Be prompt in all things.
Consider well, then decide positively.
Dare to do right, fear to do wrong.
Endure trials patiently.
Fight life’s battles bravely.
Go not into the society of the vicious.
Hold integrity sacred.
Injure not another’s reputation.
Join hands only with the virtuous.
Keep your mind free from evil thoughts.
Lie not for any consideration.
Make few special acquaintances.
Never try to appear what you are not.
Observe good manners.
Pay your debts promptly.
Question not the veracity of a friend.
Respect the counsel of your parents.
Sacrifice money rather than principle.
Touch not, taste not, handle not, intoxicating drinks.
Use your leisure for improvement.
Venture not upon the threshold of wrong.
Watch carefully over your passions.
X-tend to everyone a kindly greeting.
Young people should read “FLOYD’S FLOWERS FOR COLORED CHILDREN.”
Zealously labor for the right, and success is certain.
XXXI.
EASTER MONDAY IN WASHINGTON.
The approach of Easter arouses delightful expectations in the hearts of
the little children in the great city of Washington, the nation’s
capital. On Easter Monday there is an event which places the day among
the great holidays of the year. The United States government is drawn
into the observance of the day because it furnishes the country’s
greatest band to play the music and the government pays the bills. The
president of the United States, whoever he may happen to be when the day
rolls around, wins the gratitude of the children, for he lets them play
in his back yard. The president’s back yard is called the White Lot; it
covers many acres, and stretches from the back porch of the White House
way out to the great white Washington monument, which towers for more
than five hundred feet in the air a half mile away. The lawns of the
White Lot are always green and inviting, and are covered with the
prettiest flowers and trees that you ever saw. The ground is not low and
level, except in spots. There are many little hills which serve to make
it a beautiful place. Really the president’s back yard is a great big
park.
Bright and early Easter Monday morning happy little groups of children
may be seen proudly marching toward the White House. Their mothers and
nurses or some grown-up sisters are with them. All the trolley cars are
filled with them, coming from every section of the city. Their little
tongues are very busy chattering about the pleasures that are in store
for them. Some, whose memories stretch back over a long, long expanse of
time, are relating some glowing incident of the year before, for those
who are yet unacquainted with the joys that are to come. The little ones
listen with open mouths and wide-open eyes, and hurry along all the
faster.
I have been in Washington on two occasions at these great
celebrations—once while the sturdy Grover Cleveland was president and
once while the great and good William McKinley occupied the White House.
In all my experience I have never seen anything that has made me feel
prouder of my country than these feast days for the children; for, in
the president’s back yard, all the children meet on a common
level—children of all races and of all classes. Neither their father’s
position nor their mother’s social standing concerns them. Two little
strangers will meet and play and romp together as if they had been
companions all their days.
All the little children carry with them little baskets and in the
baskets are the prettiest Easter eggs that can be made. Some are painted
and striped and spotted with bright colors; others are covered with
silver and gilt paper. When the merry-makers get to the great big gates,
where the policemen always stand, they march right through, because they
know the policemen won’t stop them this time. The little fellows hold
their heads high and feel very important, and the policemen smile as
they pass by. The children keep coming and coming until by-and-by the
lot is almost filled, all the way from the White House to the tall white
monument, with laughing children—and with eggs! It would seem that there
were no children left anywhere in Washington. The children are allowed
to run on the grass just as much as they please for this one day.
If you go near one of the little hills or long banks you may hear one
small girl say to another, “My egg’ll ’oll furver ’an your egg.” And the
other small girl will answer, “No; mine’ll ’oll furvest.” And then they
will start their eggs rolling down the hills and go racing after them to
see whose egg goes the farthest.
Many of the boys throw their eggs along the ground like ninepin balls,
and see whose will go the farthest. When they get tired of this they
stand a little distance apart and roll their eggs against each other’s
to see whose will break. There is another way that they try to break
each other’s eggs. One holds an egg in his hand so that the top is
uncovered, and another takes his egg and taps it gently against the
first one. He keeps hitting a little harder and harder until one of them
breaks, and the one whose egg doesn’t break is the winner.
Most of the eggs are boiled hard first, so that the children are not
very sorry, after all, if their eggs do break, because they can eat
them. And their mothers or nurses will give them crackers and salt to go
with them.
In such a great crowd, where the children are allowed to run where they
please, there are sure to be some little ones who will wander away from
their guardians. All the little “lost” children, as fast as the officers
find them, are taken to a small house in the center of the lot, and the
mothers know just where to look for them. Often there are twenty or
thirty little tots, all tired out, waiting to be claimed by their
guardians.
On the highest mound of all there is a band—the United States Marine
Band—and they play some of their nicest music on this day. So when the
little ones get weary from running after their eggs they can go and
watch the man pound the big bass drum, and listen to the music.
Sometimes, while the music is playing, the president will come out on
the back porch, high over all, and watch the festivities. A mighty
shout, from old and young alike, always greets the appearance of the
president. No wonder this is one of the big days for the little folks.
By-and-by all the eggs are broken or eaten, and then it is time for the
tired and happy little fairies to go home.
XXXII.
KEEPING ONE’S ENGAGEMENTS.
What would happen if everybody should begin to-morrow to keep all his
promises and fulfill all his engagements? I think it would make a new
world at once. There is great need that the attention of young people
should be called to the importance of keeping engagements. Much of the
confusion and annoyance and trouble of this world would be done away
with if people would learn to keep their promises. The oft-repeated
excuse, “I forgot,” is not reasonable. If the memory is in the habit of
playing tricks with you, then you ought to make notes of your
engagements, write them down in some way, so that you will not forget
them. Arnold of Rugby said: “Thoughtlessness is a crime,” and he was
right. The great Ruskin has also uttered strong words in condemnation of
thoughtlessness in youth. He said: “But what excuse can you find for
willfulness of thought at the very time when every crisis of future
fortune hangs on your decisions? A youth thoughtless! when the career of
all his days depends on the opportunity of a moment. A youth
thoughtless! when his every act is a foundation-stone of future conduct,
and every imagination a fountain of life or death. Be thoughtless in any
after years rather than now, though, indeed, there is only one place
where a man may be nobly thoughtless—his deathbed. No thinking should
ever be left to be done there.”
[Illustration: KEEPING ONE’S ENGAGEMENTS.]
And, then, boys and girls should remember that promptness should always
accompany the fulfilling of an engagement, otherwise the engagement is
not really kept. A person’s time is a valuable possession, which should
be respected by all. Who has not been exasperated by some one with
apparent indifference keeping (?) an engagement a half or three-quarters
of an hour late! And often a whole train of troubles will follow in the
wake of tardiness. The punctual boy or girl in this life is the one who
advances most rapidly. The punctual boy or girl will make a punctual man
or woman. A promise-breaker, or one who is late in keeping his
appointments, cannot in the true sense of the term be considered a
first-class person.
XXXIII.
A MIDNIGHT MISHAP.[5]
[Illustration: A MIDNIGHT MISHAP.]
Uncle Ned returned from his ’possum hunt about midnight, bringing with
him a fine, fat ’possum. He built a glowing fire, dressed the ’possum,
pared and split the sweet potatoes, and pretty soon he had the “’possum
an’ ’taters” in the oven. While the meal was cooking Uncle Ned amused
himself with his favorite old banjo. When the ’possum had been baked
brown and crisp he took it out of the oven and set it on the hearth to
give it time to cool. Mentally congratulating himself upon the glorious
repast he thought soon to enjoy, he sat silently for awhile in the old
armchair, but presently he was snugly wrapped in the arms of “tired
nature’s sweet restorer—balmy sleep.”
It happened that two young fellows who were pretty well acquainted with
Uncle Ned’s habits had been stealthily watching about the house waiting
this particular chance. As soon as they were convinced that the old man
was safe in the arms of Morpheus, they crept into the house and
hurriedly helped themselves to Uncle Ned’s supper, including even the
coffee and bread. When they finished the hasty meal, by way of
attempting to cover up their tracks, they smeared Uncle Ned’s hands and
mouth with the ’possum gravy and then beat a retreat.
After a time Uncle Ned aroused from his peaceful slumber. It is needless
to say that he had dreamed about his supper. At once he dived down to
inspect the viands, when, lo and behold, the hearth was empty! Uncle Ned
steadied himself and studied awhile.
“Well,” said he finally, “I must ’a’ et dat ’possum; I must ’a’ et dat
’possum in my sleep!”
He looked at his hands. They were greasy. He smelt his hands. As he did
so he said:
“Dat smells like ’possum grease! I sho must ’a’ et dat ’possum.”
He discovered grease on his lips. Out went his tongue.
“Dat tas’es like ’possum grease,” he said. He got up. He looked about
the house. There was no sign of intruders. He rubbed his stomach. He
resumed his seat, and, giving up all for lost, he said:
“Well, ef I did eat dat ’possum, hit sets lightah on my appertite dan
any ’possum I evah et befo’.”
XXXIV.
FREDERICK DOUGLASS.
In 1893 the World’s Columbian Exposition, or World’s Fair, was held in
Chicago in commemoration of the four hundredth anniversary of the
discovery of America. A negro man, the Hon. Frederick Douglass, attended
that exposition and delivered an address on negro day. Speaking of this
great man’s visit the Advance, one of Chicago’s great religious papers,
said:
“It was fine to see at the Congress on Africa the tall form and
magnificent head of the grand old man, Frederick Douglass, now
seventy-five years of age, perfectly erect, kindly, majestic, the
‘ancient fires of inspiration welling up through all his being yet’;
affable to all; finding it still to be as natural to be eloquent as to
speak at all; sympathetic to the core with the people of his own race,
yet none the less loyal to the common interests of all the people of his
country; neither blind to the obstacles in their path and the cruel
social injustice and meanness to which they are often exposed, nor, on
the other hand, unmindful of the friends they have in the South as also
in the North, or above all to the over-shining care and purpose of God
Himself, with the ‘far-off divine intent’ that so clearly takes in the
future of both the American and African continents. Few Americans have
had a more conspicuously providential mission than Frederick Douglass.
And hardly anything in this remarkable congress was more eloquent or
more convincing than his personal presence.”
Frederick Douglass was born a slave, and his life as a slave was one of
peculiar hardship. Of it he himself says in his autobiography:
“I suffered little from any punishment I received, except from hunger
and cold. I could get enough neither of food or clothing, but suffered
more from cold than hunger. In the heat of summer or the cold of winter
alike, I was kept almost in a state of nudity—no shoes, jackets,
trousers, or stockings—nothing but a coarse tow linen shirt reaching to
the knee. That I wore night and day. In the day time I could protect
myself by keeping on the sunny side of the house, and in bad weather in
the corner of the kitchen chimney. The great difficulty was to keep warm
at night. I had no bed. The pigs in the pen had leaves, and the horses
in the stable had straw, but the children had nothing. In very cold
weather I sometimes got down the bag in which corn was carried to the
mill and got into that. My feet have been so cracked by frost that the
pen with which I am writing might have been laid in the gashes.” With
regard to his food he said that he often disputed with the dogs over the
crumbs that fell from his master’s table.
Now this man, born so lowly and surrounded by such circumstances, turned
out to be in the course of time by hard work and self-application one of
the most influential American citizens and one of the greatest orators
that this country has ever known. Among other high offices of trust and
responsibility, he was once marshal of the District of Columbia,
recorder of deeds of the District of Columbia, and United States
minister to Hayti.
He died February 20th, 1895, at his home in Anacostia, D. C., at the age
of seventy-seven years. A monument to his memory has been erected in
Rochester, N. Y., where he once lived.
What Frederick Douglass made of himself is possible for any American boy
with grit. Every boy and girl in America should read the life of this
pre-eminent negro and strive to emulate his virtues. His memory is
worthy to be honored to the last day of time.
XXXV.
OUR DUMB ANIMALS.
Domestic animals—like horses, cats and dogs—seem to be almost as
dependent upon kind treatment and affection as human beings. Horses and
dogs especially are the most keenly intelligent of our dumb friends, and
are alike sensitive to cruelty in any form. They are influenced to an
equal degree by kind and affectionate treatment.
If there is any form of cruelty that is more reprehensible than another,
it is abuse of a faithful horse who has given his whole life to the
service of the owner. When a horse is pulling a heavy load with all his
might, doing the best he can to move under it, to strike him, spur him,
or swear at him is simply barbarous. To kick a dog around, to tie tin
cans to his tail, or strike him with sticks, just for the fun of hearing
him yelp or seeing him run, is equally barbarous. No high-minded man, no
high-minded boy or girl, would do such a thing. We should never forget
how helpless, in a large sense, dumb animals are—and how absolutely
dependent upon the humanity and kindness of their owners. They are
really the slaves of man, having no language by which to express their
feelings or needs.
[Illustration: OUR DUMB ANIMALS.]
The poet Cowper said:
“I would not enter on my list of friends,
Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
Yet wanting sensibility, the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.”
Every boy and girl should be willing to pledge himself to be kind to all
harmless living creatures, and every boy and girl should strive to
protect such, creatures from cruel usage on the part of others. It is
noble, boys and girls, for us to speak for those that cannot speak for
themselves, and it is noble, also, for us to protect those that cannot
protect themselves.
XXXVI.
A PLUCKY BOY.
The boy marched straight up to the counter.
“Well, my little man,” said the merchant, “what can I do for you?”
“If you please,” said the boy, “I came in to see if you wouldn’t let me
work for you.”
The boy was not yet ten years old, and he was small for his age. But
there was something in his speech, or manner that held the man’s
attention.
“Do some work for me, eh?” said the man. “What kind of work could you
do? You can hardly look over the counter.”
“Oh, yes; I can,” said the little fellow, as he stood on tiptoe and
peeped over the counter.
Out of sheer curiosity the merchant came from behind the counter, so as
to get a good look at the boy.
“Oh,” he said, “I see you’ve got copper taps on your shoes; I suppose
your mother couldn’t keep you in shoes if they didn’t have taps on
them!”
“She can’t keep me in shoes anyway, sir,” and the little boy’s voice
hesitated.
“How old are you?” asked the merchant.
“I’m older than I look; folks say that I’m small for my age.”
“Well, what is your age?”
“I’m going on ten,” said Davie, with a look of great importance. “You
see,” he continued, “my mother hasn’t anybody but me, and this morning I
saw her crying because she could not find five cents in her pocket-book,
and she thinks she must have lost it—and it was—the—last cent—that she
had—in the world; and—I—have—not—had—any—breakfast, sir.” The voice
again hesitated, and tears came into the little boy’s eyes.
“Oh, don’t cry, my little man; I guess I can help you to a breakfast.
Here, take this quarter!” He pulled a quarter from his vest pocket and
handed it to the boy. The boy shook his head.
“Mother wouldn’t let me beg,” was his simple answer.
“Humph!” said the merchant. “Where is your father?”
“We never heard of him, sir, after he went away. He was lost in the
steamer City of New York.”
“That’s too bad. But you’re a plucky little fellow, anyhow. Let me see,”
and he looked straight down into the boy’s eyes, and the boy looked
straight up at him. Turning to the head man, after awhile, the merchant
said:
“Palmer, is cash boy No. 5 still sick?”
“Dead, sir; died last night,” was the reply.
“I’m sorry; but here’s a boy you might use. Put him down in No. 5’s
place. We’ll try him for awhile, anyhow. What is your name, my little
man?” he asked, turning again to the boy.
[Illustration: “THE BOY MARCHED STRAIGHT UP TO THE COUNTER.”]
“Davie Thomas.”
“Well, Davie, we’ll give you three dollars a week to start with; you
come to-morrow morning and I’ll tell you what to do. Here’s a dollar of
your wages in advance. I’ll take it out of your first week’s pay. Do you
understand?”
“Yes, sir; I understand, and I thank you, too. I’ll be back in the
morning.”
Davie shot out of the store, and lost no time in getting home. The old
creaky steps in the old ram-shackle house fairly sang with delight as
the weight of the little boy hurried up them.
“I’ve got it, mother;” exclaimed Davie. “I’m a cash boy! The man’s going
to give me three dollars a week, and he says I’ve got pluck, too; and
here’s a dollar to get some breakfast with, and don’t you cry any more,
for I’m going to be the man of this house now.”
At first the mother was dumfounded; then she looked confused; and then
she looked—well, it passes my power to tell how she did look as she took
Davie in her arms and hugged him and kissed him, the tears streaming
down her cheeks. But they were tears of joy and thankfulness!
XXXVII.
A HEART-TO-HEART TALK.
“Henry, I asked you to remain after school a few minutes because I
wanted you to help me rearrange the desks and furniture, but I had
another reason for asking you to remain, and I think it is more
important than the one I have just stated.”
The desks had all been arranged according to the teacher’s notion, and
Henry Holt had gathered up his books to go home. It was then that his
teacher, Miss Ada Johnson, addressed him.
“Won’t you sit down here a minute, David?” she continued. “I wish to
speak to you a minute or two.”
David quietly took a seat. He was one of the largest boys in school, and
had been giving an unusual amount of trouble during the day. In fact he
had been a source of annoyance ever since the new teacher had taken
charge.
[Illustration: A HEART-TO-HEART TALK.]
“David,” the teacher went on, “I wonder if you realize how hard you have
made it for me in school to-day? Is there any reason why we cannot be
friends and work together? And I wish to be a friend to you, if you will
let me. You could help me so much and you could help your schoolmates so
much if you only would. I want to ask you if you think your conduct has
been manly to-day? Has it been kind?”
David said nothing, but hung his head.
“I heard before I came here that you were an unruly boy. People say that
you will neither study nor work, and some people say that you are a very
mean boy. Some of these things may be true, David, I am sorry to say,
but I want to tell you that you are the only hope of a widowed mother,
and I want to say, also, that I think that you are breaking her heart.”
The teacher’s voice faltered at the last words.
“I know that your father,” the low voice went on, “was a brave and noble
man; and when I hear people say, ‘It is a good thing that Henry Oliver
died before he knew what his son was coming to,’ I think what a pity it
is that they cannot say, ‘How sad it is that Henry Oliver died before he
could know what a fine, manly fellow his son would be, and what a stay
and comfort to his mother’.”
The boy’s head dropped to the desk in front of him, and he began to sob.
The teacher went over to him and said gently:
“You can be all this. It is in your power to be all that your father
would have you, all that your mother would have you. Will you not turn
over a new leaf now, not only in your behavior and work in school, but
in your whole life as well?”
David raised his head.
“I am with you—I’ll do it, teacher,” he replied, a new resolve shining
in his face. All that day he did some of the most serious thinking of
his life. And he kept his promise.
The years have been many since then. The little teacher has long since
passed to her rest, but David Oliver is a living monument to the power
of a few searching words, the potency of a little personal interest and
kindliness manifested at a critical time.
XXXVIII.
A GHOST STORY.
Uncle Mose, an old-time colored man, once said in a company of people
who were talking about ghosts that he wasn’t afraid of any ghost that
ever walked the earth.
“No, sah; not me,” he said; “I’se got my fuss time to be skeered uv
anyt’ing dat’s dead.”
Whereupon Noah Johnson told Uncle Mose that he would bet him a load of
watermelons that he couldn’t spend one night in the “Widder Smith’s
house.” Now, the Widow Smith’s house was said to be haunted, or, in
other words, it was filled with ghosts.
“Des name de night,” said Uncle Mose. “I’ll stay dar; no ha’nts won’t
bodder wid me. No, sah; no ha’nts won’t bodder wid me, an’ yo’
watermillions is des ez good ez gone already!”
The details were arranged; judges were appointed; and Uncle Mose was to
stay in the haunted house that very night. He got him some pine-knots to
keep a good blaze in the old-fashioned fireplace, carried along an extra
plug of tobacco, secured a large dry-goods box to be used for a chair,
and then he set out for the house.
[Illustration: “HUH! HUH! THERE DON’T SEEM TO BE BUT TWO OF US HERE
TO-NIGHT.”]
He made a blaze and seated himself on the pine box. For a time he sung a
number of old plantation songs for his own amusement, as well as to keep
him company. About midnight, feeling somewhat drowsy, Uncle Mose got up,
took a light and went on a tour of inspection. He examined every room in
the house. His search revealed nothing unusual. He wound up his search
chuckling to himself:
“I sho is makin’ dis load uv watermillions easy. Noah Johnsing didn’t
know who he’s foolin’ wid. I’m a man myse’f; I ain’t afeared uv
nothin’—I ain’t!”
Down he sat on the box, and pretty soon he was dozing. It was not very
long before he suddenly awoke. He was at once seized with strange and
sudden fear. He was too frightened to move. Although he did not look
around, he was conscious that there was another presence in the room.
His hair stood on ends. He felt a cold chill run up and down his back.
By that time he knew that the object in the room, whatever it was, was
moving towards him. Still he did not move, because he could not. The
ghost (for that was what all the people said it was) stood over Uncle
Mose for a little while, and then quietly sat down on the box beside
him. Uncle Mose looked straight into the fireplace, but his heart was
beating like a runaway horse. The silence in the room at that moment was
like unto the silence of death. Everything was still and solemn. Uncle
Mose could almost hear his own heart beating. The ghost finally broke
the silence by saying, with a loud sigh:
“Huh! Huh! There don’t seem to be but two of us here to-night!”
It was then that Uncle Mose looked around for the first time. As he did
so he exclaimed:
“Yas; an’ f’um dis out dah won’t be but one!” And with that he jumped
through the window, taking a part of the sash with him.