their father, good fat old Mr. Poser, who kept the small shop where the
cross-roads met, said, "'Tain't in natur' to know which is the other,
unless you see 'em a-workin'."
And this is the way they worked—these three little M's. "Two," I should
say, for alas! one of these dear little girls was never a worker at
all. Although Matilda, the eldest, skipped around the small shop, busy
as a bee, helping father every day, and Martha, the next one, minded
the house, little Mary, the youngest of the bunch, let them work alone
while she tried to have a good time in her own naughty little way. For
she didn't believe in making life beautiful in the way God has intended
for all children as well as great folks, by cheerful, faithful labor,
that makes play-time when it comes just twice as jolly because earned.
Not she! She wanted high holiday "all" the time, and so she made her
father very unhappy, and the tears to trail down from the little
sister's big brown eyes very often, all because she "would" have her
own way, and spend every day in running and racing here, there, and
everywhere, for something new to look at.
Was she happy? Can a little child be, who turns her back on duty? And
didn't she ever stop that bad, bad habit? Well, we'll see. Stay! I'll
whisper it to you beforehand—my answer. Yes, she "did" stop, and all
because of—and here's my story!
"Oh, dear, dear, 'dear!'"
Fat Mr. Poser sat right down on the cover of a butter-tub, although
it was the busiest day in the week—Saturday—and just wrung his hands,
which were like two small pincushions.
"What's the matter, pa?" cried Matilda, taking, by a violent effort,
her eyes from off the jar of pink and white peppermint sticks. "Oh,
what 'is' the matter?" And she ran over to his side.
But the fat shop-keeper only groaned, and unclasped the two pincushions
enough to disclose in their centre a bright silver quarter of a dollar.
"'There!'" at last he said.
"Oh, my!" exclaimed Matilda, her eyes as big as good-sized cups;
"that's Mrs. Smith's change."
"I know it," said Mr. Poser. Then he groaned again; and getting up from
the butter-tub, he waddled to the door.
[Illustration: "OH, DEAR, DEAR!"]
"'Ma-a-ry!'" he called, as loud as he could scream.
A small blue gown, and a little red hood, that were flying past, came
to a full stop.
"Now you trot right straight off to Mrs. Smith's house in Crow Hollow
as fast as you can trot, an' tell her she left this quarter, after
buying that chopping-bowl this morning."
At that, there came such a whine from the little red hood, that
Mr. Poser cried sternly, "You might as well stretch your legs for
somethin'. Start now, an' don't you stop anywheres! 'Mind!'"
The whine ceased suddenly, as the blue gown and little red hood took
themselves slowly out of the big gate. For the first half-mile or more,
Mary went on quite steadily. Then she began to sigh—a sigh that soon
broke out into a dismal cry—a cry that only half made itself heard, for
the very good reason that Mary stopped to wink her eyes so violently,
she had no time to attend to anything else.
"Why—why—ee!" she cried to herself and the birds. "'Folks have moved
into the dungeon!'"
The "dungeon" was an old rambling stone mansion down on the edge of
the wood, unoccupied since the old squire had died, and given up to
the crows and the bats. Mary grasped her silver quarter tightly in her
little fist, while her two naughty feet began to carry her up to the
big green door.
"I'll take 'one' look," she whispered to her conscience; "only 'one;'
then I'll run all the faster to Mrs. Smith's."
But that "one look" showed her a pair of cunning little rabbits just
inside the barn-door, nibbling a cabbage-leaf.
"I wish 'I' had rabbits," she said, wistfully gazing at them. "I'm
going to ask the folks in there to let me play with 'em sometime. Maybe
there's a girl as big as me lives here. I mean to see."
So Mary stepped up a steep flight of short stairs leading into the
house, and was just going in, when a big black dog running suddenly
out, met her at the top, and coming to a full stop, showed all his
teeth and gave "such" a bark, that the little girl turned around in a
twinkling, and began to scuttle down the stairs with all her might.
The dog came tumbling after, barking violently at every step.
Frightened almost to death, Mary flew along the barn floor, out into a
dirty little court-yard, and, just in time to keep the little blue gown
from a sharp snip of the white, gleaming teeth, she plunged against a
door that stood conveniently open, threw herself on its other side,
slammed it to, and tumbled down in a small heap on a pile of potatoes,
to draw a long breath.
[Illustration: A PRISONER IN THE CORN-CHAMBER.]
It was a little room, all filled with corn piled up in small bins with
heaps of cobs thrown down just where children's busy fingers had been
shelling; bags of meal fresh from the mill, and everywhere else that
anything could be stowed, were heaps and heaps of potatoes. All this
while the dog was howling away smartly outside.
"Hum—hum—'hum!'" said Mary, trying to catch her breath. "Oh, me, ain't
I tired, though! Now when that dog goes away, I'll go right straight
off to Mrs. Smith's. I don't want to see any more of these folks. 'Why!
Where's—my—quarter!'"
For her fat little palm was empty.
Just then a loud voice struck up, outside the old door:
"Come off, Bose! 'Sharp,' sir."
"Er-r-'oof!'" Patter, patter, patter, went the dog's feet, as he
unwillingly obeyed, leaving Mary to wriggle in delight at her escape.
"Now, then," she was just going to say, when, "click—'snap!'" went the
key in the lock, and before she quite knew it, she was fast a prisoner
in the old corn-chamber.
TO BE CONTINUED.
————————————
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS.
"FIZZ! Sizzle!" said the mixture in the big pot on the stove. Miss
Penelope stirred it, looking meantime so grim that it might almost have
soured the mixture, whatever it was.
The kitchen was in after-dinner order; the stove shone brightly—the
only bright thing to be seen, for the sun could not look in, and
furniture was very scarce.
Suddenly the door opened, and a rush of cold air came in, with a few
flakes of snow, and a pretty girl, in a green flannel suit, with a
green velvet hat to match.
"Did you say come?" she asked in a cheery voice. "The wind blows so I
couldn't tell. Miss Penelope, mamma wants to know if I may come and
stay twenty-four hours with you? She was called away very suddenly, and
she didn't know what to do with me."
[Illustration: "DID YOU SAY COME?"]
"'Well,'" said Miss Penelope, after standing up straight, and looking
at her visitor in amazed silence for a minute, "I should think you
'had' come!"
The pretty girl laughed a silvery laugh. "That is true," she said,
stepping in, and closing the heavy door. "Mamma didn't know what else
to do; she was in 'such' a flurry. The telegram never came until about
an hour before the last train; it was from my uncle in the city. Mamma
doesn't know him very much, and I never saw him in my life; but it
seems he is 'very' sick, and wants to see mamma. She thought she ought
to go, but of course she couldn't take me, and she said she knew you
would take care of me until the four o'clock train to-morrow, when she
would come back: she didn't like to trust me anywhere else. So I have
my brush and comb, and all my night things in this bag."
"Humph!" said Miss Penelope. "Sit down, and take off your things."
Her face was, if possible, grimmer than before. If there was any one
thing that she disliked more than flies, and dogs, and tramps, it
was visitors. She never had them if she could possibly help it. The
green-dressed maiden's mother, who had known her all her life, and took
more liberties with her than anybody else, never ventured to come to
tea; yet here she had sent her daughter to stay twenty-four hours.
"Whatever shall I do with her, or say to her?" said Miss Penelope,
dashing around her kitchen like a great frightened fly.
But the first thing to do was to get her some supper, as the
old-fashioned clock in the corner said "almost five o'clock." Miss
Penelope never was known to have supper one minute after five o'clock.
The new-comer, whose name was Helena, did not seem uncomfortable in
the least. She hung up her own hat and sack, then hovered around Miss
Penelope.
"Let me set the table, please," she said eagerly; "I always do for
mamma. It will seem so funny to eat supper without her."
She did not wait for permission, but helped herself to two
old-fashioned blue and white plates, two cups and saucers, and the
quaint little sugar-bowl, exclaiming as she did so over the pretty
pictures on them.
Miss Penelope seemed too much astonished to speak. When had her table
ever been set "for" her before! In fact, she could not remember the
time. But she could remember the time when it was always set for two.
Not very long ago, her old mother sat at the foot of the table.
It was in the evening, when the kitchen was trim and proper again, and
the old-fashioned lamp was lighted, and Miss Penelope sewed on a "very"
dark calico apron, large enough to cover her all up, that Helena said:
"I brought my Bible among my night things; shall I get it and read my
verses aloud, as I do to mamma?"
What could Miss Penelope do but give a sort of grunt for assent; of
course, being a decent woman, she couldn't very well refuse to have a
chapter in the Bible read to her, though the old mother had been the
only one who had ever done it.
So the clear voice of the young reader commenced: "And there came a
leper to him, beseeching him, and kneeling down to him, and saying
unto him: If thou wilt thou canst make me clean. And Jesus, moved with
compassion, put forth his hand, and touched him, and saith unto him,
I will, be thou clean. And as soon as he had spoken, immediately the
leprosy departed from him, and he was cleansed."
"Only think how quick!" said Helena, looking up with shining eyes.
"Just for the 'asking!' Oh, Miss Penelope, don't you wish Jesus was
on earth now? Then uncle might have asked Him to make 'him' well, and
mamma need not have gone away; but that is silly, I know; He can hear
us just as well, and do just as much for us; only the trouble people
is, people won't 'ask.' Uncle never asks Him for anything, mamma says.
It sometimes seems to me if such people could 'see' Him they would ask
Him for what they need: but I don't suppose they would. Mamma says
they would be like those people who wanted Him to go away out of their
country and not bother them."
Then she went on with her reading.
Miss Penelope did not hear much more. Her heart went back to the day
when her old mother had read her that very story, and how she told of
the time when "she" asked Him for healing, and he gave t; and then the
tired old voice would say: "Oh, Penelope, my girl, I wish you would go
to Him!" Penelope never had.
The next day passed busily to Helena. A telegram came for her. She was
to be put on the four-thirty train, and go to the city; mamma would
meet her at the depot.
Helena never came back to the little village. The old uncle died—not
then, nor the next day, nor the next, but after weeks of pain.
[Illustration]
He left all his money to Helena's mother, and the little bit of a
cottage home where she and her daughter used to live, was broken up,
and they lived in the grand city home. Helena never saw Miss Penelope
again; for, strange to say, before the uncle died, God called for the
lonely old woman. So Helena doesn't know yet, but some day when she
goes to heaven she will—for there will be a bright star in her crown,
and when she inquires for whom it shines, she will learn in great
astonishment that it stands for the soul of Miss Penelope, who was led,
through those simple, earnest words of hers, and through the words read
to her from the Bible that was among her "night things," to go herself
and "ask Jesus."
————————————
P. S.
NOW, what does that stand for? Not "Postscript," because every one is
to be told the first thing. So all you bright Pansies, now listen!
"P. S." forever and forever, and then again forever after this stands
for—
"PANSY SOCIETY!"
And it is to be all our own? Yes, indeed! And we are to have all the
say about it too? Yes, indeed! again.
Now, then, "who will join? What shall be our motto? What shall we do?
How shall we do it? Where shall we meet? When shall we meet? What will
come of it?"
Oh, wait—wait—wait! You fairly overwhelm me with questions. It is late,
and this paper should go to press. I can't answer now. Let me give just
a little hint.
In the first place, the name is the "PANSY SOCIETY." That's settled.
Then the motto comes, and that is "Pansies for Thoughts." What kind of
thoughts? Oh, sweet, good, pure, unselfish, helpful thoughts, such as
Pansies, beautiful Pansies, ought to inspire.
And we'll have a badge? Of course we will! Whoever heard of a society
without a badge. And ours will be the most beautiful in all the world.
That's settled, too. Just hear what it is going to be. The most
beautiful round locket of wood, on the face of which is a lovely pansy,
naturally colored. Above is the name, "PANSY SOCIETY," underneath the
motto, "Pansies for Thoughts." A perforation at the top holds the
ribbon to suspend the locket on the neck.
Now, "who may join?"
Every boy and girl who takes the PANSY, and is willing to promise to
try to overcome his or her faults, to encourage every good impulse, to
try to conquer some hard lesson at school, to do "anything" that shows
a disposition to help the cause of right in the world. Any one who will
say from the heart: "I promise to try each day to do some kind act, or
say some kind word that shall help somebody;" and honest effort will
be rewarded as much as if success were gained. Whoever will promise
this shall receive the badge "at once," on sending notice of such
determination to the editor.
This promise must be dated, and will be copied into the "P. S."
roll-book. Each child is invited to write to the editor how far the
trial has proved a success, how many temptations have been resisted,
how much progress in any direction has been made, etc., feeling sure of
encouragement and loving help.
And we will have some beautiful books of our own to read, which all the
"P. S." people can get for much less money than anybody else. We will
have local meetings. If any of you want to ask, "what in the world are
those?" Go to mother, or father, or big brother John. They will tell
you.
That is enough for now—excepting the most important of all—our whisper
motto: "I will do it for Jesus' sake."
"FOR JESUS' SAKE."
Whatever He will own, the "P. S." will be proud and glad to copy on its
roll-book.
And the PANSY will help. As it has always been glad to encourage those
who are struggling up toward the light, so now it reaches forth its
helping hand to those little ones who will rally bravely around it, to
the work of putting down the evil, and the support of all things good
and beautiful. That is all for now. Just a hint in a hurry; more next
month.
Meantime, how many names shall we receive? Send postal-card with name
to D. LOTHROP & CO., 32 Franklin St., Boston, Mass.
————————————
[Illustration: SARAH LAMBERT.]
SIDE BY SIDE.
[PART I.]
BEHOLD I WILL SEND MY MESSENGER, AND HE SHALL PREPARE THE WAY
BEFORE ME.
THE PEOPLE THAT WALKED IN DARKNESS HAVE SEEN A GREAT LIGHT.
I, EVEN I, AM HE THAT BLOTTETH OUT THY TRANSGRESSSIONS FOR MINE OWN
SAKE, AND WILL NOT REMEMBER THY SINS.
REMEMBER THE SABBATH DAY, TO KEEP IT HOLY.
SARAH LAMBERT lived with her mother in one room over Mr. Dunlap's
stable. The stairs leading up to it were narrow and steep and dark.
The room was dark when you reached it; only one window, with small,
old-fashioned panes of glass. The window was dirty, too, and trimmed
with cobwebs. There were two wooden-seated chairs, a poor bedstead, a
table of the old-fashioned kind, with one leaf gone, a cooking-stove
that smoked, of course, as all worn-out stoves do, and that stood on
three legs, its door hanging by one hinge.
In this room one winter morning, Sarah Lambert washed her face from
a tin basin, on a corner of one chair, snarled at her tangled hair a
few minutes with a broken comb, put on a pair of ragged stockings and
ragged shoes, and, over some very thin and old undergarments, a dark
brown calico dress, patched in three places, wound a piece of brown
and white plaid shawl about her, put on a gray felt hat without any
trimming, and without any breakfast stole out of the room.
Her mother was still sleeping, though the sun was high. She went to bed
the night before intending to sleep until she was ready to wake up; for
she knew that the next day would be Sunday. As for Sarah, she was going
to Sunday-school, whatever that meant; she had promised a lady the day
before that she would.
[Illustration: SIDE BY SIDE.]
Ethol Harrison lived with her father and mother and brothers and
sisters in the great stone house three squares away from Sarah
Lambert's. The room in which she slept late that Sunday morning had a
crimson carpet on the floor, and crimson curtains at the windows, and
costly and elegant furniture.
When Ethol had eaten a breakfast of broiled chicken, and toast, and
canned fruit, she was dressed by Hannah in a dark blue velvet suit
with hat to match, having a long white plume winding all about it, kid
gloves on her bits of hands, and kid boots on her bright stockinged
feet, lovely white furs, cape, and muff, to crown all, and she too went
to Sunday-school.
Behold, she and Sarah Lambert sat side by side in the bright room full
of people. Ethol smoothed down her new velvet dress, and buttoned her
glove, and tossed back her plume, and smiled and nodded to her friends,
and Sarah sat like a statue at her side and stared. She had never seen
such a light, bright, beautiful room as that in her life. Both of the
girls received cards with the words on them that are at the head of
this story. Both girls read them at once, for Sarah went to day-school
and knew how to read. They were new words to her. She was so astonished
over them, that she forgot her awe of Ethol and nudged at the blue
velvet sack nod whispered:
"What was it?"
"What was 'what?'"
"That great light; where was it—what did it show them?"
Then Ethol giggled.
"Miss Mason," she said, "this little girl wants to know what they saw
by the great light."
Miss Mason turned to Sarah, whose checks were now very red.
"Don't you know who the light is, dear?" she said gently.
"No," said Sarah, but she felt comforted. Miss Mason's voice made her
think of the music that she heard as she passed the church.
"It means Jesus, my child; you know the world was very dark until he
came."
"Wasn't there any sun to shine?" asked Sarah; and Ethol giggled again.
"Yes; but I don't mean that kind of darkness. I mean full of sin, and
sorrow, and trouble; and the people did not know the way out. While He
was here they used to bring sick people to him; those whom no doctor
could cure; and he would just touch them, or speak to them, and they
would be well at once."
"I don't believe it," said Sarah, promptly.
And Ethol said: "Oh-h! What a wicked girl!"
"That is what some of the people said who were looking on," Miss Mason
told her. "'They' wouldn't believe in the great light though Jesus gave
them so many reasons for believing. Open your Bibles, girls. Here is
one for you, Sarah. Let us read the story about the sick woman who was
cured of fever in an instant."
Sarah looked at the place pointed out to her, and listened, and read
when her turn came; she had never heard of such a thing in her life.
She asked a great many questions, and amused Ethol so much that she
almost forgot her new hat with its long plume.
"Where has he gone?" asked, Sarah, suddenly, interrupting Miss Mason in
the middle of a sentence. "Where has this great doctor gone to?"
Then Miss Mason tried to explain, that though he had gone back to
heaven, his spirit was here and could do just as great and wonderful
things as ever.
"He can't cure people in a minute now." said Sarah, positively; "'cause
Mr. Dunlap's Nettie was awful sick, and had doctors and doctors, and
she died. If this man could have cured her, Mr. Dunlap would have had
him, for he loved her just awful."
"Did you ever 'see' such a girl?" whispered Ethol to the little girl on
her left. "Why, she is a perfect heathen."
Well, the Sunday-school was over, and Sarah took her motto-card home
with her, and thought about the verses, and studied them, and read them
to her mother, and wondered over them, and wished a hundred times a day
that she could see Jesus just for a minute.
Ethol put her card in her pocket—crumpling it as she did so—and I don't
think she thought of it again until the next Sabbath morning.
Now I want, during the year 1882, to tell you a good deal about these
two girls who often sat side by side, and stood side by side, and
walked side by side, and yet were so different. You will see if you
keep watch of their lives, that the difference between them reached
beyond their clothes, and their homes, even into their hearts. But you
must wait until next month to hear more. The name of this story, each
month, will be, "Side by Side."
[Illustration]
"THE OTHER ONE."
"SOME folks has everything, and some folks has nothing."
This is precisely what the sour-faced little girl, Hannah Bancroft,
thought as she stood in the doorway and saw Helen's mother bend
over the bed and kiss her. Hannah was this favored Helen's little
nurse-girl, who had not yet been in the house twelve hours, and was
taking her first peep at Helen and Helen's room. She had never seen
such a beautiful room before in her life! Lovely carpet, that looked as
though somebody had been to the woods for mosses and ferns, and strewn
them all over the room. Lovely paper on the wall, that on the stormiest
winter days made the room look as though a golden sun was setting. Soft
couches and easy-chairs, and a mantel filled with many pretty things.
She thought of the one in which she had slept only two nights before;
no carpet on the floor, no mantel at all, no chairs, only a wooden one
with three legs, and part of the back broken off.
"I've something for my darling when she gets up," the mother said,
bending over Helen. "A nice surprise."
"Mamma, you always have nice surprises," said the little girl with a
low, happy laugh.
"This is the nicest one mamma has found in many a day," the mother said
and she began to make preparations for the little girl to get up.
"Lazy thing!" said Hannah to herself. "Lying there and letting her
mother hunt her shoes, and pick up her things. Why don't she bound out
and wait on herself? She is just horrid; I know she is."
[Illustration: "MAMMA, YOU ALWAYS HAVE NICE SURPRISES," SAID THE LITTLE
GIRL.]
"Now, darling," said the mother, and she bent over the bed again, and
to Hannah's great surprise lifted the slight little form in her arms
and carried her to an easy-chair. Then Hannah saw that the poor little
feet were much smaller than they ought to be, and that there was a
bandage around one of them.
"Didn't you know that you were to be feet for my little girl?" Mrs.
Stevens said, speaking to Hannah, an she saw her startled face.
"Can't she walk at all?" was her dismayed answer.
"Not now," the mother said, gently; "she is going to some day, we hope.
You may come in now."
"Mamma," she said, "I can go visiting now whenever I want to, can't I?"
And that happy little laugh gurgled out; then almost in the same breath
she said: "Mamma, what about the other one?"
"I don't know about that yet," the mother said. "I will leave you to
plan for it."
"The other one," muttered Hannah. "What can she want of two?" The
sullen look had come back.
"Don't you think my new carriage is lovely?" Helen ventured this to the
gloomy-faced little girl.
"Yes 'm," said Hannah absently; "yes 'm, I s'pose so."
"But you don't think you would like it as well as walking?"—this with
the least bit of a sigh. "I like it very much, though; it is such a
rest to me. I haven't walked a step in two years."
She expected to see the gloomy face change into one of surprise and
pity; but Hannah said, speaking almost fiercely: "I know a boy who
hasn't walked a step in five years."
"Oh dear me!" There was instant sympathy in Helen's voice. "Who is he?
What is the matter with him? How old is he?"
"He's my brother," said Hannah in a gentler tone. "He is most twelve
years old, but he is so little and weak, you wouldn't think he was six.
I can carry him just as easy! He had a very had fall when he was seven,
and he won't never walk again."