And now, just think if you yourself should take a great journey
through ice and snow and go to the cold countries, up among the white
bears and the sledges and dogs; suppose even that you should have an
odd little dress of white bear-skin, like Agoonack, wouldn't you think
it very strange if Sallie shouldn't call you her little sister just
because you were living up there among the ice?
And what if Minnie, too, should take it into her head to sail across
the seas and live in a boat on a Chinese river, like Pen-se, and drive
the ducks, eat rice with chopsticks, and have fried mice for dinner;
why, you might not want to dine with her, but she would be your sweet,
loving sister all the same, wouldn't she?
I can hear you say "Yes" to all this, but then you will add: "Father
is our father the same all the time, and he isn't Pen-se's father, nor
Manenko's."
Let us see what makes you think he is your father. Because he loves
you so much and gives you everything that you have--clothes to wear,
and food to eat, and fire to warm you?
Did he give you this new little gingham frock? Shall we see what it
is made of? If you ravel out one end of the cloth, you can find the
little threads of cotton which are woven together to make your frock.
Where did the cotton come from?
It grew in the hot fields of the South, where the sun shines very
warmly. Your father didn't make it grow, neither did any man. It is
true a man, a poor black man, and a very sad man he was too, put the
little seeds into the ground, but they would never have grown if the
sun hadn't shone, the soft earth nourished, and the rain moistened
them. And who made the earth, and sent the sun and the rain?
That must be somebody very kind and thoughtful, to take so much care
of the little cotton-seeds. I think that must be a father.
Now, what did you have for breakfast this morning?
A sweet Indian cake with your egg and mug of milk? I thought so. Who
made this breakfast? Did Bridget make the cake in the kitchen? Yes,
she mixed the meal with milk and salt and sugar. But where did she get
the meal? The miller ground the yellow corn to make it. But who made
the corn?
The seeds were planted as the cottonseeds were, and the same kind care
supplied sun and rain and earth for them. Wasn't that a father? Not
your father who sits at the head of the table and helps you at dinner,
who takes you to walk and tells you stories, but another Father; your
Father, too, he must be, for he is certainly taking care of you.
And doesn't he make the corn grow, also, on that ant-hill behind
Manenko's house? He seems to take the same care of her as of you.
Then the milk and the egg. They come from the hen and the cow; but who
made the hen and the cow?
It was the same kind Father again who made them for you, and made
the camels and goats for Gemila and Jeannette; who made also the wild
bees, and taught them to store their honey in the trees, for Manenko;
who made the white rice grow and ripen for little Pen-se, and the
sea-birds and the seals for Agoonack. To every one good food to
eat--and more than that; for must it not be a very loving father who
has made for us all the beautiful sky, and the stars at night, and the
blue sea; who sent the soft wind to rock the brown baby to sleep
and sing her a song, and the grand march of the Northern Lights for
Agoonack--grander and more beautiful than any of the fireworks you
know; the red strawberries for little Jeannette to gather, and the
beautiful chestnut woods on the mountain-side? Do you remember all
these things in the stories?
And wasn't it the same tender love that made the sparkling water and
sunshine for Pen-se, and the shining brown ducks for her too; the
springs in the desert and the palm-trees for Gemila, as well as the
warm sunshine for Manenko, and the beautiful River Rhine for Louise?
It must be a very dear father who gives his children not only all
they need for food and clothing, but so many, many beautiful things to
enjoy.
Don't you see that they must all be his children, and so all sisters,
and that he is your Father, too, who makes the mayflowers bloom, and
the violets cover the hills, and turns the white blossoms into black,
sweet berries in the autumn? It is your dear and kind Father who does
all this for his children. He has very many children; some of them
live in houses and some in tents, some in little huts and some under
the trees, in the warm countries and in the cold. And he loves them
all; they are his children, and they are brothers and sisters. Shall
they not love each other?