V.

_THE COLONEL'S STORY_

ON Sunday morning Maggie and Bessie were made ready, and taken over

to Mrs. Rush's rooms at nine o'clock, as had been arranged. As Maggie

had told Mr. Hall, Mrs. Rush could not leave the colonel to go to the

church school; but she was very anxious to do something for the lambs

of the Good Shepherd, who had so lately brought her dear husband into

the fold, and so she had begged that these little ones might come to

her. Mrs. Bradford was very glad to have her children go. Bessie had

never been to Sunday-school, and her mother thought the walk too much

for her on a cold day; but Mrs. Rush's rooms were so near their own

home that she could go there in almost any weather. As for Maggie, she

was rather glad not to go back to the church school. Her teacher, Miss

Winslow, was going away, as you know, and she did not at all like the

idea of having a new one.

"I should be so very homesick after Miss Winslow, mamma," she had said,

"but now I shall not mind that so much; and then Bessie will be with

me, so we will be very happy."

Truly it was a pleasant class. Four little girls who dearly loved

each other, and the sweet young lady who was to be their teacher.

Then the room was so bright and sunny, and the colonel, to please his

wife and her little scholars, perhaps also to please himself, had

taken a great deal of pains to have all nicely prepared for them.

Four small cane-seated chairs stood side by side, and on each of them

lay a Testament and a hymn-book, while on the table were a number of

picture-cards and a neat case containing a dozen books, which were to

be their library.

"When these are all read," said the colonel, "they shall have some

more."

There was only one thing which seemed wrong, but that was rather

serious. The dear teacher appeared as if she would scarcely be able to

do her part that morning. Mrs. Rush had taken a severe cold, and had

a bad headache and a sore throat. She looked quite ill, and when Mr.

Bradford, who had brought the little girls over, shook hands with her,

he said, "I think you are in no fit state for teaching to-day. You had

better let me take the children home, and make a beginning next Sunday."

"So I have told her," said Colonel Rush; "but she cannot bear to

disappoint herself or them, and I have agreed to let her try, on

condition that, if she find it too much for her, I am to take her

place. I do not know what kind of a teacher I shall make, but, at

least, I can tell them a story."

Mrs. Rush said she thought she should do very well; so Mr. Bradford

went away, and in a few minutes Gracie Howard and Lily Norris came in,

and they all took their seats. Colonel Rush went into the inner room,

where he could not be seen, but where he could hear if he chose; and

his wife began.

First, she made a short prayer, asking our Father in heaven to bless

them with his presence and his love, that he would give her strength

and grace to teach these lambs aright, and to them, hearts gentle and

tender, and ready to learn the way of life, and that he would bring

them all at last to dwell with him in his home beyond the sky. Then she

read to them of Christ blessing little children, and, showing them a

card on which a picture of this was painted, talked to them about it.

"Now we will sing," she said, "or rather you may, for I shall not be

able to help you. We will take something you all know quite well, that

there may be no difficulty about the tune. 'I want to be an angel.' Who

will start it?"

Any one of the children, if she had been alone, could have started

the tune and sung it through without trouble; but with all the rest

waiting, not one felt as if she could begin. They all sat looking at

one another, each little girl afraid to trust her own voice.

"Why," said Mrs. Rush, "are we to have no singing at all? Cannot one of

you do it?"

Then came two or three notes from the other room. Bessie took them

right up, and the rest followed immediately. As soon as they were

fairly started, the colonel paused, and let them sing it through by

themselves. Very nicely they did it, too; their sweet young voices

making pleasant music in the ears of their kind friends.

"I want you each to learn a new hymn and a Bible verse, during the

week, to say to me next Sunday," said Mrs. Rush. "We have had no

regular lesson for to-day. Can you not each remember a hymn to repeat

now?"

"I'll say, 'Saviour, like a shepherd lead us,'" said Gracie; and she

repeated the hymn very correctly.

Lily said, "Little travellers, Zionward;" but, as you probably know

both of these pretty pieces, there is no need to write them here.

Bessie said the verses about the lamb, which she had repeated to

Grandpapa Duncan at Riverside.

Maggie's turn came last. "I am going to say the very best hymn that

ever was made," she said.

"How do you know it is the very best?" said Gracie. "Maybe it isn't so

pretty as the one Bessie said. I like that very much."

"So do I; but then this one _is_ the best, for my own mamma made it,"

answered Maggie, as if there could be no doubt after this that her hymn

was the best that could be written.

Gracie opened her eyes wide, and listened with all her might. To have a

mamma who wrote hymns, must, she thought, be very fine, and she did not

wonder that Maggie felt rather proud of it.

"Shall I say it?" asked Maggie of Mrs. Rush.

"Certainly," said the lady; and Maggie began.

"Little one, what canst thou do,

For the Lord who loved thee so,

That he left his heavenly throne,

To our sinful world came down,

On the cross to faint and die,

That thy ransomed soul might fly

Far beyond all sin and pain,

Where the Crucified doth reign?

"Little hands, what can ye do

For the Lord who loved me so?

"Little hands fit work may find,

If I have a willing mind;

And whate'er the service small,

If I only do it all

For the sake of God's dear Son,

He the simplest gift will own.

Little hands, so ye may prove

All my gratitude and love.

"Little lips, what can ye do

For the Lord who loved me so?

"Let no harsh or angry word

From these little lips be heard;

Let them never take in vain

God's most glorious, holy name

Let sweet sounds of praise and joy

All your childish powers employ.

Little lips, so ye may prove

All my gratitude and love.

"Little feet, what can ye do

For the Lord who loved me so?

"Follow Him who day by day

Guides thee on the heavenward way.

Little feet, turn not aside,

Tread down shame and fear and pride,

Aught might tempt ye to go back

From the safe and narrow track.

Little feet, so ye may prove

All my gratitude and love.

"Little heart, what canst thou do

For the Lord who loved me so?

"Thou canst _love him_, little heart,

Such thy blessed, happy part.

In his tender arms may rest,

Lying there content and blest.

This is all he asks of thee,

Little heart, oh! lovest thou me?

Little heart, so thou mayst prove

All my gratitude and love.

"Little one, this thou canst do

For the Lord who loved thee so.

Little hands and little feet

Still may render service meet;

Little lips and little heart

In such glorious work bear part.

Little one, thus thou mayst prove

All thy gratitude and love."

"Oh, how nice!" said Gracie; and Lily said the same thing.

"And mamma is going to make music for it," said Bessie, "so we can sing

it."

"Then we will all learn it," said Mrs. Rush. "We shall have a piano

here next Sunday, and there need be no more trouble about our tunes.

Now I will tell you a little story."

But when she began to talk again, she was so hoarse that she could

scarcely speak, and the children saw that her throat was very painful.

"Don't try to tell us; you feel too sick," said Bessie. "We'll just sit

still, and be as quite as mices."

Mrs. Rush smiled at her, and tried once more to go on, but just then

the sound of the colonel's crutches was heard, and the next moment he

came in the room.

"I cannot let you go on, Marion," said he. "I will take your place. Can

you put up with a story from me, little ones, while my wife rests? She

is able to do no more for you to-day."

Put up with a story from him! That was a curious question from the

colonel, who was such a famous story-teller. They were all quite ready

to listen to anything he might tell them, though they felt very sorry

for dear Mrs. Rush, who, seeming rather glad to give her place to

her husband, went to the other side of the room and took the great

arm-chair, while the colonel settled himself on the sofa.

Bessie looked at him very wistfully.

"Well, what is it, my pet?" he asked.

"Don't you think you'd be more comfor'ble if I was on the sofa by you?"

she asked. "I am sure I would."

"Indeed, I should," he answered, holding out his hand with a smile, and

in a moment she was in her favorite seat beside him.

He told the others to stand around him, and commenced his story.

"A little child sat upon a green sunny bank, singing to himself in a

low, sweet voice. It was not easy to understand the words of the song;

indeed, there did not seem to be much wisdom in them. It was as if he

were only pouring out in music the joy of his own young, happy heart.

"It was a lovely place. The bank on which the child rested was covered

with a soft green moss, while around him bloomed sweet flowers, blue

violets peeping up from their nest of leaves, and filling the air with

their delicious scent, pure lilies of the valley with their snowy

bells, and the pale pink primroses. Overhead grew tall trees, shading

him from the rays of the sun which might else have beat too strongly on

his tender head; and among their branches the soft winds whispered and

the birds sang joyfully. At the foot of the bank was a path bordered

with lovely ferns and grasses and flowers, such as grew above; and

beyond this again ran a little stream sparkling in the sunlight, and

gurgling and rippling over and around the stones and pebbles which lay

in its way. And all--the boy, the birds, the whispering leaves, the

sweet flowers, the running brook--seemed joining in one hymn of praise

to Him who made them and gave them life.

"On the other side of the brook, and in a line with the narrow path,

ran a broad road, on which also grew flowers gayer and brighter than

those whose home was upon the bank or on the path; but when one came

nearer, or tried to pluck them, they were found to be full of thorns,

or turned to dust and ashes in the hand.

"Both road and path _seemed_ to lead to the mountains, which lay in

the distance; but it was not really so. There were many windings and

turnings in both, so that one who travelled upon them could not see far

before him. Sometimes they would lead over a hill, sometimes around its

foot, sometimes through a forest, sometimes through a bog or stream.

Those who became puzzled upon the broad road would lose their way and

could seldom find either track again; for there was nothing to guide

them, and they would go deeper and deeper into the dark woods or the

treacherous bog, or perhaps fall into some deep pit, and so they were

never seen again. But if one who travelled upon the narrow path was

in doubt whether he were right or no, he had only to lift his eyes,

and the true way would be pointed out to him; for all along were

guide-posts, and upon them were golden letters which shone so brightly

that he who ran might read; and they told him which turning he must

take. By the side of the path there ran also a silver thread, and he

who kept fast hold of this could seldom or never go astray; for if he

was about to turn aside, fine points or thorns would rise up in the

thread and, pricking him, bid him take heed to his steps. But however

the path might wind, in and out, now here, now there, it still led

onward to the mountains whose tops were to be seen in a straight line

with the child's home; and he who followed it could not fail to come

there.

"The child was still singing, when a stranger came up this path. He

stood still and looked at the boy with a smile, as though the simple

song pleased him.

"'What is thy name, little one?' he asked.

"'Benito,' answered the child.

"'Ah! thou art well named, for truly thou art a blessed child. What a

lovely home thou hast!'

"'But this is not my home,' said Benito. 'My Father placed me here for

a little while, but my home lies far away on the mountains yonder where

he is. There is a beautiful city there, where my Elder Brother has gone

to prepare a place for me. Stay;' and the child put his hand into his

bosom and drew out a glass; 'look through this, and then thou wilt see

the beautiful city; thou mayest even see my Father's house. This glass

is called Faith, and my Brother bade me look through it when my feet

were tired and my heart was faint.'

"The stranger took it from his hand, and looking through it, gave a

glad cry of surprise; then took from his own breast a glass like the

boy's, but not so fresh and bright.

"'I, too, have a glass,' he said; 'but it is not so clear as thine.

It is my own fault, for it needs constant use to keep it pure and

undimmed, and I have not brought it forth as often as I should have

done. But now the beautiful sight which I have seen through thine has

taught me what I lose by letting it lie hidden away. And when art thou

to go to thy Father's house?'

"'Now,' said Benito, 'for the message has come for me, and I am to

start to-day upon the very path on which thou standest.'

"'But it will be a hard way for thee,' said the stranger, in a pitying

voice. 'I am taller than thee, and can look farther ahead, and I see

rocks and stones which will hurt those tender feet, and hills which

will be difficult for thee to climb, and streams whose waves will be

almost too much for thee. Wait till thou art a little stronger and more

able to travel.'

"'I cannot wait,' said Benito; 'I have heard my Father's voice, and I

must not stay.'

"'And hast thou food and drink for the journey?'

"'My Father has promised that I shall be fed with the bread of life,

and drink from living waters.'

"'But that white robe of thine will become soiled with the dust and

heat of the day.'

"'This white robe is called Innocence,' said the child. 'My Father

clothed me in it when he left me here; and if it should become spotted

by the way, he has said that it shall be washed white again before I go

into his presence.'

"'Truly thou hast made good use of thy glass,' said the stranger; 'and

thine own courage puts my fears for thee to shame. I, too, am bound for

the mountains, for thy Father is my Father, thy home my home. Come,

shall we journey there together? We may perhaps aid one another. I

can help thee over the rough places; and thou mayest now and then let

me take a look through thy glass till mine own is brighter with more

frequent use.'

"'I will go with thee,' said Benito, who liked the kind, gentle face of

the stranger; and coming down from his mossy seat, he put his hand in

that of his new friend, who told him his name was Experience.

"'Men call me a hard teacher, my child,' he said; 'I trust I may be

gentle with thee. I shall not be able to be always at thy side, for I

may have work to do which thou canst not share, and I may leave thee

for a time; but I will always await thee or follow on after thee.'

"Experience was a grave-looking man, and his face had a sad and weary

look as though he longed for home and rest. But he had always a smile

for the child when he turned towards him. His dress was of gray, and

about his neck he wore a chain of golden beads. So they journeyed on

together, the man and the boy; each with a hand upon the silver thread

which ran by the wayside.

"'What is that chain about thy neck?' asked Benito.

"'It is the gift I carry to our Father,' said Experience, looking down

with a smile at the chain.

"'I have no gift,' said the child; 'I did not know that I should need

one. My Elder Brother told me he had paid the price which should give

me entrance to the beautiful city.'

"'He has done so,' said the other, 'and though thou goest with empty

hands, thou shalt have as loving a welcome as if thou hadst all the

wealth of the universe to offer. But still, one would wish to have some

gift to lay at our Father's feet. Perhaps thou mayest find some jewel

on the road. I had nothing when I started. These beads have been given

to me, one by one, by those whom I have helped or taught by the way;

for, little one, thou art not the first whose hand has been laid in

mine; and I have strung them together as a fit offering for him to whom

we go.'

"'I have no bead to give,' said Benito, sadly.

"'No matter; that white robe of thine gives thee a claim upon my care,

which I could not set aside if I would. Cheer up, sweet child. If a

jewel fell in thy way, and thou didst not stop to pick it up, that thou

mightst carry it to our Father, then indeed there would be reason to

fear his displeasure, but if thou findest none, he will ask none.'

"So Benito was comforted, and once more went on his way rejoicing.

His sweet talk cheered the older pilgrim, and every now and then

they would both break out into songs of praise and joy. Experience

helped the little one over many rough places, for though the path was

at first easy and pleasant, it soon grew hard and stony. Then they

passed through a dark forest, where Benito could scarcely have kept

his feet but for the help of his older and wiser friend, who took him

in his arms until they were again upon the open road. But even among

the brambles and thickets of the forest the way was plain, if they

but looked up at the guide-posts; for the greater the darkness, the

brighter shone the letters.

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