CORN OR STRAW.
“Let us draw near with a true heart.”
Hebrews x. 22.
I think we may spend an hour profitably, my dear girl friends, in
contrasting the fair-seeming part of our lives with that which is real,
true, and thorough.
It is good to be real in all things. True to the core. In thought,
word, and deed to be the same human being as we wish our friends to
think us. On this subject of reality I will tell you a story to begin
with.
I dare say most of us joined in harvest thanksgiving services after we
returned home last autumn; probably many of you joined in preparing for
them, and in arranging the offerings sent by the congregations.
It was in autumn, but not this year, and in city and village churches
the “Feast of Ingathering” was being kept. Daily songs of thanksgiving
were going up to the God of harvest, in acknowledgment of the bounteous
provision He had made to supply the wants of the teeming millions
dependent on Him for their daily bread.
A number of young people, mostly girls, were busily engaged in
decorating a church for the Harvest Festival services on the following
day. Flowers, fruit, vegetables, loaves of all sizes and corn in
sheaves, or shaped into miniature stacks, had been sent in abundance.
The poorest members of the congregation were not the least willing
givers. They could not offer hot-house grapes or fruits that were
costly to mature, but they brought of their best from cottage gardens
and in no stinted measure. The clean, ruddy carrots, white turnips,
cauliflowers in their nest of green leaves, with other homely
vegetables, the best of their kind, added much to the picturesqueness
of the offerings.
The pulpit and font were bordered with green moss on which were pretty
devices in scarlet berries, and below these hung a fringe of oats,
dainty-looking, light and graceful as lace. There was a foot of this
fringing to finish when the material ran short.
“More oats wanted,” said the worker. “Bring me some, please.”
But none were forthcoming.
“You have used them all,” was the answer.
“I cannot fill this space with anything else. The design would be
spoiled. There seemed to be any quantity of oats, but this fringe takes
so much. Who will give us some more?”
Nobody seemed to know and time was precious. At last a girl spoke,
though in a rather shamefaced way and in a hesitating tone.
“I know who would give us a bundle of oat straw. We could pick out the
best pieces and by mixing them in with the unthreshed corn, the length
could be made up. There would be some undoing and working up again, but
I don’t think anybody would notice the difference.”
There was a short uncomfortable silence, soon broken by the tremulous
voice of the youngest helper present—a mere child.
“Oh, we must not, we must not do that. It would be horrid to pretend
to give the best corn that has been grown, to try and show God how
thankful we are, and then for Him to see that there is ever so much
empty straw amongst it. It’s all very well to say that we could make
the fringe look as if it were real corn and nobody would find out, but
God would know, and——”
The child speaker could not utter another word. The trembling voice
broke into a sob that was more eloquent than the simple words which had
however gone home to the hearts of the elder ones present.
“You are right, Nelly darling,” said one of these as she drew her
little friend to her side and kissed her tenderly. “There must be no
ornamental shams amongst our thank-offerings to God. We should not
like our neighbours to know that a portion of the fringe ought to be
labelled ‘Only straw,’ should we?”
“No, indeed,” was the answer from all the rest, and one said, “How
could we bear to look at it and think that it was a miserable
counterfeit? Better no fringe than straw where corn should be.”
To this all the workers heartily assented. I do not remember how
the little difficulty was got over, but I know it was not by the
substitution of straw and empty husks for corn. I know, too, that all
present learned a solemn lesson from the child who, out of the fulness
of her heart, spoke on the side of truth.
It was indeed a question of truth or untruth, reality or pretence,
which had so stirred the young speaker. The child’s words and the
circumstances under which they were uttered have often recurred to my
mind during intervening years, and I believe that in repeating them I
shall have done good service to you, my dear girl friends.
Does not the very thought of that little scene suggest self-examination?
Are we not inclined to ask ourselves how much of what we may well call
“straw” is mingled with our offerings to God? When we kneel with every
appearance of devotion and even our lips repeat the familiar words
of praise, is our worship always what it seems to be? Do not you and
I know that often, when the knee has been bent and the head bowed in
apparent reverence, and when our lips have moved in prayer or response,
or our voices have rung out tunefully in psalm or hymn, our hearts have
had little share in our seeming worship?
It has been a poor, mechanical thing in which true reverence,
penitence, faith and the spirit of love, thankfulness and praise, have
been almost entirely absent. It has seemed to our neighbours like true
corn, but has been mostly empty straw. I say mostly, because it would
be hard to think that there was no reality in it. Even amongst the
straw cast aside from the threshing machine, a few grains of corn will
always be found, each of which contains the germ of a new and fruitful
life.
If, in looking into our own hearts, we find out the poverty of our
worship, the barrenness of our life service, the vast proportion of
coldness and indifference when compared with the little spark of
genuine love to God and man which finds a place there, we cannot help
acknowledging that only a grain of true corn is to be found here and
there, amid the poor straw of our daily lives.
Let us, nevertheless, take courage. A single grain of true wheat may be
the fruitful parent of grand harvests to come—of a handful of grain
at first, each corn of which, fructifying in turn, will yield more and
more until, as the years pass on, whole fields of waving gold will mark
their increase.
Look carefully, dear ones, for the little grains of true corn in
your natures. The little grain of love to God will grow if you let
your hearts dwell on the thought of His great love for you. If we do
not think about it we cannot realise it, but when we do, we are so
filled with a sense of its vastness, that the living grains of love,
gratitude, thankfulness, praise, joy and longing to prove our love by
service, all fructify and become the parents of glorious harvests in
our future lives.
God’s love is such a generous love. He gives everything to His
children. In Christ, God has given to you and me the very best that
even He could give. “Shall He not also with Him freely give us all
things?” “No good thing will He withhold from them that walk uprightly.”
Seeing then that God has given us the best gift of all, and that
all good things are promised us on the one condition that we walk
uprightly, does it not become us to expel all that is false from our
worship and our lives? To be true to the core? To let words and actions
be the harvest springing from the living grain of holy love in our
hearts, watched, watered, cherished, guarded assiduously, lest it
should die and our worship become a mere outward thing—straw, in place
of true corn, the poor sham which human eyes could not detect, but the
worthlessness of which is known to Him who is of purer eyes than to
behold evil or to “look upon iniquity”?
When we think of it, does it not seem strange that “feigned lips,”
wandering thoughts, outward reverence without any real adoration, can
be permitted to pass current in our minds? We know that, in God’s
sight, one little act of kindness done for His sake, one spark of love
fanned into a flame which illumines the life of a fellow creature who
is sitting in darkness and the very shadow of death; one honest effort
after righteousness; one sentence of true prayer uttered with a sense
of need by longing lips; one note of true, spontaneous praise and
thanksgiving from a grateful heart; one cry for strength, light and
needed grace, spoken in the fewest words that can express desire; each
and all of these, though small in a sense, are precious and will not
be forgotten. Mere grains they may be, but they are living grains—the
seeds whence come grand harvests to God’s glory and our own good.
I have taken the higher and more important part of our subject first,
but we will come down to a lower level and speak a little about
carrying the same spirit of truth and thoroughness into our everyday
work.
I hope we all feel that we ought to render of our very best to God,
and to do this with full sincerity of purpose and of heart. Surely the
same spirit should enter into all our dealings and intercourse with our
neighbour. Whatever work may be entrusted to us, do not let us think
how little will pass muster, but what is the best we can do, and then
resolve on doing this.
We must never forget that whoever truly loves God will love his
neighbour also, and will prove this in daily life and intercourse.
I want you, my dear girl friends, to be animated by this spirit in
the home, whether you are a daughter or one who, in serving, serves
also the Lord Christ. In the work-room too, where so much of the
character and success of the employer depends on the thoroughness and
conscientiousness of the workers.
Do not give the mother, the mistress, or the outside employer cause
to complain that you put no heart into your work, or that, if you can
do it without immediate loss to yourself, you will bestow less pains
upon the portion which is below the surface and not likely to be so
carefully examined as the rest. To act in such a manner is to render
the merest eye-service. It is giving straw from which nearly all the
golden grain has been taken away. It is fair-seeming, but unreal and
untrue.
Little things sometimes illustrate important lessons. Some time ago,
two girls undertook to dress a couple of dolls which were exactly
alike and intended as presents for twin sisters, seven years old. Both
were equally anxious to give pleasure to the little people, but they
set about it in different ways. Each had the same amount to spend on
clothes, which was not to be exceeded, but the details were left to
themselves.
The one chose her materials less for show than for real fitness, and
said to her friend, who was lost in choice amongst remnants of rich
silks, “My doll is going to be just a little girl, not a fine lady.”
“My fine lady will be the more attractive,” said the other. “Both the
children will want it, and that will be the worst of it all.”
The other did not answer, but set diligently to work, and gave time,
pains, and patience in no stinted measure. She made complete sets of
beautifully finished little garments, both for day and night wear.
Every string and button was in the right place, and every article could
be taken off and put on as easily as a real child’s. All would bear
washing and be none the worse for it.
The second girl bought rich silk for a frock, dainty boots, and tiny
silk stockings, and succeeded in making a little picture hat, evening
cloak and dress in suitable style. Altogether the lady doll made a
distinguished appearance; but below the shining dress there were the
poorest shams for garments, which, once taken off, would not be worth
replacing.
Naturally, both children at first turned longing eyes on the
gaily-attired doll, and seemed anxious to possess it. But the unselfish
nature of one triumphed, and whilst her sister grasped the showy toy,
she whispered, “I’ll have the other, please!” and lifted her rosebud
mouth to kiss the giver.
We know the endless joy a child finds in playing “little mother.”
She never tires of dressing and undressing her doll, of setting up a
washing day for its garments, or smoothing them with a tiny iron—under
supervision.
The little twin maidens soon decided that the doll, whose clothes could
be treated exactly like their own, was a treasure indeed, and the curly
heads bent over it, shared in maternal cares, and found delightful
occupation therein for many a day.
The fine garments were, after all, but as straw in comparison with
corn. They were just to be looked at and admired, then put aside. They
gave the “little mother” no change. She could do nothing for a fine
lady.
To the girl who had given of her best, the sight of the children’s
pleasure was reward enough. As to the other, she said, “I _meant_
well, you _did_ well; but I have learned a lesson. Even a child soon
finds out the difference between what is thorough and what has only a
fair outside. I saw my gaily-dressed toy lying neglected, whilst one
‘little mother’ was hushing her sham baby to sleep and the other child
was folding away its day clothes. They saw my eyes turning towards my
neglected handiwork, and, fearing I should be hurt, one said, ‘She’s
very nice to take out for a walk; but she’s a fine lady, you know, not
a baby to nurse, and her things won’t take off, so we can’t put her to
bed.’ I said to myself, ‘No more shams even in doll dressing. My work
shall be real all through.’”
So the fine lady was not without use after all. As to the other doll,
it did more than give pleasure. It was a mute lesson which seemed
to be always saying, “If a thing is worth doing at all, it is worth
doing well.” It was an example of neatness, orderliness, industry and
ungrudging labour to the small people, who were taught by those about
them to take care of what had cost so much painstaking to produce.
I think I hear one of you ask, “Has not straw its value also? Could it
be done without? Is it not necessary for the production of the grain
itself?”
Certainly it is a most valuable thing and fills a most important place.
It could be ill spared from Nature’s storehouse. Its uses are manifold,
and would take long to enumerate. You will remember that, at the very
beginning of our talk this evening, we showed the straw in use, along
with the grain it held, both as an offering and a decoration in the
house of God. It was only when it was proposed to put straw in place of
“the full corn in the ear,” that it was objected to as an empty sham.
There is a great deal of straw mixed with our social intercourse
that might well be thrown aside, and there are other cases in which
we should be sorry to part with it. The visits which are paid merely
because we owe them, without the slightest wish to see the individual
and only to get rid of a feeling of debt, are straw of one kind.
We have all heard the remark, “I got through such a number of calls
to-day. It was so fine that nearly everybody was out, as I thought they
would be.”
The calls made in the expectation and hope of finding our acquaintances
out, are surely a kind of social straw that we could well dispense
with. The invitation given, not because a guest is really wanted, but
because it “would not do to leave her out,” is straw of the same kind.
But there are many kind words said and little thoughtful actions
performed which are only straw, in a sense; but we should miss them
sadly if they were omitted.
Supposing that one of you received two gifts of equal intrinsic value
at the same time. A curt line or a telegram announced the one, a
lovingly-worded letter, or kind expressions uttered in a tone and with
a look of good will accompanied the other. In neither case would the
value of the gift be affected; but—oh, what a difference there would
be in the feelings of the receiver!
The prettily-worded letter or message would linger in the memory and
the pleasant smile would be recalled whenever the gift was in sight.
They were but the straw that enfolded it, but it was precious straw
which had its right place and value.
Much that I have said to-night, dear girls, is intended to suggest
thought—not to exhaust the subject, for that would be difficult.
But I trust it will help us all to discriminate between the false
and the true, the thorough and the fair-seeming, and strengthen our
determination to give of our best to God above all, and, for His sake,
to our neighbour also.
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE GUITARIST.]
SOME NEW GUITAR MUSIC.
Now that the guitar has again become a favourite and fashionable
instrument, many girls are searching out and bringing to light guitars
which their mothers, aye, and even their grandmothers, played on in
days gone by, and they endeavour once more to awake the long silent
strings (if any survive) with more or less musical and unmusical
results. Presuming that our readers have learnt the rudiments from
their master or mistress, or even if they have found them out
themselves from such clear tutors as De Marescot’s (Metzler), or Madame
Sidney Pratten’s (Boosey), they will find themselves soon able to
undertake the accompaniments in a collection of twelve songs arranged
for the guitar with much taste and discrimination in album form (1s.
6d.), by Lily Montagu (J. Williams). These include Schubert’s “Who is
Sylvia,” Godard’s “Song of Florian;” songs by Cowen, Cellier and A.
Horrocks, who sets Charles Kingsley’s wistful lines:—
“I once had a sweet little doll, dears.”
The poor damsel was lost in the heath one day, and, after bitter
lamentation, she was found a terrible wreck long after by her faithful
mistress, to whom
“... for old sake’s sake, she is still, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world.”
Most of us have gone through the triste era of our girl-life, when we
were obliged to confess to ourselves that we had “grown too big for
dolls.”
Vol. I. of Alfred Scott Gatty’s well-known plantation songs (Boosey)
are now published for guitar, and they “go” capitally.
There are some duets for two guitars by Madame Pratten, and their
effect is quite charming; we think too that Messrs. Schott still have
the old but delightful Opus 87, by Joseph Küffner, namely, twelve
(short) duos for two guitars for the use of beginners.
To those who wish to add the many Spanish graces there are to their
guitar playing, we thoroughly recommend a really clever little 3s.
book, particularly dealing with this difficult subject for description.
It is entitled “Brilliant Effects on the Guitar,” by Edith Feilden
(J. Blockley). Most teaching photographs show the hands in different
positions on the guitar, and its dainty exterior is so gaily and well
coloured by a representation of the Spanish flag, that it is attractive
for a gift book. It is to be obtained of Miss Feilden, Feniscowles
House, Scarborough.
MARY AUGUSTA SALMOND.
A VICE-REGAL DINNER-PARTY.
BY A MAJOR’S DAUGHTER.
It was not because I am a major’s daughter that an invitation came to
me one bright autumn morning, but because I was the curate’s wife. We
were seated at breakfast when the “command” to meet their Excellencies
was handed up. Just like the proverbial curate’s family we were laying
in a foundation of stirabout, only _our_ porridge was swimming in thick
yellow cream, and was daintily served. On the table, besides, was the
purest heather honey, a few golden peaches, and hot rolls of crispy
bread.
“Thank goodness! a clergyman is always in full dress!” quoth the dear
curate, as he pulled down his silk M.B. waistcoat. “But you, my dear
Eileen, had better meditate on chiffons.”
And meditate I did, until I was fairly puzzled. There was the white
silk, and the pink one, the yellow brocade, with its beautiful train,
and the simple muslin. I was very young at the time, and dearly loved
finery.
The real vital question of suitability turned on what the invitation
meant. Were Lord and Lady L—— coming as royalty, or simply as
themselves? The duchess alone could interpret her card, and so to the
duchess I went.
“Did you not notice that R.S.V.P. was omitted? Put on feathers and
veils, and your best bib and tuckers,” said the dear old hostess. “’Tis
as King and Queen their Excellencies come.”
So, of course, the yellow brocade it had to be, with its low neck, and
short topaz-trimmed sleeves.
Now, though the curate’s wife was fairly well-to-do in the world, the
curate would keep no carriage. It was quite out of the question to
drive in a pony-trap to the Castle, so the duchess “loaned” one of
her own state chariots! She did more, a few hours before dinner-time
a square box was handed in at the Clergy House, containing a mass of
copper-coloured William Allen Richardsons, arranged in the newest mode
by the duchess’s head-gardener.
Most of the house-party were assembled in the huge drawing-room when
Mr. Giles, accompanied by his attendant satellites, threw open the door
and announced—
“The Reverend and Mrs. Smith.”
It was blazing, too, with electric light, and sweet with perfume as I
walked forward, to be encouragingly greeted by my dear old friend and
patron.
“Their Excellencies are not down yet,” she said kindly; “but you are
just in time——”
With this, the door was suddenly flung open again, and everyone stood
up, whilst something like a cannon-ball plunged into the room! It was
the Lord-Lieutenant! I found out, during the course of the evening,
that this was his way of hurrying in, in order that the company might
re-take their seats as soon as possible. A few more seconds, then a
vision of loveliness in white satin and crystal, and a whole stomacher
of magnificent pearls, walked in. It was sweet Lady L——. There
were no introductions, and every usual order of procession into the
dining-room was reversed. For the duchess went in first, leaning on
the Lord-Lieutenant’s arm, immediately followed by the Duke, leading
her Excellency. The rest of the company—thirteen couples—followed in
stately order, the curate’s wife being last with some insignificant
honourable.
But she had her revenge! Her husband was the first to speak, as he
was called upon by a rap to say grace, and she found herself on Lord
L——’s right hand. In order to show why she was there, I must explain
that the royal chairs were placed in the centre of the long table, not
at each end, and that their Excellencies and our hosts occupied the
middle of the room. In a few minutes I had time to notice that their
own footmen stood behind the regal party, but that the rest of us were
served by the duke’s servants.
What a sight was that whole party! Every earl wore his star, and every
countess her coronet. Jewels galore glittered everywhere. All the same,
the most striking-looking man there was the curate, in his plain black
dress, with his beautiful face just as usual—calm and radiant and
_spirituelle_.
I do not think that dinner was quite a success, though a _chef_ had
been engaged to cook it and two others at a fee of £100. The game was
burned, and the ice-puddings were in lumps. There were long pauses
between the _rêlêves_, and an ominous wait before all the twelve
courses were handed round. I was so much taken up with the scene that
I frequently laid down my knife and fork, even before I had tasted the
morsels set before me, and found everything whisked away in a second.
Nearly two hours that dinner occupied. Then, from behind a palm, our
hostess nodded to the other end of the table, and his Excellency stood
up. For this moment I had waited in fear and trembling. I knew we had
to make the tour of that long table, then back out of the room, for
royalty must never see behind the scenes.
I had practised a sweeping curtsey before the pier-glass at home. I
had gracefully backed from before it over and over again, but when my
turn came I grew the colour of my copper roses, and nearly tumbled over
my train.
Nobody seemed to notice, however, not even James Giles, the major-domo,
so I was fairly cool by the time the duchess took me by the arm to
introduce me to her Excellency.
“It is as good as a presentation at Court, my dear,” she whispered,
“and will give you the _entrée_.”
I had often rehearsed this scene, and in imagination had seen Lady
L—— standing up stately, and receiving the curate’s wife very
frigidly. Behold the contrary.
Seated on a stool before the blazing fire, with all her lovely dress
crumpled up under her, Lady L—— was “roasting her bones,” as she
said. She jumped up like a girl when the duchess led me towards her;
and I really think she admired the yellow brocade.
“I hope I shall soon see you at Court,” she said pleasantly, as I
kissed her hand. “And your husband too. The brave stand made by the
Church of —— in all her difficulties makes us value every one of her
clergy and their wives, even if they are bits of girls like yourself.”
Then she laughed, and I laughed, and we found out we had each a
beautiful home-ruler at home about the same age, who ruled us with
a rod of iron. So we had a pleasant chat until I forgot I was the
curate’s wife and she her Excellency.
Suddenly the cannon-ball shot in again, in a great hurry, and we
rose to our feet. A few presentations had been made to him in the
dining-room, and soon everyone was chatting like ordinary folk over
coffee cups and cream. About eleven o’clock cards were got out, and the
curate and “his reverence’s honoured lady” left. I nearly backed into
Mr. Giles as I did so, and he very nearly laughed, but not quite. I
never saw Giles laugh.
As we were driving home under the big elms and pines, we kept silence
awhile. The first remark came, of course, from me.
“I’m very hungry,” in a plaintive voice.
“And I’m starving,” was the response, as the curate slipped his arm
round his little wife’s yellow brocade waist.
“American crackers and apples?” I suggested.
“And a big fire,” said his reverence, drawing my furs closer round me.
“You are frozen.”
So, over a blazing fire in our bedroom, we ate crackers and apples to
fill the vacuum left by curiosity even after a vice-regal dinner-party.
ABOUT PEGGY SAVILLE.
BY JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of “Sisters
Three,” etc.