A CHAUTAUQUA SUNDAY
ON the last Sunday in July the sun rose on a Chautauqua made serious by
the portentous event of war actually declared in Europe. The Mortons
felt a vital interest in it. With their father and uncle in the Navy and
Army war in theory was a thing not new to them. Both Lieutenant and
Captain Morton had served in the Spanish-American War, but Roger was a
baby at the time and the other children had been born later. The nearest
approach to active service that the children had actually known about
was the present situation in Vera Cruz. They had been thrilled when
Lieutenant Morton had been ordered there in the spring and Captain
Morton had followed later with General Funston's army of occupation.
But the United States troops were not in Mexico to make war but to
prevent it, while the impending trouble in Europe was so filled with
possibilities that it promised already to be the greatest struggle that
the world ever had known.
The horror of it was increased by the fact that for a week all
Chautauqua had been giving itself over to the peaceful joys of music.
For six days Victor Herbert's Orchestra had provided a feast of melody
and harmony and rhythm and everybody on the grounds had participated,
either as auditor or as performer, in some of the vocal numbers. Mrs.
Morton and Mr. Emerson and Roger had sung in the choir and Dorothy had
raised her sweet pipe in the Children's Choir. And at the end of the
week had come this crashing discord of war.
Yet the routine of a Chautauqua Sunday went on unbroken. The elders went
at nine o'clock to the Bible Study class in the Amphitheatre, and at
half past nine the younger members of the family dispersed to the
various places where the divisions of the graded Sunday School met.
Roger and Helen found the high school boys and girls in the Hall of
Christ; the Ethels met the children of the seventh grade at the model of
Palestine by the lakeside, and Dicky went to the kindergarten just as he
had done on weekday mornings, though what he did after he entered the
building was far different.
At ten o'clock Sunday School was over and the older children and the
grown-ups scattered to the devotional services at the various
denominational houses which Helen and the Ethels had noticed on their
first day's walk. At eleven all Chautauqua gathered in the Amphitheatre
in a union service that recognized no one creed but laid stress on the
beauty and harmony common to all beliefs.
The coming week was that of the special celebration of the founding of
Chautauqua Institution forty years before, so it was fitting that Bishop
Vincent should preach from the platform which owed its existence to the
God-given idea of service which he had brought into being. The ideal
church and the ideal Christian were his themes.
"Personality is always enlarged and ennobled by having to do with and
becoming responsible for some great institution," he said and even the
children understood that the Church suggests a pattern for good thoughts
and for service to others which uplifts the people who try to shape
their own lives by it.
"Isn't he a beautiful old man," whispered Ethel Blue to Ethel Brown. "Do
you suppose we'll ever have a chance to speak to him?"
It seemed to Ethel Brown almost an impossibility; yet it happened that
very afternoon.
At three o'clock the Junior Congregation met in the Amphitheatre and the
Ethels went, although they had sat through the morning service. It was a
glad sight--several hundred girls and boys smiling happily and singing
joyously and often grown people sat in the upper seats of the auditorium
where they would not intrude upon the gathering below but would be able
to see and hear the fresh young faces and voices.
It happened that Bishop Vincent, passing by with Miss Kimball, stopped
for a few minutes at the head of one of the aisles to listen to the last
hymn, and he was still there when the young people poured out upon the
upper walk. Miss Kimball recognized the Ethels and called them to her.
"Here are two little acquaintances of mine, Bishop," she said; "I know
they want to speak to you and shake hands with you."
Ethel Brown looked frankly into the benign face above her and made a
prompt answer to the question, "Is this your first summer at
Chautauqua?" But Ethel Blue was overcome with the embarrassment that
seemed to be growing upon her lately, and hardly raised her eyes. Yet as
Miss Kimball turned to go on and Ethel Brown walked away beside her
Ethel Blue found herself saying desperately in a small voice,
"Bishop, would you tell me something? I must--I want to know something."
"Come and sit down here and tell me what it is," answered the kind and
genial tones that could make the huge Amphitheatre ring or could comfort
a child with equal effect.
Drawing her to a seat a little way down the sloping aisle the Bishop and
the young girl sat down.
"Now what is it?" he asked softly.
Again shyness seized Ethel and made her speechless. She looked
desperately after Ethel Brown, unconscious that the others were not
following. Ethel Blue turned cold at her own audacity; but she had
delayed the Bishop in his afternoon walk and she must tell him what was
on her mind.
"Do you think," she stammered, "do you think that a coward can ever
become brave?"
"I do," answered the Bishop promptly and simply. "A coward is afraid for
two reasons; first, he doesn't control his imagination, and his
imagination plays him tricks and makes him think that if such or such a
thing happens to him he will suffer terribly; and secondly, he doesn't
control his will. His will ought to stand up to his imagination and say,
'You may be right and you may be wrong, but even if you're right I can
bear whatever comes. Pain may come, but I can bear it. Trouble may
come, but I can bear it.' Do you understand?"
Ethel's face was beginning to light up.
"You see," the Bishop went on, "God has given everybody the power to
bear suffering and trouble. You may be perfectly sure that if suffering
and trouble come to you you will be given strength to meet them. And God
has given us something else; He has given us the power to avoid much
pain and suffering."
"Oh, how?"
"One way is always to expect joy instead of pain. When you are looking
for joy you find joy and when you are looking for pain you find pain. I
rather think that you have been looking for pain recently."
Ethel hung her head.
"I was a coward at the fire at our house, and I'm so ashamed it doesn't
seem to me I can ever see my father again. He's a soldier and I know
he'd be mortified to death."
"He might be sorry; I don't believe he'd be mortified," said the Bishop,
and somehow the half-agreement soothed Ethel. "They say that when
soldiers go into battle for the first time they often are so frightened
that they are nauseated. I dare say your father has seen cases like that
among his own men, so he would understand that a sudden shock or
surprise may bring about behavior that comes from nervousness and not
from real fear. I rather think that that was what was the matter in your
case."
Ethel drew a sigh of exquisite relief.
"Do you remember my two reasons for cowardice? I should think it was
quite possible that in the sudden excitement of the fire your
imagination worked too hard. You saw yourself smothered by the smoke or
roasted in the flames. Didn't you?"
"I didn't really think it; I felt it," Ethel nodded.
"And you didn't stop to say to yourself: 'I'm going to do all I can to
help and I'm going to be careful, but if anything does happen to me I'll
be able to bear it.'"
"No, I didn't think that; I just thought how it would hurt. And Ethel
Brown saved Dicky and wasn't afraid at all."
"She didn't let her imagination run away with her."
"I was so ashamed when she was doing splendid things and I couldn't
move."
"It was too bad, but you'll have another chance, I've no doubt. You know
the same Opportunity never comes twice but another one takes its place."
"I can't face Father unless it does."
"One thing you mustn't do," declared the Bishop firmly; "you mustn't
think about this all the time. That isn't making your will control your
imagination; it's doing just the opposite; it's letting your imagination
run away with you."
Ethel looked rebuked.
"Now I want to tell you one more thing. I told you one way to avoid pain
and suffering--by not expecting it. The best way of all is to do
everything that comes into your life just as you think God would like to
have you do it. If you work with God in that way God's peace comes to
you. Have I preached too hard a sermon?" he asked as they rose to go.
"You think about it and come and ask me anything else you want to. Will
you?"
Ethel Blue nodded. She did not seem to have voice enough to trust
herself to speak. Then she thrust her hand suddenly into the strong,
gentle hand of the good man who had talked to her so kindly, gave it a
big squeeze and ran away.
The Bishop looked after her.
"It was too hard a test for a nervous child; but she'll have her
chance--bless her," and then he slowly walked around the edge of the
Amphitheatre and rejoined his companion on the other side. Ethel Brown
had just taken leave of her and was running after Ethel Blue as she
dashed down the hill.
"I hope she won't catch my little friend," observed the Bishop. "She
needs to sit and look at the lake for half an hour."
The address on the Holy Land given in Palestine Park in the afternoon
was one of the most interesting things that Chautauqua had offered to
them, Helen and Roger thought. Palestine Park, they had discovered early
in their stay, was a model of Palestine on a scale of one and
three-quarters feet to the mile. It lay along the shore of the lake,
which played the part of the Mediterranean. Hills and valleys, mountains
and streams, were correctly placed and little concrete cities dotted
about in the grass brought Bible names into relation to each other in a
way not possible on the ordinary map of the school geography.
"I'd like to study my Sunday School lesson right here on the spot,"
Helen had said when she first went over the ground and traced the Jordan
from its rise through the Sea of Galilee into the Dead Sea, where, on
week days, children sailed their boats and fished with pins for
non-existent whales.
Now Helen and Roger stood with the throng that gathered and understood
as they never had before the location of tribes and the movements of
armies. Most living to them seemed the recital of the life of Christ as
the speaker traced His movements from the "little town of Bethlehem" to
Calvary.
The later activities of this Sunday again divided the Morton family.
Mrs. Morton and Roger nodded to Dorothy at the Organ Interlude at four
o'clock. Grandfather and Grandmother sat through the C.L.S.C. Vesper
Service at five in the Hall of Philosophy, the westering sun gleaming
softly through the branches of the oaks in St. Paul's Grove in which the
temple stood. After supper came the Lakeside Service and Helen and Roger
stood together in the open and sang heartily from the same book and as
they gazed out over the water were thankful that their father was safe
in his vessel even though he was far from them and on waters where the
sun set more glowingly. Mrs. Morton stayed at home in the evening to
keep watch over Dicky but all the rest went to the Song Service, joining
in the soft hymn that rose in the darkness before the lights were turned
on, and listening with delight to the music of the soloists and the
choir.
It was after they were all gathered again at the cottage that there came
one of those talks that bind families together. It was quiet Ethel Blue
who began it.
"Bishop Vincent told me to-day that if you didn't think that things--bad
things--were going to happen to you they were less likely to come," she
said.
"Bishop Vincent told you!" exclaimed Roger. "What do you mean?"
"She had a long talk with him after the Junior Service," explained Ethel
Brown. "I walked on with Miss Kimball."
"What I want to say is this," continued Ethel Blue patiently after
Roger's curiosity had been satisfied; "it seems to me that you're less
likely to be afraid that bad things are going to happen to you if you
keep doing things for other people all the time."
"It's never wise to think about yourself all the time," agreed Mrs.
Morton.
"The Bishop said that if you let your imagination run loose it might
give you uncomfortable thoughts and make you afraid. If you're working
for other people and inventing pleasant things to do to make them happy
your imagination won't be hurting yourself."
"Our little Ethel Blue is becoming quite a chatterbox," commented Roger,
giving her hair a tweak as she sat on the steps beside him.
"Hush, Roger. I wish you had half as much sense," said Helen smartly.
"Anything more, Ethel?"
"Yes. I wish we had a club, just us youngsters, a club that would keep
us doing things for other people all the time. Don't you think it would
be fun?"
"H'm, h'm," began Roger, but a gentle nudge from Helen stopped him.
"I think it would be splendid, Ethel Blue," she said; "I know Mother
thinks it's just what I need for my complaint. Mother, dear, I'm not
selfish; I'm just _self-respecting_, and self-respecting people want to
co-operate just as much as other people. I'd love to have this club to
try to prove to you that I'm not a 'greedy Jo.'"
"I'm far from-thinking you a 'greedy Jo,' Helen. You're getting morbid
about it, I'm afraid, and I believe this club idea of Ethel Blue's will
be an excellent thing for you; and for Roger, too," she went on.
"What's the matter with me?" inquired Roger a trifle gruffly.
"You're a very dear boy," said his mother, running her fingers through
his hair in a way that he was just beginning to like after years of
considering it an almost unendurable habit, "but sometimes I think
you've forgotten your Scout law, 'Do a kindness to some one every day.'
It's not that you mean to be unkind; you're just careless."
"H'm," grunted Roger. "There seems to be a good reason for every one of
us joining this club. What's the matter with Ethel Brown?"
"I know," answered Ethel Brown before her mother had time to reply;
"Mother's going to tell you that I like to do things for people not to
give them pleasure, but because it gives me pleasure and so I don't do
things the way they like them but the way I like them. And that's
really selfish and not unselfish."
"Upon my word," exclaimed Grandfather Emerson, "these children seem to
be able to analyze themselves mighty closely! They agree on one thing,
though--this club of Ethel Blue's is the cure that they all need for
their different ailments."
"Let's have it," cried Roger. "Ethel Blue shall be president and we'll
let Dicky be an honorary member and the grown-ups shall be the Advisory
Board."
"Oh, I couldn't be president," said Ethel Blue shrinkingly.
"It's your idea. You ought to be," insisted Helen.
"No, you be president. And let's ask Margaret Hancock to belong, and
James. You know we'll probably see a good deal of them next winter now
that we know them. They're only forty minutes on the trolley from us."
"I wish we'd always known them; they're certainly great kids,"
pronounced Roger.
"If we have a club it will be an inducement to them to come over often."
"What'll we call the club?" Ethel Brown always liked to have details
attended to promptly.
"Do for Others"; "A Thing a Day"; "Every Little Helps," were titles
suggested by one voice and another.
"Why not 'The United Servers' if you are going to make it a club of
service," asked Mrs. Emerson.
"Why not 'The United Service'?" demanded Roger. "With Father in the
Navy and Ethel Blue's father in the Army we have the two arms of the
Service united in the family, and if we call it 'The United Service
Club' it will be a nice little pun for ourselves and express the idea of
the club all right for outsiders."
Everybody seemed to like the suggestion.
"Now, then," declared Roger, standing below the steps and facing the
family above him; "it has been moved that Helen be president. Do I hear
a second?"
"You do," cried Ethel Blue.
"All right. Everybody in favor--"
"Aye."
"Contrary minded--"
Silence.
"It is a vote, and Miss Helen Morton is unanimously elected president of
the United Service Club. What's the next thing to do?"
"Make Dicky an honorary member," suggested Ethel Blue.
"Go to bed," over-ruled Mrs. Morton. "There are the chimes."
So the president and members and Advisory Board of the United Service
Club disappeared into the house and Dicky was not informed until the
next day of the honor that had befallen him.