added, looking straight at the boy, “is it very good business for you to
point out the defects of your goods to customers?”
“Perhaps not, sir,” said the boy with becoming modesty, “but it is
better than being dishonest.”
“You are right, my boy; always speak the truth and you will find favor
with God and man. I shall not forget your little stand in the future.”
Then turning to the other boy’s stand the man asked:
“Are those fresh oysters?”
“Yes, sir,” said Freddie, “these are fresh this morning—just arrived.”
The gentleman bought them and went away.
“Sammie,” said Freddie, “you never will learn any sense. What did you
want to show that man that spot on the melon for? He never would have
looked at it until he got home. I’ve got an eye to business, myself. You
see how I got rid of those stale oysters—sold them for just the same
price as fresh oysters.”
“Freddie,” said the other boy, “I wouldn’t tell a lie, or act one
either, for twice the money we have both earned to-day. Besides I have
gained a customer and you have lost one.”
And it turned out just as Sammie said. The next day the gentleman bought
a large supply of fruit from Sammie, but he never spent another penny at
Freddie’s stand. It continued that way through all the summer. At the
close of the season he took Sammie into his store, and, after awhile,
gave him a share in the business.
X.
UNCLE NED AND THE INSURANCE SOLICITOR.[2]
Turner Tanksley, a representative of the Workingmen’s Industrial Aid
Insurance Company, called upon Edmund Grant, an elderly colored man,
with a view to getting him to insure his life.
“Good morning, Uncle Ned,” said Mr. Tanksley.
“Mawnin’, Boss,” said the old man, raising his hat and making a low
courtesy.
“Uncle Ned, do you carry any insurance?” inquired the solicitor.
“Does I car’y what?” asked Uncle Ned in great surprise.
“Do you carry any insurance? Is your life insured?” asked the solicitor
by way of explanation.
“Bless Gawd! Yas, yas,” replied the colored man, “long ago—long ago.”
Then the solicitor asked: “In what company?”
Uncle Ned answered: “I’m a Baptis’, sah; I’m a Baptis’—a deep-watah
Baptis’.”
Mr. Tanksley realized that the old man had not understood the question,
but, anyhow, he asked:
“How long has it been since you joined?”
[Illustration: “DAT’S JES’ WHAT MY ’LIGION DOES,” SAID THE OLD MAN.]
“I j’ined,” replied Uncle Ned, “de same year dat de stars fell—I reckon
you know how long dat’s been?”
“That’s a long while,” commented the insurance man; “quite a long while.
Does your company pay any dividends?”
“Boss,” said Uncle Ned with a broad grin, “dat question is plumb out uv
my reach. What is you tryin’ to git at?”
“Why, Uncle Ned,” said Mr. Tanksley, “a dividend is interest paid on
your money; and if you have been paying your money into one company for
more than thirty years surely you ought to have been receiving your
dividends long before now, especially if it’s an old-line company.”
“Well,” said Uncle Ned, “hit sho is de ole-line comp’ny—hit sho is. De
Lawd sot hit up Hisse’f ’way back yondah on Calvaree’s tree. But I ain’t
nevah hyeahed tell uv no intrus’ nor no divverdens ner nothin’ uv dat
sawt; an’ you ain’t hyeah me say nothin’ ’tall ’bout payin’ in no money
fer thirty yeahs—you know you ain’t. Salvation’s free, white man;
salvation’s free—you knows dat ez well ez I does.”
The way Uncle Ned laughed when he had delivered himself of this
remarkable speech would have done your soul good.
“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Tanksley with much condescension, “I see that I’ve
misunderstood you. You’re talking about your soul’s salvation.”
“Dat’s what I is,” chimed in Uncle Ned, “dat’s what I is.”
“I came,” resumed the solicitor, “to talk to you about insuring your
body in case of accident, sickness or death.”
“Accerdents is fer us all,” said Uncle Ned, with a far-away expression
on his face, “accerdents is fer us all, an’ dah ain’t no gittin’ ’roun’
death.”
“That’s true,” responded the patient solicitor, “that’s true; insurance
companies can’t prevent sickness and accidents and death any more than
you can, Uncle Ned, but insurance companies can and do help you to bear
your burdens in the time of trouble.”
“Dat’s jes’ what my ’ligion does,” said the old man with supreme
satisfaction, “dat’s jes’ what my ’ligion does.”
“But we do it in a different way,” persisted the solicitor.
“Well, how does y’all do?” asked Uncle Ned.
Then the solicitor went over the details of the Workingmen’s Industrial
Aid Insurance Company with his accustomed rapidity, telling about the
initiation fees, monthly premiums, accident benefits, sick benefits,
etc., etc., laying much stress especially upon the “endowment fund” that
would be paid upon the death of the insured. When he had finished the
elaborate narrative Uncle Ned, who had given the most earnest attention
to the speaker, inquired:
“Boss, who you say de money goes to w’en I dies?”
“To your wife,” answered the solicitor, “or your children, or anybody
you might name.”
“Well, Boss,” said the old man, “lemme ax you one question: Don’t you
think dat would he’p de uddah fellah mo’n hit would me?”
“What other fellow?” asked Mr. Tanksley.
“My ole ’oman’s secon’ husban’,” replied Ned; “you know des ez good ez I
does dat ef I wuz to die an’ leave my ole ’oman two hundred or three
hundred dollars, dah’d be some cullud gent’man done changed her name
’fo’ ole Ned got cole in de groun’.”
Uncle Ned’s originality made it very hard for Turner Tanksley to
suppress a smile. Without giving the solicitor a chance to speak, Uncle
Ned continued:
“An’ dah’s anuddah way to look at hit. Wimmins is mighty cu’ious. Yas,
sah; wimmins is mighty cu’ious. Ef I wuz to go into dis thing you’s
tellin’ me ’bout, I dasn’t let Dinah know hit. White man, you don’t
know—no, sah, you don’t know. Ef dat ’oman knowed she’d git all dat
money w’en I died, she would sho put a spidah in my dumplin’—she sho
would, an’ fuss thing I know I’d wake up some mawnin’ an’ fine myse’f
dead, an’ all on account uv dis thing dat you calls ’showance. No, sah,
I don’t want nothin’ to do wid hit. De Baptis’ church is good ’nuff fer
me.”
When the solicitor turned the corner he heard Uncle Ned singing some
kind of religious song with the following refrain:
“I’m Baptis’ bred, an’ Baptis’ bo’n.
An’ w’en I die, dah’s a Baptis’ gone.”
XI.
THE STRENUOUS LIFE.
They were having a rough-and-tumble time of it and Pansy was getting
some pretty hard blows. She took them all good-naturedly, nevertheless,
and tried to give as good as she received, much to the delight of her
little boy friends. A lady who was standing near, afraid for the little
girl, chided the boys and said:
“You shouldn’t handle Pansy so roughly—you might hurt her.”
And then Pansy looked up in sweet surprise and said with amusing
seriousness:
“No; they won’t hurt me. I don’t break easy.”
It was a thoroughly childlike expression, but it had more wisdom in it
than Pansy knew. She spoke out of a little girl’s experience with dolls,
some of which, as she had learned, broke very easily. Pansy knew how
delightful it was to have a doll that didn’t break so easily. Though she
was not a homely girl by any means, and though she was not a wicked
little girl, yet she wanted it understood that she was not like a piece
of china. That was why the other children liked her so much—because she
knew how to rough it without crying or complaining at every turn. Pansy
was not a cry-baby.
[Illustration: “I DON’T BREAK EASY.”]
There is all the time, my dear boys and girls, a great demand everywhere
all through life for people who don’t break easily—people who know how
to take hard knocks without going all to pieces. The game of life is
sometimes rough, even among those who mean to play fair. It is very
trying when we have to deal with people who break easily, and are always
getting hurt and spoiling the game with their tears and complaints. It
is so much better when we have to deal with people who, like little
Pansy, do not break easily. Some of them will laugh off the hardest
words without wincing at all. You can jostle them as you will, but they
don’t fall down every time you shove them, and they don’t cry every time
they are pushed aside. You can’t but like them, they take life so
heartily and so sensibly. You don’t have to hold yourself in with them
all the time. You can let yourself out freely without being on pins as
to the result. Young people of this class make good playmates or good
work-fellows, as the case may be.
So, boys and girls, you must learn to rough it a little. Don’t be a
china doll, going to smash at every hard knock. If you get hard blows
take them cheerily and as easily as you can. Even if some blow comes
when you least expect it, and knocks you off your feet for a minute,
don’t let it floor you long. Everybody likes the fellow who can get up
when he is knocked down and blink the tears away and pitch in again.
Learning to get yourself accustomed to a little hard treatment will be
good for you. Hard words and hard fortune often make us—if we don’t let
them break us. Stand up to your work or play courageously, and when you
hear words that hurt, when you are hit hard with the blunders or
misdeeds of others, when life goes roughly with you, keep right on in a
happy, companionable, courageous, helpful spirit, and let the world know
that you don’t break easily.
XII.
A HUMBUG.
A boy or girl who is pleasant and agreeable everywhere except at home is
a humbug. I know one boy who is a good deal of a humbug, although you
would never think so if you were to see him in any place outside of his
home. He is good-looking, neat and tidy, and carries himself like a
little man. I do not know of a boy who can tip his hat more gracefully
to a lady, or who can say, “I beg your pardon,” or “excuse me, please,”
more pleasantly than he can. But, for all that, he is a humbug.
I visited his home the other day. I heard his mother speak to him.
“Alexander,” she said.
“Well, what do you want?” he asked in a voice which plainly indicated
his displeasure.
“I want you to do something for me.”
“Oh, you are always wanting me to do something just when I want to be
doing something else,” said Alexander, and this time he was whining.
In departing on his errand Alexander accidentally ran against his little
sister in the hall. I expected to hear him say, “I beg your pardon” in
the pleasant way that I knew he could say it, but he snapped out
instead:
“Oh, get out of the way, can’t you?”
[Illustration: “OH, GET OUT OF THE WAY, CAN’T YOU?”]
When he returned from the postoffice Alexander’s mother was out in the
yard trimming the flowers. While Alexander was reporting to her, she
happened to drop her scissors. I expected to see her polite and dutiful
son pick them up, as he was close by when the scissors fell; but the boy
paid no attention to the scissors. When his mother said: “Please pick up
my scissors for me, Alexander,” he said:
“What did you drop ’em for?”
I spent the best part of one whole day at Alexander’s home, and never
once during all that day did I hear him speak politely to his mother or
sisters, nor did he observe the ordinary rules of courtesy and good
behavior in their presence. He was continually grumbling and complaining
and finding fault. So I think I have a right to say that this boy is a
good deal of a humbug. Any boy is a humbug who is polite and gracious to
others and in every way discourteous and disagreeable at home. Don’t you
think so, too?
XIII.
A CANDIDATE FOR BAPTISM.[3]
At the close of the regular prayer-meeting service the pastor of the New
Mount Zion Colored Baptist Church, according to custom, stepped to the
front of the platform and inquired:
“Is dar anybody present to-night who would like to jine dis church? Ef
so, please stan’ up.”
Whereupon a little girl, apparently fourteen or fifteen years old,
stood. The parson said:
“Take yo’ seat. Dah’s one; de church will set togeddah atter dismission
an’ hyeah f’um dis little lamb.”
The benediction having been pronounced, all the sinners were asked to
leave the room. Only church members are allowed to remain for these
“after meetings.” When the room was cleared of all “the goats” a
pompous-looking individual, perhaps a deacon of the church, arose and
said:
“Bruddah Pastur, de house is in ordah an’ ready fur business.”
The pastor then asked the little girl who was seeking admission to come
forward. She gave her name to a one-eyed man seated at a table in front,
who, after a laborious effort, passed it up on a piece of paper to the
preacher. The preacher, readjusting his brass-rimmed spectacles, looked
at the piece of paper for a long while, and then raised his head and
said:
“Bruddahs an’ sistahs, dis is little Queen Victoria Davis, who comes to
tell us what de Lawd has done fur her soul.” Then, turning to the girl,
he said: “My daughtah, we wants you to tell us what fuss started you to
prayin’, and how you foun’ de Lawd, an’ so on an’ so fo’th. Speak loud
so all kin hyeah.”
The little girl began as follows:
“Well, bruddahs and sistahs, what fuss started me to prayin’ was dat I
knowed dat I had a soul to save, an’ ef I didn’t git religion hell would
sho be my home.”
“True! True!” exclaimed a number of men and women in chorus.
“An’ den,” continued Queen Victoria, “I wanted to start to servin’ de
Lawd while I was young: I wanted to give Him my bes’ days.”
“Amen,” said one old brother.
“Well,” asked the pastor, “how did you feel while you was seekin’ de
Lawd?”
The girl hesitated a moment, evidently in doubt as to the exact purport
of the question. Finally she said:
“I felt like I wanted to be saved.”
This answer not exactly suiting the parson, he put the question in a
different way. Said he:
“Did you feel light er did you feel heavy while you was a-prayin’?”
“I felt both,” said the little girl in unaffected innocence. Funereal
groans of pity swept through the congregation. The preacher tried again.
This time he asked:
“Did you feel light de mos’ er did you feel heavy de mos’?”
When Queen Victoria responded, “I felt heavy de mos’,” a wave of
approval greeted the remark.
“W’en did dat heavy load leave you?” asked the parson.
“Las’ Friday night,” said Queen Victoria; “las’ Friday night. I kep’ on
a-prayin’ an’ a-prayin’, an’ I didn’t feel no bettah untell I made up my
min’ dat I was a-gwine tah fin’ de Lawd er die a-tryin’. An’ las’ Friday
night de Sperrit met me an’ spoke peace to my soul. I hyeahed a little
voice, but I saw no man, an’ de little voice said to me, ‘Go in peace
an’ sin no mo’: yo’ sins is furgiven an’ yo’ soul sot free’.”
At this everybody shouted assent. “Glory! Hallelujah!” exclaimed an
elderly sister.
“Now, my daughtah,” said the preacher, “how did you feel atter dat?”
“I felt light ez a feathah,” said the child. There was another shout of
approval, Queen Victoria having hit upon the regulation answer.
“Ef you was to die now, whar would you go?” inquired the examiner.
“To heaven,” was the reply.
“Ef you had ’a’ died in yo’ sins, whar would you ’a’ went?”
“I would ’a’ went to hell,” said the girl.
“Would Gawd ’a’ been jest in sendin’ you to hell?”
“No, sah!” exclaimed the applicant. Many of the hearers laughed. The
preacher raised his hand and said:
“Don’t laff; don’t laff; de chile is young yit, an’ she’s got to learn.”
Then by a series of leading questions, mainly concerning parental
government, the old pastor brought the child around to the point where
she saw, or where she was willing to say that she saw, that it was just
for God to send people to hell.
“Do you want to jine dis church?” continued the questioner.
“Yes, sah,” said the applicant.
“Dis is a Baptis’ church, you know,” explained the pastor; “we baptize
hyeah by putting people deep down undah de watah. Ain’t you sheered uv
cole watah in de wintah time?”
“Watah can’t git too cole fur me,” said the little girl, “I got de grace
uv Gawd in my heart.”
The people fairly whooped at this (as in their superstition they
supposed) supreme manifestation of faith.
The pastor then turned to the congregation and said:
“Is dah any uddah questions?”
An old brother near the stove arose and said:
“Bruddah Pastur, I ain’t hyeahed de chile say whar she was at w’en de
change took place.”
Queen Victoria responded:
“I was at de Bridge Street church las’ Friday night.”
The old brother nodded, as if completely satisfied with the answer. Then
he asked:
“How long is you willin’ to trus’ dis hope?”
“Tell I dies,” said the applicant. Down sat the questioner.
“Any mo’ questions?” asked the pastor.
A sister stood.
“Honey,” she said, “is you got any parrunts livin’?”
“Yas’m,” was the reply; “my ma an’ my pa is both livin’, an’ dey’s both
out in de ole fiel’ uv sin.”
“Lawd ’a’ mussy!” exclaimed several of the hearers. The sister who asked
the question sat bathed in tears.
A brother in the rear arose and said:
“I has a question dat I wants to ax: I wants to know, daughtah, ef you
was convertid at de Bridge Street church, huccom you wants to jine dis
church?”
“De Speerit sent me to dis church,” exultantly exclaimed the girl.
“Glory to Gawd!” said the pastor. “Bless de Lamb!” exclaimed someone
else. “Honah! Honah! Honah!” hallooed many others, and there was a
general shout.
The examination ended, two sisters came forward and took Queen Victoria
into the anteroom. When the applicant had been carried out a brother
arose, the same pompous individual who had originally announced the
house in “ordah an’ ready fur business.” Clearing his throat, he said:
“Bruddah Pastur, I sho b’lieves dis is de works uv grace.” There was a
loud chorus of “Amens.” “An’ I motions,” continued the speaker, “ef I
kin git a secon’, dat she be ’ceptid ez er candidate fur baptism, an’ on
baptism ’come a full membah uv dis church.”
“Secon’ de motion!” “Secon’ de motion!” exclaimed several at one and the
same time.
The motion was put and carried. Queen Victoria was brought in once more.
The pastor informed her of the unanimous vote of the church, and
instructed her to be ready for baptism the following Sunday night. Then
the meeting adjourned, the members singing as they dispersed:
“Ole sheep, you know de road,
Ole sheep, you know de road,
Ole sheep, you know de road,
Young lambs mus’ learn de way.”
XIV.
GOING WITH THE CROWD.
“But all the girls went, mother. I didn’t like to be the only one left
out. Besides, when I said I wouldn’t go they all laughed at me and said
that I was a coward.”
It was Wednesday morning, before school time, and Anna was dreading to
go back to school—dreading to meet her teacher. The day before a circus
had been in town. At recess, while the children were on the playground,
they heard the noise of the band, and one of the girls said:
“Let’s go and see the parade.”
“All right,” said Anna. “I’ll go and ask the teacher if we may.”
“No; don’t ask her—she might say no. We can get back before the bell
rings, and she will never know that we left the grounds.”
Anna and one or two other girls held back. They all knew that it was
against the rules to go off the playground at recess without permission.
“Oh, come on! Come on!” insisted one of the girls. “You’re afraid;
you’re afraid! Come on! Don’t be such a coward; all the rest are going.”
And so Anna went.
When the girls saw the parade pass one point they wanted to see it once
more, and away they went through the cross street to get to another
corner ahead of the procession. School was forgotten; and when they did
remember, recess time was long past and it was too late to go back.
The next morning, as Anna stood in the kitchen talking it over with her
mother, her little heart was very heavy. She knew she had done wrong;
she dreaded to go to school; and she was very unhappy.
“Perhaps,” said her mother, “if you had been brave about not going, the
other girls would have stayed on the school grounds too. Or, if you had
asked the teacher, I think she would have let you all go. But whether
she did or not, it is never safe to do a thing just because ‘all the
rest do it.’ Going with the crowd is not a good plan unless you are sure
that the crowd is going in the right direction. The only wise thing for
you to do is to be sure you are right, and then stick to it and never
mind what the crowd does.”
“I didn’t mean to do wrong,” said Anna, as the tears started in her
eyes.
[Illustration: “MOTHER, I’M SO HAPPY. TEACHER FORGAVE ME.”]
“I know that, my dear,” said her mother, “but you were more afraid of
being teased than you were of doing wrong. I hope you will remember from
this day forward that the brave girl is not the girl who dares to do
wrong, but the brave girl is the one who does what she knows to be
right, in spite of the taunts and jeers of her playmates.”
“What shall I tell my teacher?” asked Anna in a low voice, as she
dropped her head.
“Oh,” said her mother, kissing her, “you go right straight to your
teacher and tell her that you have done wrong, and that you are sorry
for it. Ask her to let you say so to the whole school. Be sure to beg
her pardon, and promise not to do so again.”
Little Anna did as her mother told her. That afternoon, when she came
back from school, she ran into her mother’s arms and said:
“Mother, I’m so happy. Teacher forgave me, and I mean to be good.”
And the smile on Anna’s face spoke plainly of a happy heart.
XV.
MARY AND HER DOLLS.
[Illustration: MARY AND HER DOLLS.]
Was there ever a time when the first doll was born? Was there ever a
time when little boys and girls, especially little girls, did not love
dolls and did not have something of that nature to play with? It would
appear that dolls, or playthings somewhat like unto dolls, are as old as
babies themselves—that is to say, boys and girls, that ever since there
have been little children in the world there have been little things for
them to play with. And I never saw a sane person in my life who regrets
that it is so. It is not only amusing, it is inspiring to see the little
children making merry with their dolls and their toy animals and their
little express wagons and their wooden guns and their toy steam engines
and their whistles and their balloons and their brownies and their
jumping-jacks and their hobby-horses and a hundred and one other things.
Mary had put away her dolls for the night and was cleaning the doll
house when papa came in.
“How many doll babies have you now, Mary?” he asked.
“I have five dolls now, papa,” said Mary, “but only one is a baby—that
is little Flossie. Robbie and Nell are three years old now; Mattie is
two and Jerusha is one year old. Flossie is now the only little baby.”
The Rev. Dr. Smithson smiled.
“Well,” he said after a time, “five dolls make a big family, I think.”
“I don’t,” said Mary quickly. “Rolla Mays has thirteen girls and two
boys in her doll family, and I haven’t but five in all!”
“I shouldn’t think,” said Dr. Smithson, “that Rolla would know what to
do with so many.”
“Why, papa, of course she does!”
“Mary,” said Dr. Smithson, looking thoughtfully at his little daughter,
“I have a little girl in my Sunday school class who hasn’t a single
doll. I thought you might like to give her one of yours. You could spare
one—couldn’t you?”
“Oh, papa, I couldn’t—not a one,” exclaimed Mary.
“Not one—when this poor little girl hasn’t any?”
“Oh, papa, I love my dolls so—how can I give them away?”
“You’d have four left—wouldn’t that be enough?”
Mary thought a long while before speaking. She looked distressed.
“Papa,” she said at last, “Mrs. Grant was over here the other day, and
she said that she wished you and mamma would give me to her because she
didn’t have any little girl of her own. You’ve got five children
yourself, papa—but would you give any of ’em away just because you would
have four left?”
Dr. Smithson took his little daughter in his arms and kissed her.
“No, dear,” he said; “papa wouldn’t give any one of his children away.
You may keep all of your dollies, and we’ll think of some other way to
help poor little Hattie.”
The next morning Mary said:
“Papa, I have thought it all out for Hattie. You know I have been saving
up a little money to buy me a little iron bank—but I can wait for that.
I have saved up fifty cents—don’t you think that will be enough to buy a
nice little dolly for Hattie, and let me keep my babies?”
Dr. Smithson knew that Mary had long been planning for the bank. So he
asked:
“Are you quite sure that you want to spend your money in this way?”
“Yes, papa, I’m very sure,” said Mary with a smile, though there was a
hint of sadness in her eyes.