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THE PANSY
EDITED BY "PANSY" MRS. G. R. ALDEN
D·LOTHROP & Co. BOSTON, MASS., U.S.A.
Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO., and entered at the Boston P. O.
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_Volume 13, Number 14._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_Feb. 6, 1886._
THE PANSY.
[Illustration: MAY VINTON WAITING FOR HER PONY PHAETON.]
HELD BACK.
SHE made a pretty picture standing there on the veranda waiting for
the carriage to come around. It was the last time she would ever stand
there looking so fresh and fair in the morning light. This is a sad
story, yet it has its bright side, so I hope you will not turn away
from it without gathering up some of the sweetness that is shed as a
perfume from May Vinton's daily life.
May was an only, a much-petted, and some people said, a spoiled child.
However, this last was a mistake. What might have been, had not her
Heavenly Father interfered, we cannot tell. A friend of Mr. Vinton
who was spending a few days with the family was interested in the
management of a theatre, and this gentleman had been studying this
fair young daughter of his host and had discovered what others among
her friends already knew, that she was a girl of unusual talent, and
he fancied that if she were educated for the stage she would, as he
expressed it, "create a sensation." He had proposed to Mr. Vinton to
take May home with him and educate her for his favorite profession. He
had pictured to the young girl the pleasures of such a life, dwelling
upon the sweetness of the world's praises which she was sure to win.
It would have been no wonder if May's head had been turned by all the
flattery and promises of a brilliant future. Mr. Vinton had given his
consent to the proposal of his friend, but May hesitated.
May Vinton was the only Christian in that household; while at
boarding-school she had been led to give her heart to the Saviour, and
now that she was at home again she had found it not quite easy to keep
herself unspotted from the world. Mr. Vinton had not openly opposed her
in what he termed her "fanaticism," but now that her religion was in
the way of what was becoming his ambition for her, there was likely to
be trouble. And the perplexity into which May was thrown showed itself
in her face that morning. There was just a slight shadow in her brown
eyes as she waited for her pony phaeton to come around to the steps.
She had come from her room with this prayer on her lips: "Dear Father,
help me to decide rightly. I am so ignorant and so foolish that I
cannot tell what is right. Canst thou not settle this question for me?
Shut up every path but the right one, I pray thee."
How speedily God sometimes answers our prayers!
It was the common story of a runaway horse, a carriage thrown over a
steep embankment. And May Vinton, helpless and limp, was carried home,
not dead, but to hear the verdict of the physicians who were hastily
summoned, "She may live for years, but she will never walk again."
The father groaned when he heard it, but to May even in that first hour
of the terrible knowledge there came a swift flashing thought "The
question is settled!"
This was twenty years ago. During those first months of suffering, May
Vinton's faith sometimes grew faint and she prayed that she might die;
her life seemed useless; all its joy and brightness gone out. Her faith
looked forward to the mansion prepared for her, but it did not light
up the present, at least not for a long time. There came at length out
of the suffering a sweet peace that almost glorified the face, which
was a little thinner and paler than of old, but now clothed with a new
beauty. There came too a tender patience that won and held the hearts
of all with a firmer grasp than ever before.
Gradually the hearts of her father and mother were won from the world
and centred upon Christ, and as one and another of those who came in
daily contact with the patient invalid were led into a knowledge of
the truth, May began to realize that her life need not be a useless
one, and she began to interest herself in matters outside her own
home. I cannot tell you of all the schemes for work which she has
on foot. The Mission Band meet in her room once a month. I ought to
tell you about that room. When it became evident that she would spend
the greater part of her life in a reclining chair, only varying the
monotony by being lifted from chair to couch or bed, Mr. Vinton fitted
up what had been the front parlor with a smaller room once used as a
library, for her use. "We can use a back room for a parlor," he said,
"but May must have as good an outlook as we can give her." Excepting
the invalid herself in her chair there is no sign of invalidism in
that large room, but as a young girl said the other day, "It is just
as pretty as it can be!" There are long mirrors on every side, there
is a piano, softest of carpets and easiest of chairs--a few; in that
little storeroom at one side are dozens of folding chairs which can be
brought out when the visitors are many, and this is very frequently.
Once a month the Mission Band, every week the Children's meeting, every
Sabbath afternoon a class of young men. Then there is a young ladies'
meeting--I think I must take another time to tell you of some of these
gatherings. Sometimes Miss Vinton is too ill to meet with the young
people, but the room is always ready for them and a bright young girl
who is her companion takes the place of hostess.
"It must be very hard for you to be shut in so much with an invalid,"
said an acquaintance to this girl.
"O, I am not shut in! Miss Vinton has so many errands to be attended to
that I go out a great deal."
"Yes; but after all, an invalid is poor company for a young girl."
"Not such an invalid as ours! Why, Miss Vinton is the cheeriest person
in the house. She keeps us all in good spirits and she has company
almost constantly. I assure you we are not moping at our house."
Once when some one spoke of her wrecked life May said, "O, no, my life
is not wrecked! I came near making a failure of it, but my Father in
heaven reached out and held me back."
WILMOT CONDEE.
THE LAST OPPORTUNITY.
"FOR many years I have made it a rule never to spend a half-hour with
any person without finding out if that person was a Christian, and if
not, trying to preach Christ to him."
This in substance is what the minister said in the little church at the
quiet summer resort by the river side, where Edith Manton was staying.
"For," continued the speaker, "it may be my last opportunity to speak
for Christ, or it may be some one's last chance of hearing the truth."
Edith was thinking of these words that morning when she went out in
Jerry's boat after lilies. Jerry knew where the flowers were thickest
and fairest, and too he was counted as the best oarsman on the river.
Edith often went out with Jerry, and that morning she was thinking, "I
have had more than _one_ opportunity to present Christ to Jerry. But
I do not even know whether or not he belongs to Christ. If I had only
spoken to him before! I don't know how to begin now." Presently she
began singing,
Pull for the shore, sailor, pull for the shore.
Jerry listened and when she ended he said:
"That's a good one, Miss."
"Yes; but, Jerry, are _you_ pulling for the other shore?"
"Well, I don't know much about them things," replied Jerry. "Reckon as
how when one has no oars to pull with he must just drift. And maybe he
will drift to the shore, and maybe he won't."
"But why shouldn't you have the oars?" asked Edith.
"Well, I s'pose it's like this; sometimes a boat gets loose and starts
off without oars, and then at other times the oars gets broken or lost
in the middle of the river. I never lost nor broke an oar in my life,
so I s'pose I must have started without any."
"And so you mean to keep on drifting?" asked Edith, growing interested.
"What can a fellow do? Out in the middle of the river without any oars?
He hasn't much chance of getting back to the wharf after them."
"But if the oars have been lying in the bottom of his boat all the
time? Wouldn't a man be foolish if he didn't pick them up and use them
when he found he was drifting down stream and making no progress toward
the other shore?"
"Humph! it ain't much likely that a fellow would let them oars lie
right afore his eyes and never touch them, is it, now?"
"That is what puzzles me," replied Edith. "You have only just to put
out the hand of faith and take hold of the oars of prayer and the word
of God and pull for the shore."
"My! Miss, I never thought of that! I've got a Bible that my old mother
gave me when I started out; and she taught me a prayer too. And I've
been letting them oars lie idle in the bottom of the old boat all these
years. D'ye s'pose they are as good and stout as ever? And would they
pull an old fellow like me into port?"
"I am sure they would. O, Jerry, I wish you would take hold of them and
pull!"
"I believe I will! I'll get out the old Bible to-night and I'll say
that little prayer; or if I can't remember that I'll whittle out a new
one. I promise you, Miss, I'll do it!"
The next morning, Edith was just starting out to walk down to the
river when a messenger came in haste: "O, Miss Manton! There's been an
accident, and Old Jerry is most killed! He wants you. You'll have to
come quickly, for they say he can't last long. He is out of his head
and keeps saying something about pulling for the shore. Folks say he
thinks he is out in a boat." This the boy said as they were hastening
to the wharf.
"How did it happen?" asked Edith.
"I don't rightly know. They were unloading a vessel at the wharf and
some way Jerry slipped and a heavy cask rolled over him. The doctor
says he can't live."
[Illustration: OUT IN JERRY'S BOAT.]
When they reached the place where Jerry was slowly breathing his life
away, some one said--"Jerry, Jerry, here is Miss Manton!"
Jerry opened his eyes and said faintly, "Sing that!"
And there, surrounded by a group of rough, though kindly men, Edith
sang:
Light in the darkness, sailor, day is at hand,
See o'er the foaming billows, fair haven's land,
Drear was the voyage, sailor, now almost o'er,
Safe within the life-boat, sailor, _pull for the shore_.
As she paused Jerry's lips moved, and bending low to hear, Edith caught
the whisper:
"I did it! I took the oars; I pulled for the shore. I guess I'll make
the harbor!"
A few more labored breaths and Jerry had, as we trust, "made the
harbor."
"What if I had not used that last opportunity?" said Edith to herself
as she walked back to her cottage.
FAYE HUNTINGTON.
SIX O'CLOCK IN THE EVENING.
OUR GOD WHOM WE SERVE IS ABLE TO DELIVER US FROM THE
BURNING FIERY FURNACE.
THOU ART WEIGHED IN THE BALANCES AND FOUND WANTING.
THEY PRAISED THE LORD, BECAUSE THE FOUNDATION OF THE
HOUSE OF THE LORD WAS LAID.
GIVE US HELP FROM TROUBLE: FOR VAIN IS THE HELP OF MAN.
GRANDMA BURTON studied the verses in silence for a few minutes. "They
are all good," she said at last; "I know a story about each of them;
I've been trying to decide which to tell."
"It's the little chick's turn," Rollo said, good-naturedly, so the
"little chick" had it, and the first verse on the paper was taken.
"Yes," said Grandma, "I knew the boy very well indeed who believed
that, and lived by it; and he got his help too in the way that he least
expected; just as help is apt to come. He was a little fellow when
I was quite a young woman. We visited, my brother and I, at a house
which was only across the street from a famous boarding-school for
boys. There was one little fellow in that school whom I used to watch,
because he looked like my little brother at home; he seemed very small
to be in boarding-school. I wondered if he was homesick, and sometimes
cried himself to sleep as my brother did the first time he went to
uncle Daniel's alone on a visit.
[Illustration: AUNT HARRIET PEABODY.]
"Miss Harriet Peabody was the mistress of this house where I visited;
she was a maiden lady, the aunt of the boy and girl who were our
friends; a good kind woman, but a little prim in her ways. I remember
she never dressed quite in the fashion; her clothes were very nice, and
beautifully made, and cost a trifle more, if anything, than those of
her neighbors, but they were always made a little behind the styles,
as though she thought things which were a little out of fashion were
less wicked, some way, than others.
"The young folks of the neighborhood, and especially the boys of the
boarding-school, were inclined to make sport of her; this always made
me indignant, for I loved Miss Harriet. One evening we were seated in
the library, having the cosiest time; the boys had popped some corn,
and cracked nuts, and we had apples and cider; in those days an evening
wasn't really finished without a pitcher of cider; Miss Harriet sat by
the window, and said suddenly: 'Hark! what is that? didn't you hear a
child crying?'
"We listened, and said no, we heard nothing. Her nephew suggested dogs,
and doves, and owls, but Miss Harriet insisted that she heard a child.
"We were soon in the very merriest of our fun, and forgot all about the
noise; but it seems Miss Harriet didn't. I don't know just when she
slipped out, but just as Tom Peabody was flinging an apple paring over
his left shoulder, to see if he couldn't make the first letter of my
name, in walked Miss Harriet, dripping with rain and holding by the
hand a little frightened boy; and he was the very boy I had watched
from the window so often! He was wet to the skin, and shivering as
though he had an ague fit. We all jumped up, and gathered about asking
questions, but Miss Harriet waved us off. 'Not yet,' she said. 'The
poor fellow is wet and cold; Tom, take him up to the bath-room, and get
him some of Robbie's clothes and help him dress; then bring him down to
get some nuts and apples.'
"Tom went off to do her bidding, and the rest of us questioned her. 'I
don't know much about it, yet,' she said, 'but I mean to; there's been
some mean business going on, or I'm mistaken. I _knew_ I heard a child
crying; when I couldn't stand it any longer, I lighted the lantern
and went out to look around; I found the sobs came from our old coal
shed which hasn't been used in six months. I listened at the end door,
and I heard the little fellow sob out: "I know you are able to do it,
O, Lord, and if you _only would_!" Then I walked around to the other
door, and found it was fastened on the outside by a good-sized rope
slipped through the latch, and wound around the big nail. Of course I
unfastened it and walked in; and here was this little morsel crouched
in a corner, dripping with rain, as it pelted down on him from the
roof. He seemed dreadfully scared at seeing me, and began to protest
that he had done nothing wrong, and did not want to be hiding there;
but I told him to come in and get warm, and then we would talk about
it.'
"When the boy came down with dry clothes on, he looked less frightened
than before; and we established him in a big chair and gave him plenty
of nuts, and a glass of cider; I poured it out with my own hands; you
needn't look so shocked at Grandmother, Harold, I didn't know any
better in those days. He had a real pleasant evening, and Miss Harriet
invited him to stay all night, because it rained so hard, and sent her
black Toby over to the school to ask permission for him, and told him
she would make it all right in the morning. He seemed to be so glad to
think he had not to go back to the school, that we knew something must
be wrong; but it was not until he went up to bed with Robbie, that Tom
told us about it.
"'Those scamps over there,' said Tom, his eyes flashing, 'they deserve
a whipping, and I will help get it for them. There are half a dozen
great boys always in mischief of one sort or other. It seems they have
made a kind of slave of this little fellow; his mother is dead, and
he is the youngest boy in school; they have made him run errands, and
do all sorts of things for them; to-night they planned that he was to
go down to Jordon's and get them some nuts, and raisins, and cider,
and cake, and smuggle it into their rooms after hours, for them to
have what they call a 'spread.' And it seems the little chap had the
pluck to refuse to do it, because it was against the rules. They had
a stormy time, and finally they threatened to lock him up in a hole
where he would have to spend the night, and how much longer they could
not tell. It seems he is timid in the dark, and they knew it. He was
awfully afraid, he told me, "but then I couldn't do wrong, you know,"
he said, and his eyes were as blue as the sky, when he looked up in my
face. Well, the rascals blindfolded him, and led him around and around
the grounds, I presume, for he thought he walked a mile or more; then
thrust him into a dark hole, and fastened the door and left him. When
he pushed off the bandage from his eyes, no light was to be seen; he
had not the least idea where he was, but thought it was somewhere in
the woods, and he was dreadfully afraid, and cried aloud, he says, but
he was sure no one could hear him. Then he remembered about the fiery
furnace, and what the men said about God being able to deliver, and he
got down in the dark and prayed for deliverance; but he says he didn't
feel _sure_ it would come; he was only sure that God was able to do it
if he thought best. He hadn't an idea, when he saw aunt Harriet, that
she had come to answer his prayer. He knew her, and for some reason the
little chap was afraid of _her_. He thought that she had been told that
he had done something wrong.'
"'What horrid, awful boys!' I said. 'Do you suppose they were going to
leave him there all night?'
"'No,' Tom said, he didn't suppose they were; probably they were only
going to leave him long enough to get him thoroughly scared; but if he
was not much mistaken they were the scared ones this time. Toby, when
he went over to the boarding-house, saw two or three fellows skulking
around the coal house, and he walked boldly up to them and said: 'If
you are looking for Master Andrews, he is in Miss Peabody's library
eating nuts and apples;' Toby's a sharp fellow; he said the way they
scampered was worth a dollar.
"I suppose that evening's work was about the best thing that ever
happened to 'Master Andrews.' Miss Harriet all but adopted him; she
had him with her on Sundays, and holidays, and to spend the evening as
often as she could get up an excuse for his coming. He told me once,
with the great tears in his eyes, that she was the best friend a fellow
ever had in the world. 'And to think,' he said, 'that very morning of
the day she found me in her coal shed, I had joined in the laugh the
boys had over her because she walked so straight and looked like a
soldier! I tell you I never laughed at her again.'"
"What became of the boys who treated him so meanly? Were they expelled?"
"No; little Andrews plead for them, and got them forgiven; he said they
didn't mean to be ugly, only darkness and rain were nothing but fun to
them and they could not understand his dreadful fright. No, they really
grew to be better boys under his influence; and one Thanksgiving Day
Miss Harriet had them all to dinner, to please Andrews. One of them,
the tallest and handsomest, actually cried when he was telling me
about how frightened little Andrews was, and how sorry he felt for him
afterwards. He slipped out, unknown to the others, to let him out of
the coal shed; but it was too late; fortunately, Miss Harriet had found
him. Oh! he wasn't a very bad boy, only a thoughtless one; he grew to
be a splendid man; and young Andrews and he were friends as long as he
lived."
"Are they both dead?"
"Oh, no; Andrews died when he was a young man; he was a good noble
man, and died bravely because he wasn't afraid to run into danger to
help save a life; but the other one is down in the library reading his
paper, and I ought to go this minute and read it for him." Grandma
fumbled for her spectacles, and went off smiling.
"There!" said Rollo, "I had a feeling it was Grandpa, all the time.
Just think of Grandma calling him 'a horrid, awful boy!'"
PANSY.
POEM FOR RECITATION.
THE TWO GREAT CITIES.
SIDE by side the two great cities,
Afar on the traveller's sight.
One, black with the dust of labor,
One, solemnly still and white.
Apart, and yet together,
They are reached in a dying breath;
But a river flows between them,
And the river's name is--Death.
Apart, and yet together,
Together, and yet apart,
As the child may die at midnight,
On the mother's living heart.
So close come the two great cities,
With only the river between;
And the grass in the one is trampled,
But the grass in the other is green.
The hills with uncovered foreheads,
Like the disciples meet,
While ever the flowing water
Is washing their hallowed feet.
And out on the glassy ocean,
The sails in the golden gloom
Seem to me but the moving shadows
Of the white enmarbled tomb.
Anon from the hut and the palace,
Anon, from early till late,
They come, rich and poor, together,
Asking alms at the beautiful gate.
O silent city of refuge
On the way to the city o'erhead!
The gleam of thy marble milestones
Tells the distance we are from the dead.
Full of feet, but a city untrodden,
Full of hands, but a city unbuilt,
Full of strangers who know not even
That their life-cup lies there, spilt.
They know not the tomb from the palace,
They dream not they ever have died;
God be thanked, they _never will_ know it,
Till they live, on the other side!
SAMUEL MILLER HAGEMAN.
[Illustration: A TROUBLESOME LITTLE HELPER.]
_Volume 13, Number 15._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_Feb. 13, 1886._
THE PANSY.
[Illustration: FRED, THINKING ABOUT IT.]
THE ENGINE'S PUNISHMENT.
WE were driving along to town one day--
Papa and I, behind "Old Gray,"
And our little Fred was along beside,
Looking out o'er the fields, enjoying the ride.
I was sitting back reading, contented and calm,
While Fred had the whip held tight in his palm,
And was snapping it round at urchins and dogs,
And sometimes at only some old rotten logs.
We were crossing the track, when we heard such a shout
That all of us jumped, and looked quickly about,
When we saw the old flagman as frantic and wild
As a pea on a shovel that's hot; and his child
Screamed out "Stop, O, stop! here comes the train!"
Papa looked quickly out, then drew in the rein.
I shut my eyes tight, and held to the seat,
And I knew I could hear my frightened heart beat!
A rush and a roar, a sudden pull back,
A "toot! toot! toot! toot!" and a terrible crack;
And I heard papa say, "Cheer up, little maid,
For here we are, safe, so don't be afraid!"
"But what was that crack?" when I'd quite got my breath,
And all things around us were silent as death
(Except the low rumble of the distant train,
Which, when we were safe, had steamed off again).
"Why, Katy, 'twas me!" and Fred turned in his place,
"I whipped the old engine right in the face!
I guess he won't scare us again so, do you?
For I gave him a cut that just made him boo, hoo!"
Well, we laughed, and we laughed, till tears came in our eyes,
At how little Fred did the engine chastise,
Until over his face came a flush of bright red.
"You are right; he won't scare us again," papa said.
PARANETE.
REACHING OUT.
(_A further Account of Nettie Decker and her Friends._)
BY PANSY.
CHAPTER IV.
THAT was the way it came about that little Sate not only, but Susie and
Nettie, went to the flower party.
They had not expected to do any such thing. The little girls, who were
not used to going anywhere, had paid no attention to the announcements
on Sunday, and Nettie had heard as one with whom such things had
nothing in common. Her treatment in the Sabbath-school was not such as
to make her long for the companionship of the girls of her age, and by
this time she knew that her dress at the flower party would be sure
to command more attention than was pleasant; so she had planned as a
matter of course to stay away.
But the little old ladies in their caps and spectacles springing into
active life, put a new face on the matter. Certainly no more astonished
young person can be imagined than Nettie Decker was, the morning Miss
Sherrill called on her, the one daisy she had begged still carefully
preserved, and proposed her plan of partnership in the flower party.
"It will add ever so much to the fun," she explained, "besides bringing
you a nice little sum for your spending money."
Did Miss Sherrill have any idea how far that argument would reach just
now, Nettie wondered.
"We can dress the little girls in daisies," continued their teacher.
"Little Sate will look like a flower herself, with daisies wreathed
about her dress and hair."
"Little Sate will be afraid, I think," Nettie objected. "She is very
timid, and not used to seeing many people."
"But with Susie she will not mind, will she? Susie has assurance enough
to take her through anything. Oh, I wonder if little Sate would not
recite a verse about the daisy grandmothers? I have such a cunning one
for her. May I teach her, Mrs. Decker, and see if I can get her to
learn it?"
Mrs. Decker's consent was very easy to gain; indeed it had been freely
given in Mrs. Decker's heart before it was asked. For Miss Sherrill
had not been in the room five minutes before she had said: "Your son,
Norman, I believe his name is, has promised to help my brother with
the church flowers this evening. My brother says he is an excellent
helper; his eye is so true; they had quite a laugh together, last week.
It seems one of the wreaths was not hung plumb; your son and my brother
had an argument about it, and it was finally left as my brother had
placed it, but was out of line several inches. He was obliged to admit
that if he had followed Norman's direction it would have looked much
better." After that, it would have been hard for Miss Sherrill to have
asked a favor which Mrs. Decker would not grant if she could. _She_ saw
through it all; these people were in league with Nettie, to try to save
her boy. What wasn't she ready to do at their bidding!
There was but one thing about which she was positive. The little girls
could not go without Nettie; they talked it over in the evening, after
Miss Sherrill was gone. Nettie looked distressed. She liked to please
Miss Sherrill; she was willing to make many grandmothers; she would
help to put the little girls in as dainty attire as possible, but she
did _not_ want to go to the flower festival. She planned various ways;
Jerry would take them down, or Norm; perhaps even _he_ would go with
them; surely mother would be willing to have them go with Norm. Miss
Sherrill would look after them carefully, and they would come home at
eight o'clock; before they began to grow very sleepy.
But no, Mrs. Decker was resolved; she could not let them go unless
Nettie would go with them and bring them home. "I let one child run the
streets," she said with a heavy sigh, "and I have lived to most wish he
had died when he was a baby, before I did it; and I said then I would
never let another one go out of my sight as long as I had control; I
can't go; but I would just as soon they would be with you as with me;
and unless you go, they can't stir a step, and that's the whole of it."
Mrs. Decker was a very determined woman when she set out to be; and
Nettie looked the picture of dismay. It did not seem possible to her to
go to a flower party; and on the other hand it seemed really dreadful
to thwart Miss Sherrill. Jerry sat listening, saying little, but the
word he put in now and then, was on Mrs. Decker's side; he owned to
himself that he never so entirely approved of her as at that moment. He
wanted Nettie to go to the flower party.
"But I have nothing to wear?" said Nettie, blushing, and almost weeping.
"Nothing to wear!" repeated Mrs. Decker in honest astonishment. "Why,
what do you wear on Sundays, I should like to know? I'm sure you
look as neat and nice as any girl I ever saw, in your gingham. I was
watching you last Sunday and thinking how pretty it was."
"Yes; but, mother, they all wear white at such places; and I cut up my
white dress, you know, for the little girls; it was rather short for me
anyway; but I should feel queer in any other color."
"O, well," said Mrs. Decker in some irritation, "if they go to such
places to show their clothes, why, I suppose you must stay at home, if
you have none that you want to show. I thought, being it was a church,
it didn't matter, so you were neat and clean; but churches are like
everything else, it seems, places for show."
Jerry looked grave disapproval at Nettie, but she felt injured and
could have cried. Was it fair to accuse her of going to church to show
her clothes, or of being over-particular, when she went every Sunday in
a blue and white gingham such as no other girl in her class would wear
even to school? This was not church, it was a party. It was hard that
she must be blamed for pride, when she was only too glad to stay at
home from it.
"I can't go in my blue dress, and that is the whole of it," she said at
last, a good deal of decision in her voice.
"Very well," said Mrs Decker. "Then we'll say no more about it; as for
the little girls going without you, they sha'n't do it. When I set my
foot down, it's _down_."
Jerry instinctively looked down at her foot as she spoke. It was
a good-sized one, and looked as though it could set firmly on any
question on which it was put. His heart began to fail him; the flower
party and certain things which he hoped to accomplish thereby, were
fading. He took refuge with Mrs. Smith to hide his disappointment, and
also to learn wisdom about this matter of dress.
"Do clothes make such a very great difference to girls?" was his first
question.
"Difference?" said Mrs. Smith inquiringly, rubbing a little more flour
on her hands, and plunging them again into the sticky mass she was
kneading.
[Illustration: THE TWO BEAUTIES THAT SATE SAW.]
"Yes'm. They seem to think of clothes the first thing, when there is
any place to go to; boys aren't that way. I don't believe a boy knows
whether his coat ought to be brown or green. What makes the difference?"
Mrs. Smith laughed a little. "Well," she said reflectively, "there is a
difference, now that's a fact. I noticed it time and again when I was
living with Mrs. Jennison. Dick would go off with whatever he happened
to have on; and Florence was always in a flutter as to whether she
looked as well as the rest. I've heard folks say that it is the fault
of the mothers, because they make such a fuss over the girls' clothes,
and keep rigging them up in something bright, just to make 'em look
pretty, till they succeed in making them think there isn't anything
quite so important in life as what they wear on their backs. It's all
wrong, I believe. But then, Nettie ain't one of that kind. She hasn't
had any mother to perk her up and make her vain. I shouldn't think she
would be one to care about clothes much."
"She doesn't," said Jerry firmly. "I don't think she would care if
other folks didn't. The girls in her class act hatefully to her; they
don't speak, if they can help it. I suppose it's clothes; I don't know
what else; they are always rigged out like hollyhocks or tulips; they
make fun of her, I guess; and that isn't very pleasant."
"Is that the reason she won't go to the flower show next week?"
"Yes'm, that's the reason. All the girls are going to dress in white;
I suppose she thinks she will look queerly, and be talked about. But
I don't understand it. Seems to me if all the boys were going to wear
blue coats, and I knew it, I'd just as soon wear my gray one if gray
was respectable."
[Illustration: THEIR NEW HOME.--_See Moving Day._]
"She ought to have a white dress, now that's a fact," said Mrs. Smith
with energy, patting her brown loaf, and tucking it down into the tin
in a skilful way. "It isn't much for a girl like her to want; if her
father was the kind of man he ought to be, she might have a white
dress for best, as well as not; I've no patience with him."
"Her father hasn't drank a drop this week," said Jerry.
"Hasn't; well, I'm glad of it; but I'm thinking of what he has done,
and what he will go and do, as likely as not, next week; they might be
as forehanded as any folks I know of, if he was what he ought to be;
there isn't a better workman in the town. Well, you don't care much
about the flower party, I suppose?"
"I don't now," said Jerry, wearily. "When I thought the little girls
were going, I had a plan. Sate is such a little thing, she would be
sure to be half-asleep by eight o'clock; and I was going to coax Norm
to come for her, and we carry her home between us. Norm won't go to a
flower party, out and out; but he is good-natured, and was beginning
to think a great deal of Sate; then I thought Mr. Sherrill would speak
to him. The more we can get Norm to feeling he belongs in such places,
the less he will feel like belonging to the corner groceries, and the
streets."
"I see," said Mrs. Smith admiringly. "Well, I do say I didn't think
Nettie was the kind of girl to put a white dress between her chances of
helping folks. Sarah Ann thinks she's a real true Christian; but Satan
does seem to be into the clothes business from beginning to end."
"I don't suppose it is any easier for a Christian to be laughed at and
slighted, than it is for other people," said Jerry, inclined to resent
the idea that Nettie was not showing the right spirit; although in his
heart he was disappointed in her for caring so much about the color of
her dress.
"Well, I don't know about that," said Mrs. Smith, stopping in the act
of tucking her bread under the blankets, to look full at Jerry, "why,
they even made fun of the Lord Jesus Christ; dressed him up in purple,
like a king, and mocked at him! When it comes to remembering that, it
would seem as if any common Christian might be almost glad of a chance
to be made fun of, just to stand in the same lot with him."
This was a new thought to Jerry. He studied it for awhile in silence.
Now it so happened that neither Mrs. Smith nor Jerry remembered certain
facts; one was that Mrs. Smith's kitchen window was in a line with
Mrs. Decker's bedroom window, where Nettie had gone to sit while she
mended Norm's shirt; the other was that a gentle breeze was blowing,
which brought their words distinctly to Nettie's ears. At first she had
not noticed the talk, busy with her own thoughts; then she heard her
name, and paused needle in hand, to wonder what was being said about
her. Then, coming to her senses, she determined to leave the room; but
her mother, for convenience, had pushed her ironing table against the
bedroom door, and then had gone to the yard in search of chips; Nettie
was a prisoner; she tried to push the table by pushing against the
door, but the floor was uneven, and the table would not move; meantime
the conversation going on across the alleyway, came distinctly to her.
No use to cough, they were too much interested to hear her. By and by
she grew so interested as to forget that the words were not intended
for her to hear. There were more questions involved in this matter of
dress than she had thought about. Her cheeks began to burn a little
with the thought that her neighbor had been planning help for Norm,
which she was blocking because she had no white dress! This was an
astonishment! She had not known she was proud. In fact, she had thought
herself very humble, and worthy of commendation because she went
Sabbath after Sabbath to the school in the same blue and white dress,
not so fresh now by a great deal as when she first came home. When Mrs.
Smith reached the sentence which told of the Lord Jesus being robed in
purple, and crowned with thorns, and mocked, two great tears fell on
Norm's shirt sleeve.
It was a very gentle little girl who moved about the kitchen getting
early tea; Mrs. Decker glanced at her from time to time in a bewildered
way. The sort of girl with whom she was best acquainted would have
slammed things about a little; both because she had not clothes to wear
like other children, and because she had been blamed for not wanting to
do what was expected of her. But Nettie's face had no trace of anger,
her movements were gentleness itself; her voice when she spoke was low
and sweet: "Mother, I will take the little girls, if you will let them
go."
Mrs. Decker drew a relieved sigh. "I'd like them to go because _she_
asked to have them; and I can see plain enough she is trying to get
hold of Norm; so is _he_; that's what helping with the flowers means;
and there ain't anything I ain't willing to do to help, only I couldn't
let the little girls go without you; they'd be scared to death, and it
wouldn't look right. I'm sorry enough you ain't got suitable clothes;
if I could help it, you should have as good as the best of them."
"Never mind," said Nettie, "I don't think I care anything about the
dress now." She was thinking of that crown of thorns. So when Miss
Sherrill called the way was plain and little Sate ready to be taught
anything she would teach her.
They went away down to the pond under the clump of trees which formed
such a pretty shade; and there Sate's slow sweet voice said over
the lines as they were told to her, putting in many questions which
the words suggested. "He makes the flowers blow," she repeated with
thoughtful face, then: "What did He make them for?"
"I think it was because He loved them; and He likes to give you and me
sweet and pleasant things to look at."
"Does He love flowers?"
"I think so, darling."
"And birds? See the birds!" For at that moment two beauties standing on
the edge of their nest, looked down into the clear water, and seeing
themselves reflected in its smoothness began to talk in low sweet
chirps to their shadows.
"Oh, yes, He loves the birds, I am sure; think how many different kinds
He has made, and how beautiful they are. Then He has given them sweet
voices, and they are thanking Him as well as they know how, for all his
goodness. Listen."
Sure enough, one of the birds hopped back a trifle, balanced himself
well on the nest, and putting up his little throat trilled a lovely
song.
"What does he say?" asked Sate.
"Oh, I don't know," said Miss Sherrill, with a little laugh. Sate was
taxing her powers rather too much. "But God understands, you know; and
I'm sure the words are sweet to him."
Sate reflected over this for a minute, then went back to the flowers:
"What made Him put the colors on them? Does He like to see pretty
colors, do you sink? Which color does He like just the very bestest of
all?"
"O you darling! I don't know that, either. Perhaps, crimson; or, no,
I think He must like pure white ones a little the best. But He likes
little human flowers the best of all. Little white flowers with souls.
Do you know what I mean, darling? White hearts are given to the little
children who try all the time to do right, because they love Jesus, and
want to please him."
"Sate wants to," said the little girl. "Sate loves Jesus; she would
like to kiss him."
"I do not know but you shall, some day. Now shall we take another line
of the hymn?"
"I tried to teach her," explained Miss Sherrill to her brother. "But
I think, after all, she taught me the most. She is the dearest little
thing, and asks the strangest questions! When I look at her grave sweet
face, and hear her slow, sweet voice making wise answers, and asking
wise questions, a sort of baby wisdom, you know, I can only repeat over
and over the words: 'Of such is the kingdom of heaven.' To-day I told
her the story of Jesus taking the little children up in his arms and
blessing them. She listened with that thoughtful look in her eyes which
is so wonderful, then suddenly she held up her pretty arms and said in
the most coaxing tones: 'Take little Sate to Him, and let Him bless
her, yight away.' Tremaine, I could hardly keep back the tears. Do you
think He can be going to call her soon?"
"Not necessarily at all. There is no reason why a little child should
not live very close to Him on earth. I hope that little girl has a
great work to do for Christ in this world. She has a very sweet face."
MOVING DAY.
IT was Kitty's moving day. This is how it happened: One Saturday
morning Mr. Blake came into the barn and said: "John, we will be ready
to draw in that hay by ten o'clock. We will fill up the bay first.
As soon as you feed the horses you may as well take a look for hens'
nests. We do not want to cover up any hens this year!"
Now I do not suppose that Kitty really understood what they were
saying; probably the sound of their voices alarmed her and she
concluded to move. First she set out to hunt up a home. There was the
empty clothes basket; Bridget had been late with her ironing and had
set the basket emptied of the clean clothes down in a hurry, and a
blanket had been thrown into it. Walking into the deserted laundry
on her round of house hunting Kitty spied this and decided that it
was just the place. And so she set about moving her family. By ten
o'clock it was accomplished and a happier group it would be hard to
find than Kitty and her little kitties were when Bridget going after
the basket found them having a grand frolic. It seemed such a pity to
disturb them! But kind-hearted Bridget brought an unused basket and
very tenderly moved the family once more. Mother Kitty seemed quite
satisfied, though rather shy of visitors aside from Bridget, whom she
seems to look upon as a friend.
LOU.
[Illustration: GOOD NIGHT!]
_Volume 13, Number 16._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_Feb. 20, 1886._
THE PANSY.
[Illustration: THE "SERVANT" THAT SHOWED SUCH ILL BREEDING.]
WHERE I WENT, AND WHAT I SAW.
I STARTED from Cincinnati. Only a short ride on the "Bee Line" and I
reached Dayton. A beautiful little city; looking, after the greatness
and the noise, and the smoke of Cincinnati, like a pretty little
village nestling in among trees. Yet when one forgets the large places,
Dayton is quite a city. However, it is not about the _city_ that I want
to tell you, but rather about a home there.