was glad to hear. "Father, I truly meant to tell you all about it, but
I thought I would wait until morning, because it would make you feel so
badly; but Emily said, tell you right away. And father, I won't stop
for any old parrot after this."
TWO SINGERS.
ONE was Miss Cecilia Jamison. She sang in the opera house the evening
that the Mozart Glee Club gave their closing concert for the season.
She was called the best singer in the club. She wore a white silk dress
with a very long train, very costly white lace around her neck, elegant
new bracelets on her arms, and a necklace of pearls around her neck,
with a tiny locket attached, set in diamonds.
People said she looked "perfectly lovely," and her voice was just like
an angel's; though as none of them ever heard an angel, I don't know
how they told. "Some" people said that; there were others who thought
her hair wasn't arranged becomingly, and that she didn't manage her
train gracefully, and that there were a great many people who sang as
well as she did.
Besides, there was a good deal of confusion and trouble behind the
curtain, just before Miss Cecilia sang; she laid down her sheet of
music "exactly in that spot," just as people who lose things, are
always sure they did, and when she went for it, it wasn't there.
"'You' must have moved it," said Miss Cecilia to the leading alto, and
her voice couldn't have sounded quite like an angel's, then.
[Illustration]
"I!" said the leading alto, and her face grew red. "What should you
think I want of 'your' music."
"Well, 'somebody' has taken it, just to annoy me." declared Miss
Cecilia, and she threw things about, and tipped over a bouquet of
flowers that belonged to the leading alto, and spilled the water on the
second soprano's white kid gloves, and did mischief generally.
And when at last she moved forward to the stage, those left behind
looked at each other and said, "Aren't you glad she is gone at last?
Did you ever see anybody act so hateful?"
Well, she sang, and these were some of the words:—
My love sits at the window, gazing, gazing, gazing,
My love sits at the window, gazing out into the night.
What there was wonderful in that, or who she thought cared, I don't
know; but she repeated it again and again; she yelled it, and moaned
it, and whispered it, and wailed it, and told how dear her love was to
her, and what she would do for him, and the names he called her, in a
way that was perfectly senseless; no "love" worth having would have
done any such thing.
Then she stepped back and the audience showered bouquets on her, and
clapped their hands so loud that she had to come back and sing another
line of "My love sits at the window."
And that was all. No, it "wasn't" all; for the people, going home,
talked about her; some said they "could not see" why such a fuss was
made over her voice, that it seemed to them she just "squealed;" and
others said they were afraid she was growing very vain; that so much
praise was had for young people. And even that was not all; the trouble
is, there is never an end to anything. The song Miss Cecilia sang that
night, the words she spoke in getting ready to sing, the words she
spoke afterwards, the effect that the words, and the actions, and the
song, had on other people,—all these went on doing their work, and
though neither you nor I know the story, it growing, "growing," and
Miss Cecelia will have to meet it again some day. That is the story of
one singer: next month I will tell you about the other.
══════════
[Illustration: AUTUMN LEAVES]
HE WENT IN.
BY REV. C. M. LIVINGSTON.
TWO young men were "going in," as I passed along. They had been
standing at the door a moment before in earnest conversation, as I
could readily see from a distance, every little while one trying to
pull the other in. But I just caught a good look of one and knew him.
He was from the country, a member of a Sunday-school. He came to the
city and become a clerk in one of our large stores. One of the other
clerks soon got well acquainted with him. They often walked the streets
together, after tea when their work was over. This other clerk knew all
the low, wicked places of the city, especially where there was drinking
and gambling.
There was one particular saloon where he went every night, and spent
his substance in riotous living.
The keeper of this place allowed him many privileges, provided he would
bring other clerks. So the young man was a daily visitor there, and it
cost him but little to drink and play billiards and cards, if he only
brought one or two others with him. Out of such the bar-keeper made his
gains.
Now this young man from the country, whom we will call Will, had never
been in a saloon in his life, nor had he ever tasted intoxicating
drink; and when he left home for the city, he had promised his mother
to keep away from all such places, and be true to total abstinence.
But he liked society and music and pictures, and he was very curious.
He wanted to see what was to be seen, and so he loved to walk about
the city and see the sights, though he meant never to go near any bad
places; certainly never to enter them.
This time of which I began to speak, Will's friend had led him about
from shop window to picture gallery, and so on, till suddenly they
stood before that saloon. It had a beautiful front, high, broad, and
seemingly all glittering with gold. Hundreds of gas jets, within and
without, made everything bright like midday. Handsome young men were
going in and coming out, smiling, smoking, now and then, it is true,
swearing and staggering. Sounds of sweet music ever and anon floated
through the opening and closing door, and what seemed most gorgeous
paintings could occasionally be seen.
Thus Will stood with his friend, almost bewildered, as one in a new
world. His friend had led him there for a purpose. He rightly guessed
how he would be affected by all the sights and sounds near that saloon;
though up to this time he had not told Will that he ever frequented
such places.
But Will, after a few minutes, began to remember his promise to his
mother, and was about to turn and go away, when his companion plead for
five minutes more of the music. Then he urged Will just to step in,
just that once; that they needn't have anything to do with the wrong
of it, but could simply see for themselves, and no doubt learn a great
deal; and, what was best of all, prove to themselves that they could
resist temptation, though right in the midst of it.
He urged that the city missionary and many other gentlemen went in
just to find out how things were inside, and be able to speak from
experience. But Will had promised, and was about tearing himself away,
when the door opened, and he caught a full view of the inside. It was
gorgeous, dazzling. He had never seen anything so magnificent. Then the
music, how could he get away from it? Why not listen a moment longer?
So he listened, and it seemed as though angels must be playing. Was not
music a good thing? Why not go in just once, and enjoy it near by, and
see how they made it so sweet. Yet the promise came before him.
"Mother, you needn't fear for me. I'll keep clear of all such things. I
will for your sake at least."
At that moment a fine looking gentleman came out and spoke very
politely to Will's friend, and was introduced to Will. And they
conversed about many things, while enrapturing music went on within,
and again and again the paintings could be seen, all aglow with light.
"Come," said the gentleman, "will not your friend step in a moment, and
see the paintings, and enjoy the music better than one can out here?
You will find most comfortable chairs, and the latest periodicals, and
ice water (I see you are weary), all at your service. The proprietor
is a friend of mine, and a perfect gentleman, too, if I do say it.
Very few such as he in this city. He is highly respected. Several of
the ministers know him. He used to be an active member of one of the
largest Sabbath-schools here, and quite a supporter of the church,—does
a great deal of good yet, gives great sums to several poor families
whose fathers have got to drinking to excess. Strange that a man can't
control himself. I know when to stop after I've taken a little to
refresh myself. I despise a young man who has to sign a pledge to keep
from being a sot.
"Gentlemen who come in here are none of your low class. The proprietor
won't have it. He is determined to prove that a young man may find a
pleasant and profitable place to spend an evening with his friends,
without falling into the beastly habit of common saloons. Come in a few
minutes and rest yourselves, and then let's take a stroll somewhere
else."
So saying, he opened the frail door. Again that bewildering world
within was seen. Poor, weak Will! He had stopped, just stopped and
listened and looked in a moment. That was all. What possible harm could
there be in that? Harm enough. He "was constrained" and "went in," and
came out at midnight—"intoxicated," for the first time in his life.
Three persons were once walking together one evening, and when they
came near a certain house, two of them urged the third to go in with
them. I do not know if there was one picture, or any kind of music, or
any other such thing to attract him; but he went in. Think you they
played cards or billiards together, or drank beer, or whiskey, or any
strong drink, or used any low slang words, or told any disgusting
stories, or took God's name in vain, or came out with red faces and
blood-shot eyes, and staggered through the streets, carousing as they
went?
Yet they sat and dined together, and talked most warmly till their
"hearts burned," yes, and they were all "intoxicated" when they
separated that night—not like Will with maddening whiskey, but with
"love," intoxicated with love to God, and everybody, and each other,—a
love that caused one of those three to lay down his life—to die on the
cross—to wash away with his own blood the sins even of drunkards and
drunkard makers; a love that caused the other two to go here and there,
telling the story of redeeming love.
"He went in." Ah, yes one goes in, like Will; goes into some beautiful,
fascinating—Hell, to lose his own soul; another goes in, like Jesus at
Emmaus, into some plain cottage, or lost soul, to save that soul.
What if you were to just "never enter" a saloon, no matter what may
tempt you, but always be in the habit of going into God's house, or
wherever the Lord will go with you, and like those two disciples eat of
the bread which he may break and bless, and drink the water which he
will give from the fountain of life.
Well, what say you to that?
He says: "Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my
voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and sup with him, and
he with me."
I wonder if it will be said of you at the last day, "He went in;" I
mean, into glory.
══════════
[JESUS, LOVER OF MY SOUL]
THOU, O Christ, art all I want;
More than all in thee I find:
Raise the fallen, cheer the faint,
Heal the sick, and lead the blind:
[Illustration]
Just and holy is thy name,
I am all unrighteousness;
Vile and full of sin I am,
Thou art full of truth and grace.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A THANKSGIVING SHOWER.
THE boys and girls of No. 42. talked about it all one day, during
recess.
"She's real sick," said one.
"Who is?" asked another.
"Why, Gertie; and she doesn't think she's ever going to be any better.
She looks awful! I saw her yesterday: I peeked in at the window and
talked to her. She is real lonesome in that ugly, dark room. They're
awful poor!"
"I know it!" said Alice Burns. "Her mother used to work in the factory,
until she got rheumatism, and couldn't; and now her father is out of
work, and they 'most starve, some days."
"Where do they live?"
"Why, in Lewis's basement,—a horrid, old, dark, ugly place! I've peeked
through the window now and then, and talked to Gertie, and I never saw
such an ugly, black hole of a room as it is. I should think she would
die, lying there."
The talk lasted for two or three days. The scholars could not forget
Gertie; she had been one of the best readers in the class, and was a
favorite. At last a bright idea came to one of them. I don't know which
began it; they all chimed in so fast, that we could never find out
which first said, "Let's give her a thanksgiving!"
It was within a week of the annual Thanksgiving Day, and I presume the
remark that one of the boys made, that "he" did not see what Gertie
had to be thankful for, suggested it. You never saw anything like the
way in which it grew! Every boy and girl in that school had something
they were ready to give, to help Gertie be thankful. At first it was
only flowers; but when one girl said she couldn't eat flowers, and was
often hungry, and another said she couldn't sleep on them, and had an
awful hard bed, and another said she couldn't wear them, and hadn't
clothes enough to keep her warm, the flowers grew into sacks of flour,
and bags of potatoes, and chickens, and comfortables, and blankets,
and a woollen wrapper, and ever so many other things. Of course the
mothers helped; mothers are almost always willing to help sweet, bright
thoughts that their children have.
Well, the next question was, how to get the gifts to her. Every boy and
girl wanted to go and see her, and take his and her offering; but frail
little Gertie was too weak for that; so they finally thought out the
queerest plan. All the light, soft presents that could stand a bumping,
and not make much noise, they resolved upon throwing down that basement
window, one after another, as softly and quietly as it could be done!
And the rest of the things? Oh, that is the nice part of the story! It
was Celia Winters who said,—
"After all, girls, what good will the nice things do her, if she has to
live in that dark old basement?"
"Yes, and if her father doesn't get some work to do?" chimed in Charlie
Webster. He always agreed with Celia.
After that, the two had their heads together, talking a good deal,
and no one could find out what they were going to throw down at
Gertie, until at last they owned that, besides flowers from their own
greenhouses, they were not going to give her anything but two pieces of
paper!
But the papers! Celia's read that a cunning little house on Simmons
street, with three rooms and a kitchen, had been rented for a year, and
the Winters' carriage would be all ready to take her to her new home on
Thanksgiving morning. (I forgot to say that it had been planned to give
the shower the day before Thanksgiving, so that Gertie could have the
whole of that day in which to be thankful.)
Charlie's paper was for Gertie to give to her father; it contained an
invitation from his father to be foreman of a machine shop, at good
wages, which were to commence on Thanksgiving morning; and pasted in a
corner of the paper, folded down and bearing Gertie's name, was a gold
dollar of Charlie's own.
What fun they had, those boys and girls! They talked it over
afterwards, trying to decide whether they didn't have even a better
time than Gertie. It was so nice to go softly to that basement window,
one by one, and drop down a bundle right before Gertie's amazed eyes.
At first they sent flowers, white ones, and they nearly spoiled the
silence by a shout when they heard Gertie say,—
"Why, mother, it snows, right in here!" And then in the next breath,
"Oh, mother, it snows 'flowers!'"
"Let it snow wool now!" said Rob Holden, and he popped down a great
blanket at Gertie's feet.
It took a long time, and was the funniest frolic the young people ever
had. Of course, it would have been much easier to have sent the things
all to the nice new house, the rent of which Celia's mother had paid,
and which the seventy other mothers had furnished; but then it wouldn't
have been near so funny.
There is no use in my trying to tell you what Gertie and her mother
said or did that afternoon. They were too astonished to do much besides
look at one another and laugh; and as the great, soft, comfortable
bundles kept dropping down, they looked at each other and cried. No, of
course you can't see what there was to cry about; but if you had had
such a hard time to get enough to eat and wear as this family had, you
might have cried for joy.
But what could they do or say when Celia's and Charlie's papers dropped
down on them, and were read and understood? Dear little Gertie! Let me
tell you what she said. She clasped her two thin hands together, and
looked up, not at the basement window, but above it, and murmured, "I
think we must all have died, and gone to heaven!"
There ought to be a picture of that cunning little house into which
they moved next day, to show you; everything that a neat little family
of three could need, the seventy mothers—helped much by the seventy
fathers—had put into it. Oh, I think you would like a picture of the
handsome carriage and horses and coachman who came for Gertie on
Thanksgiving morning, and took her to the little new house; or maybe
a picture of the dray that followed her, piled high with the things
that were showered down the window the night before; or maybe a picture
of Gertie, in an easy-chair in front of the stove, in their bit of a
dining-room, with a carpet on the floor, she with her feet on soft
cushions, and soft cushions at her back, and a soft, bright shawl
around her, eating a bit of Thanksgiving turkey.
Ah, I know you would like a picture of all the scholars of Room 42 who
set this ball a rolling; but there were over seventy of them, and how
could I show you their photographs? You must just imagine it all.
══════════
THE OTHER SINGER.
NO bracelets, nor necklaces had she; no white silk dress had she ever
seen, and a common white muslin, even, she had never worn; she was
barefooted, and though the morning was warm, she had wrapped an old
shawl around her to hide the holes in her dress. A neat little girl
was Mandy, or at least she would have been, if she had known how; she
always washed her feet in the fast-running gutter puddles, after a hard
rain, just because she liked to see them look clean; but she had no
needle and thread at home, nor patches; and her work among the barrels,
picking for rags, was not the cleanest in the world.
Yet on this afternoon, the very afternoon in which Miss Cecilia was
getting ready for the concert, and frowning over her white silk,
because the trail did not hang quite as she liked, did this little
girl, Mandy give a concert. Her audience was an organ-grinder who
stopped to rest a bit,—an old woman who was going by with a baby, and a
little boy with a load of chips. The words she sang were:
"There is a fountain filled with blood,
Drawn from Immanuel's veins."
And the chorus repeated as many times as did Miss Cecilia's. "I've been
redeemed, I've been redeemed, I've been redeemed;" don't know "how"
many times over; but what different words from Miss Cecilia's!
"Where did you get that?" asked the organ-grinder.
"What?" said Mandy, startled, and turning quickly.
"'That;' that you're singing."
"Oh, I got it to Sunday-school." And she rolled out the wonderful news,
"I've been redeemed, I've been redeemed; been washed in the blood of
the Lamb."
"I don't s'pose you understand what you're singing about?" said the
organ-grinder.
[Illustration]
"Don't I, though," said Mandy, with an emphatic little nod of her head.
"I know all about it, and it's all true. I belong to Him; he is going
to make me clean inside, and dress me in white some day, to stay with
him forever and ever. 'I've been redeemed, I've been redeemed,—been
washed in the blood of the Lamb.'"
Away down the street, as far as the organ-grinder could hear, as he
trudged on, there came back to him the faint sound of that chorus,
"I've been redeemed."
Nobody threw bouquets to Mandy; nobody said she had a sweet voice.
But the organ-grinder kept saying the words over and over to himself;
they were not new words to him. Years ago, his old mother used to sing
those first ones, "There is a fountain." He had never heard the chorus
before, but he knew it fitted; he knew all about it; his mother had
taught him; and away back, when he was a little boy, a minister had
said to him once, "My boy, you must be sure to find the fountain and
get washed."
He never had. He was almost an old man; and it was years since he had
thought about it; but Mandy's song brought it all back. Was that the
end of it? Oh, no. The organ-grinder kept thinking, and thinking, and
"thinking," until by-and-by, he resolved to do. He sought the fountain,
and found it, and now, if he knew the tune, could sing, "I've been
redeemed." Many a time he says the words over and over.
Is "that" the end? Oh dear, no. It will never end.
When Mandy and the organ-grinder stand up yonder, and she hears all
about the song that she sung as she picked over rags, it will not, even
then, be the end. Nothing ever ends.
NAILS.
BY REV. C. M. LIVINGSTON.
THEY drove nails through his hands, those very hands that had been
so tenderly laid upon the heads of little children and left them a
blessing; those dear hands that broke the bread which he had made for
the thousand hungry people; those gentle hands that touched and opened
the blind man's eyes; hands that were always spread in blessing upon
some one.
Just think how much hard work those loving hands had done, and all
for others. They never had been idle. They never had stolen one penny
from any one; never had hurled a stone at any one, though bad people
were often catching up stones to throw at him. They never had struck
any one, though he was so tormented and insulted; and once shamefully
struck in the face. Blessed, patient hands, yet there were people
wicked enough to drive iron spikes through them.
What if they had been your own mother's hands, after she had carried
you about so long, and fed you when you could not feed yourself; had
done for you what a mother only can do for a helpless child; and her
hands were "so" weary, and she was trying to get a little rest; then,
what if a band of rough soldiers had come and seized her and put
hand-cuffs upon her, and led her away to prison, and condemned her to
die, and driven nails through the same hands that had given them bread
to eat when they came to her door almost starved to death! But they
nailed Jesus to a tree, and let him hang there till he suffered, and
groaned, and died. No one pitied him, and took him down, and bound up
the wounds.
They drove nails through his feet also. And what had those feet done to
deserve such treatment? Had they carried him into a house to rob and
kill? "The feet of the wicked are swift to shed innocent blood."
Not long ago, a man walked right up behind his neighbor, and shot him
dead, because he hated him. Think you the feet of Jesus ever carried
him on such an errand? Think you he ever trod upon a worm if he could
help it? Why, he was walking about day and night, over the rough
country of Judea, hunting up the sick and those in trouble, to comfort
them. Yet they nailed his weary feet to the tree just as they had
nailed his hands.
What if it had been said that Mary, who once bathed his feet with
tears, and wiped them with her hair, and kissed them again and again;
that this very Mary treated him like the others, striking him in the
face and spitting upon him! Ah, you couldn't have believed it of her!
She loved him too greatly for the wonderful love and mercy of Jesus
to her. Ah, what great difference there was among the people in those
times! Some loving the Redeemer so tenderly they were ready to die for
him; while others could most cruelly put him to death on the cross.
And did you never think what one thing makes some people so cruel,
whether they have ever so handsome a face, or ever so much money,
or high a place in the world? What makes some fathers so cruel to
their families, sometimes swearing fiercely at the little children,
or striking the sick mother; sometimes even killing them all, and
themselves too? May be you would hardly believe it if I should tell you
what happened only a little way from here, some months ago; but dear
me, you have only to read the papers to find just such things going on
daily.
I hope you love the blessed Redeemer too tenderly ever to drive one
painful nail into him. Know what I mean?
══════════
[Illustration]
THE SPARROW IN THE SNOW.
HE hopped down cheerily into the snow,
Brave little barefoot Brownie—
As if snow were the warmest thing below
And as cosy as it is downy!