he going to die and leave Sissy?--He never would!

Suddenly he roused with fresh energy. Somebody was trying to take Sissy.

"Don't you touch her!" he cried, fiercely. "Don't you dare! Let her alone,
I say!" and he fought like a wild animal.

"But, my poor boy," said the doctor, who was bending over him. But Tommy
was insane with pain and fear.

"Let her be, I say!" he screamed. "Mother said I was not to let anybody
take her, and I won't! I will kill you if you touch her! I'll, _I'll_--"
and then Tommy fell back in a dead faint.

When he wakened, he was in a large, quiet room, in a clean bed. "Where is
Sissy?" he called out in terror. A woman in white bent over him and spoke
low: "Hush, dear; do not try to move. Sissy is safe and well and happy."

"Where is she, ma'am?" said Tommy. "I must have her right here by me. I can
take care of her as well as not; I always do; and--I promised mother, you
see; and she's awfully afraid of strangers."

"She is not afraid of us; she is very happy here. I have sent for her to
come and see you. Ah, here she comes this minute!"

And there was Sissy, smiling, in the arms of a woman in a white gown and
cap, and herself in the prettiest of white dresses. She laughed for joy at
sight of Tommy, but was quite willing to stay in the young woman's arms.

"Little darling!" said the nurse. "She was not hurt a bit; and she is so
sweet!"

"And where is mother, ma'am?" asked Tommy. "Was she hurt so that she cannot
take care of Sissy? I am afraid that she was. When can I go to her? I have
to take care of mother. Does she know that I kept Sissy safe?"

The two nurses looked at each other, and seemed not to know just how to
answer so many questions; but the doctor, who had come up a moment before,
stepped forward and spoke cheerily.

Tommy smiled gratefully.

"And when can I go and take care of her, sir? Was mother hurt? I remember
all about it now. Is mother safe?"

"You have been very ill, and did not know what was happening. You did not
even know Sissy when we brought her to see you."

"O!" said Tommy, with a faint smile. "How queer! Did not know Sissy! It is
so nice that she takes to the pretty lady, and that mother is safe. I am
very sleepy, sir. Would it be right to go to sleep if the pretty lady can
take care of Sissy for a little while?"

"Quite right, my boy. We will take the best possible care of Sissy."

The doctor's voice was husky, and he turned away soon, with his own eyes
dim, as Tommy's heavy eyes had closed.

"O doctor!" said both nurses.

"He is going, the brave little hero!" he said. "And we, you and I, will
take care of Sissy for him."

"Yes, indeed!" said the pretty nurse, with a sob; she kissed Sissy.--_Mrs.
G.R. Alden, in Junior Endeavor World, by permission of Lothrop, Lee &
Shepard Co._




LITTLE CORNERS


Georgia Willis, who helped in the kitchen, was rubbing the knives. Somebody
had been careless and let one get rusty, but Georgia rubbed with all her
might, rubbed, and sang softly a little song:--

  "In the world is darkness,
    So we must shine,
  You in your small corner,
    And I in mine."

"Why do you rub at the knives forever?" asked Mary. Mary was the cook.

"Because they are in my corner," Georgia said, brightly. "'You in your
small corner,' you know, 'and I in mine.' I will do the best I can; that is
all I can do."

"I would not waste my strength," said Mary. "I know that no one will
notice."

"Jesus will," said Georgia; and then she sang again,--

  "You in your small corner,
    And I in mine."

"Cooking the dinner is in my corner, I suppose," said Mary to herself. "If
that child must do what she can, I suppose I must. If Jesus knows about
knives, it is likely that he does about dinners." And she took particular
pains.

"Mary, the dinner was very nicely cooked today," Miss Emma said.

"That is all due to Georgia," said Mary, with a pleased face. Then she told
about the knives.

Miss Emma was ironing ruffles; she was tired and warm. "Helen will not care
whether they are fluted or not," she said. "I will hurry them over." But
after she heard about the knives, she did her best.

"How beautifully my dress is done!" Helen said. Emma, laughing, answered,
"That is owing to Georgia." Then she told about the knives.

"No," said Helen to her friend who urged, "I really cannot go this evening.
I am going to prayer-meeting; my 'corner' is there."

"Your 'corner'! What do you mean?"

Then Helen told about the knives.

"Well," the friend said, "if you will not go with me, perhaps I will with
you," and they went to the prayer-meeting.

"You helped us ever so much with the singing this evening," their pastor
said to them as they were going home. "I was afraid you would not be here."

"It was owing to our Georgia," said Helen. "She seemed to think she must do
what she could, if it were only to clean the knives." Then she told him the
story.

"I believe I will go in here again," said the minister, stopping before a
poor little house. "I said yesterday there was no use; but I must do what I
can."

In the house a sick man was lying. Again and again the minister had called,
but the invalid would not listen to him. Tonight the minister said, "I have
come to tell you a little story." Then he told him about Georgia Willis,
about her knives and her little corner, and her "doing what she could." The
sick man wiped the tears from his eyes, and said, "I will find my corner,
too. I will try to shine for Jesus." And the sick man was Georgia's father.

Jesus, looking down at her that day, said, "She hath done what she could,"
and gave the blessing.

"I believe I will not go for a walk," said Helen, hesitatingly. "I will
finish that dress of mother's; I suppose I can if I think so."

"Why, child, are you here sewing?" her mother said. "I thought you had gone
for a walk."

"No, mother; this dress seemed to be in my 'corner,' so I thought I would
finish it."

"In your 'corner'!" her mother repeated in surprise, and then Helen told
about the knives. The doorbell rang, and the mother went thoughtfully to
receive her pastor. "I suppose I could give more," she said to herself, as
she slowly took out the ten dollars that she had laid aside for missions.
"If that poor child in the kitchen is trying to do what she can, I wonder
if I am. I will make it twenty-five dollars."

And I seemed to hear Georgia's guardian angel say to another angel,
"Georgia Willis gave twenty-five dollars to our dear people in India
today."

"Twenty-five dollars!" said the other angel. "Why, I thought she was poor?"

"O, well, she thinks she is, but her Father in heaven is not, you know! She
did what she could, and he did the rest."

But Georgia knew nothing about all this, and the next morning she
brightened her knives and sang cheerily:--

  "In the world is darkness,
    So we must shine,
  You in your small corner,
    And I in mine."

--_The Pansy_.




IN THE HOME


When John Howard Payne wrote the immortal words of  "Home, Sweet Home,"
adapting them to the beautiful Sicilian melody, now so familiar to us all,
he gave to the world a precious legacy, which has brought sunshine into
millions of hearts. "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." And
there is no other place in all the world where the little courtesies of
life should be so tenderly given; where loving ministrations should be so
cheerfully bestowed; in short, where good manners, in all the varied
details of life, should be so diligently practised. "Home, sweet home!" the
place where childhood days are spent, where habits are formed which are to
continue through the future, and where the foundation is laid upon which
the superstructure of after-years is to be built. What a halo lingers about
the blessed spot! and how the soul of the exile cherishes the pictures
which adorn the halls of memory,--pictures which the rude hand of time can
never efface!

This earth has many lingering traces of Eden yet remaining, which enrapture
the eye of the beholder. But there is no sight in all the world so
beautiful as that of a well-ordered, harmonious Christian home,--a home
where love reigns; where each esteems the other better than himself; where
the parents are careful to practise what they preach; where the daily
lessons instilled into the minds of the children from babyhood to maturity
always and forever include the indispensable drills in good manners.

There is no school so important as the home school, no teacher so
responsible as the parent, no pupil under such weighty obligations to
deport himself creditably as is the son or daughter of the household. And
may it not be asserted truthfully that there is no more thrilling
commencement scene than that which sees the noble young man or young woman,
having passed successfully through all the grades of the parental school,
bid a regretful adieu to the dear childhood home, to enter upon a career of
usefulness elsewhere, to spend and be spent in saving humanity? But how few
such commencement scenes do we witness! How few pupils ever pass the test
satisfactorily in the important branch of ethics! When parents practice
good manners toward their children; when they find as much pleasure in the
unaffected "please" and "thank you" of the home kindergarten as they do in
the same marks of politeness elsewhere; when the deportment in the grades
of the home school is considered of greater importance than that in the
schools away from home, our preparatory schools and colleges will have less
trouble in securing good behavior on the part of those in attendance, and
the problem of how to maintain proper decorum will have lost its
perplexity.

Every time a child says "please" it is a reminder that he is not
independent, that he is in need of assistance. Every time he says "thank
you," he has yet another reminder that he is not independent, that he is
under obligations to another for assistance received. Pure and undefiled
religion and good manners cannot be separated. The child who is taught to
say "please" because he is in need of human aid, may be made easily to
comprehend the beautiful significance of prayer, because he is in need of
divine aid. The child who is taught to say "thank you" for favors received
from earthly friends, may be led easily to see the appropriateness of
offering praise and thanksgiving for divine blessings.

Children who are made to realize that to appear well always in the society
of home is infinitely more important than to try to appear well
occasionally when away from home, cause little parental anxiety as to how
they will deport themselves when absent. And children who practise good
behavior in the home when no company is present, do not need to be called
aside for a hasty lesson in this line when some one is about to call. Such
lessons are very unsatisfactory, and are seldom remembered, being much like
music lessons taken without the intervening practise.

Good manners cannot be put on and off with the best clothing, or donned
momentarily to suit the occasion. But, unlike our ordinary apparel, the
more they are worn, the more beautiful they appear. Good manners in the
home means good manners everywhere; and each individual simply stands
before the world an epitome of all his former training. If the child has
learned to be honest and truthful in all the details of the home life, he
may face the world in later years a worthy example of uprightness to all
with whom he comes in contact. If he has learned to be habitually kind and
courteous in the home, he is the same wherever he may be. If he always
appears neat and tidy in the home, these pleasing characteristics will
remain with him throughout life.

If the loved members of his own family circle never discover that he has a
"temper of his own," there is little danger that any one else will ever
find it out. If his habits and practises at home are such as to ennoble and
beautify his own life, his influence will rest as a benign benediction upon
the beloved of his household, and the great world outside will be better
because of his having lived in it. O, that every boy and girl might rightly
appreciate the vast difference between manners of the soul and manners of
the head,--manners of the heart and manners of the outward appearance! One
is Christian religion, the other is cold formality. One means the salvation
of souls; the other is but vanity and outward show.

But we are instructed that "true refinement and gentleness of manners can
never be found in a home where selfishness reigns." "We should be
self-forgetful, ever looking out for opportunities, even in little things,
to show gratitude for the favors we have received from others, and watching
for opportunities to cheer others, and to lighten and relieve their sorrows
and burdens, by acts of tender kindness and little deeds of love. These
thoughtful courtesies that begin in our families, extend outside the family
circle, and help to make up the sum of life's happiness; and the neglect of
these little things makes up the sum of life's bitterness and sorrow."

Boys and girls who rightly appreciate good manners will be polite and
courteous in the home, and will share cheerfully in all the little duties
of the household. Some one has said that idleness is "the chief author of
all mischief." And surely any individual who chooses to be idle rather than
to be usefully employed, is exceedingly ill-bred. Children should be taught
the nobility of labor, and to respect those who faithfully perform the
humblest duties of life, just as much as those who accomplish the more
difficult tasks.

There is pointed truth in the assertion that there is gospel in a loaf of
good bread; but it is a sad comment on the home training of the present day
that so few of our young people recognize this fact. It is to be deplored
that the children nowadays receive so little training in the ins and outs
of good housekeeping. No young lady should consider herself accomplished
until she has acquired the art of making good bread, and of knowing how to
prepare healthful and palatable meals. Even if it never should be her
privilege to become the queen of a kitchen, there are always ample
opportunities to impart such valuable knowledge to others.

The world is in direful need of practical boys and girls, practical young
men and young women, who are not afraid to perform faithfully even the
smallest duties that lie in the pathway of life, and who are willing to tax
their thinking powers in order that their work may be done in the best
possible manner. How much more in keeping with Christian manners that the
son of the household should share in the burden of keeping the domestic
machinery running smoothly, rather than misemploy his time, and grow up
unacquainted with the practical duties of life! How much more appropriate
that the daughter should assist the mother in performing the various
household duties, rather than occupy a hammock or an easy chair, and spend
her time in reading cheap books! Many a weary mother would appreciate such
kindness on the part of her children more than words can express, and the
children themselves would be the happier because of such thoughtful
service.

The boy or girl who grows up in the belief that honorable labor in any
direction is a God-given privilege, will realize that housework is not
without its fascinations, and that manual training in the school is an
important part of the daily curriculum. Such a child will realize that even
an empty water-pail or a vacant wood-box presents a golden opportunity for
usefulness which should not be slighted. He will not appropriate for
himself the last pint of cold water from the pail, or the last cup of hot
water from the teakettle, and complacently leave them for some one else to
fill. That child, even though he be grown up who sees nothing in these
little opportunities for usefulness, will let greater ones pass by with the
same lack of appreciation.

Laziness is a deadly enemy to success; and the child who is indolent in the
home, is likely to bring up the rear in the race of life. Laziness is no
kin to true happiness. The lazy child is not the truly happy child. He lies
in bed until late in the morning, is often careless about his personal
appearance, is late to breakfast, late to school, and his name is entirely
wanting when the highest credits are awarded. Such a child may be sometimes
recognized by the neglected appearance of his teeth and finger-nails, the
"high-water marks" about his neck and wrists, the dust on his clothing and
shoes, his untidy hair, etc. In fact, he seems to have adopted as his life
motto the paraphrase, "There is no excellence about great labor."

A trite story is told of a man who was to be executed because of his
persistent laziness. While being driven to the scaffold, he was given one
more chance for his life by a kind-hearted individual who offered him a
quantity of corn with which to make a new start. Upon hearing the
suggestion, the condemned man slowly raised himself up, and rather
dubiously inquired, "I-s i-t s-h-e-l-l-e-d?" Being informed to the
contrary, he slowly settled down again, with the remark, "W-e-l-l, then,
drive on."

Now, boys and girls, you will find many occasions in life when it will be
necessary for you to put forth an extra effort in order to succeed. But
when some golden opportunity presents the corn to you, do not stop to
inquire, "Is it shelled?" Learn to shell your own corn. Use your muscle as
well as your brain, ever bearing in mind that increased strength, both
physical and mental, comes as the result of the proper use of that which
you now possess. Be workers, be thinkers, in the great world about you. The
old saying that it is better to wear out than to rust out is not without
forceful meaning.

In accordance with heaven-born manners, "let all things be done decently
and in order." All things include even the little chores which may be done
by the members of the home kindergarten; it also includes the greatest task
of which man is capable. If we would learn how particular Heaven is in
regard to neatness and order, we should become familiar with God's
instructions to ancient Israel. The arrangement of the camp of Israel, and
the whole round of tabernacle service, present a systematic demonstration
of order and neatness such as Heaven approves. And the sad fate of Uzzah,
Korah, Dathan, and Abiram, attests to how particular God is in regard to
perfect order.

If systematic order and neatness are to be maintained in the home, the
members of the household must be united in putting forth the necessary
efforts. And blessed is that family who make of home "a little heaven to go
to heaven in."

But let me repeat that "true refinement and gentleness of manners can never
be found in a home where selfishness reigns." And how many temptations to
selfishness there are in the home life! Every day brings the choice between
selfishness and self-sacrifice. Shall I take for myself the choicest apple?
or shall I share in that which is not so agreeable? These may appear to be
very insignificant questions. But, boys and girls, do you know that the
habitual decisions at which you arrive in childhood, determine largely
whether or not you will live by principle later on? "As the twig is bent,
so the tree inclines."

But the lesson of always giving cheerfully to others that which the natural
heart would selfishly appropriate as its own, can be learned only in the
school of Christ. And blessed is that parent or teacher who rightly
appreciates the privilege of becoming an assistant in that school. Blessed
is that pupil who realizes what it means to become such a devoted learner
that he can find joy in denying self that he may minister to the comfort of
others whenever an opportunity is afforded, recognizing that every
heaven-appointed task is a part of the great cause of truth--the giving of
the "gospel to all the world in this generation." Every kindness shown to
oth

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