[Illustration: THE WIDOW'S POT OF OIL.]
SMALL MEANS AND GREAT ENDS.
EDITED BY MRS. M.H. ADAMS
Word of Truth, and Gift of Love,
Waiting hearts now need thee;
Faithful in thy mission prove,
On that mission speed thee.
1851.
PREFACE.
From the encouragement extended to our worthy publisher on the
presentation of the first and second volumes of the Annual, we conclude
that the experiment of 1845 may be regarded as a successful one, and the
preparation of a little work of this kind an acceptable offering to the
young.
The present year, our kind contributors have afforded us a much more
ample supply of interesting articles than could possibly appear. We
regret that any who have so generously labored for us and our young
friends, should be denied the pleasure of greeting their articles on the
pages of the Annual. Let them not suspect that it is from any
disapproval or rejection of their labors. Be assured, dear friends, we
are more grateful than can properly be expressed in a brief preface. Our
warmest thanks are due our old friends, who, in the midst of other
arduous duties, have willingly given us assistance. Let our new
correspondents be assured they are gratefully remembered, although we
have not the pleasure or opportunity to present their articles to our
readers in the present volume. They are at the publisher's disposal for
another year.
May the blessing of our Father in heaven rest upon the little book and
all its mends.
M.H.A.
CONTENTS.
* * * * *
Small Means and Great Ends
Mary Ellen
The Dead Child to its Mother
Hope
The Young Soldier
The Stolen Children
My Grandmother's Cottage
The First Oath
The Fairy's Gift
A Lesson taught by Nature
Florence Drew
Shechem
The Little Candle
"Are we not all Brothers and Sisters?"
Fortune-Telling
The Boy who Stole the Nails
The Childless Mother
The Motherless Child
Faith
SMALL MEANS AND GREAT ENDS;
OR,
THE WIDOW'S POT OF OIL.
BY JULIA A. FLETCHER.
"Oh! how I do wish I was rich!" said Eliza Melvyn, dropping her work in
her lap, and looking up discontentedly to her mother; "why should not I
be rich as well as Clara Payson? There she passes in her father's
carriage, with her fine clothes, and haughty ways; while I sit
here--sew--sewing--all day long. I don't see what use I am in the world!
"Why should it be so? Why should one person have bread to waste, while
another is starving? Why should one sit idle all day, while another
toils all night? Why should one have so many blessings, and another so
few?"
"Eliza!" said Mrs. Melvyn, taking her daughter's hand gently within her
own, and pushing back the curls from her flushed brow, "my daughter, why
is this? why is your usual contentment gone, and why are you so sinfully
complaining? Have you forgotten to think that 'God is ever good?'"
"No, mother," replied the young girl, "but it sometimes appears strange
to me, why he allows all these things."
"Wiser people than either you or I have been led to wonder at these
things," said Mrs. Melvyn; "but the Christian sees in all the wisdom of
God, who allows us to be tried here, and will overrule all for our good.
The very person who is envied for one blessing perhaps envies another
for one he does not possess. But why would you be rich, my child?"
"Mother, I went this morning through a narrow, dirty street in another
part of the city. A group of ragged children were collected round one
who was crying bitterly. I made my way through them and spoke to the
little boy. He told me his little sister was dead, his father was sick,
and he was hungry. Here was sorrow enough for any one; but the little
boy stood there with his bare feet, his sunbleached hair and tattered
clothes, and smiled almost cheerfully through the tears which washed
white streaks amid the darkness of his dirty face. He led me to his
_home_. Oh, mother! if you had been with me up those broken stairs, and
seen the helpless beings in that dismal, dirty room you would have
wished, like me, for the means to help them. The dead body lay there
unburied, for the man said, they had no money to pay for a coffin. He
was dying himself, and they might as well be buried together."
"Are you sure, Eliza, that you have not the means to help them?" asked
Mrs. Melvyn. "Put on your bonnet, my dear, and go to our sexton. Tell
him to go and do what should be done. The charitable society of which I
am a member will pay the expense. Then call on Dr. ---- the dispensary
physician, and send him to the relief of the sick one. Then go to those
of your acquaintance who have, as you say, 'bread to waste,' and mention
to them this hungry little boy. If you have no money to give these
sufferers, you have a voice to plead with those who have; and thus you
may bless the poor, while you doubly bless the rich, for 'It is more
blessed to give than to receive.'"
Eliza obeyed, and when she returned several hours after, her face
glowing with animation, and eagerly recounted how much had been done for
the poor family; how their dead had been humanely borne from their
sight; how the sick man was visited by the physician, and his bitterness
of spirit removed by the sympathy which was sent him; how the room was
to be cleaned and ventilated, and how she left the little boy eating a
huge slice of bread, while others of the family were half devouring the
remainder of the loaf; her mother listened with the same gentleness. "It
is well, my daughter," said she; "I preferred to send you on this errand
of sympathy, that you might see how much you could do with small means."
"I have a picture here," she continued, "which I wish you to keep as a
token of this day's feelings and actions. It is called 'The Widow's Pot
of Oil.' Will you read me the story which belongs to it?"
Eliza took her little pocket Bible, the one that she always carried to
the Sabbath school, and, turning to the fourth chapter of the second
book of Kings, read the first seven verses. Turn to them now, children,
and read them.
"You can see in this picture," said her mother, "how small was the 'pot
of oil,' and how large were some of the vessels to be filled. Yet still
it flowed on, a little stream; still knelt the widow in her faith,
patiently supporting it; still brought her little sons the empty
vessels; the blessing of God was upon it, and they were all filled. She
feared not that the oil would cease to flow; she stopped not when one
vessel was filled; she still believed, and labored, and waited, until
her work was done.
"Take this picture, my daughter, and when you think that you cannot do
good with small means, remember 'the widow's pot of oil,' and
perseveringly use the means you have; when one labor is done, begin
another; stitch by stitch you have made this beautiful garment; very
large houses are built of little bricks patiently joined together one by
one; and 'the widow's small pot of oil' filled many large vessels."
"Oh, mother," said Eliza, "I hope I shall never be so wicked again. I
will keep the picture always. But, mother, do you not think Mr. Usher
would like this picture to put in the 'Sabbath School Annual?' He might
have a smaller one engraved from this, you know, and perhaps cousin
Julia will write something about it. I mean to ask them."
MARY ELLEN;
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
BY MRS. MARGARET M. MASON.
"O, lightly, lightly tread!
A holy thing is sleep
On the worn spirit shed,
And eyes that wake to weep;
Ye know not what ye do,
That call the slumberer back
From the world unseen by you,
Unto life's dim faded track."
How beautiful, calm, and peaceful is sleep! Often, when I have laid my
head upon my pillow happy and healthful, I have asked myself, to what
shall I awaken? What changes may come ere again my head shall press this
pillow? Ah, little do we know what a day may unfold to us! We know not
to what we shall awaken; what joy or sorrow. I do not know when I was
awakened to more painful intelligence, than when aroused one morning
from pleasant dreams by the voice of a neighbor, saying that Mary Ellen,
the only daughter of a near neighbor, was dying. She was a beautiful
little girl, about three years of age, unlike most other children. She
was more serious and thoughtful; and many predicted that her friends
would not have her long. She would often ask strange questions about
heaven and her heavenly Father; and many of her expressions were very
beautiful.
One day she asked permission of her mother to go and gather her some
flowers. Her mother gave her permission, but requested her not to go out
of the field. After searching in vain for flowers, she returned with
some clover leaves and blades of grass. "Mother," said she, "I could
find you no flowers, but here are some spires of grass and clover
leaves. Say that they are some pretty, mother. GOD made them." Often,
when she woke in the morning, she would ask her mother if it was the
Sabbath day. If told it was, "Then," she would say, "we will read the
Bible and keep the day holy." Her mother always strove to render the
Sabbath interesting to her, and to have her spend it in a profitable
manner. Nor did she fail; for little Mary Ellen was always happy when
the Sabbath morning came. The interest she took in the reading of the
Scriptures, in explanations given of the plates in the Bible, and the
accuracy with which she would remember all that was told her, were truly
pleasing. Her kind and affectionate disposition, her love for all that
was pure and holy, and her readiness to forgive and excuse all that she
saw wrong in others, made her beloved by all who knew her. If she saw
children at play on the Sabbath, or roaming about, she would notice it,
and speak of it as being very wrong, and it would appear to wound her
feelings; yet she would try to excuse them. "It may be," she would say,
"that they do not know that it is the holy Sabbath day. Perhaps no one
has told them." She could not bear to think of any one doing wrong
intentionally.
Whenever she heard her little associates make use of any language that
she was not quite sure was right, she would ask her mother if it was
wrong to speak thus; and if wrong, she would say, "Then, I will never
speak so, and I shall be your own dear little girl, and my heavenly
Father will love me." We often ask children whom they love best. Such
was the question often put to Mary Ellen. She would always say, "I love
my heavenly Father best, and my dear father and mother next." Her first
and best affections were freely given to her Maker, not from a sense of
duty alone did it seem, but from a heart overflowing with love and
gratitude; and never, at the hour of retiring, would she forget to kneel
and offer up her evening prayer. Thus she lived.
Now I will lead you to her dying pillow Many friends were around her.
No one had told her that she was dying; yet she herself felt conscious
of it. She wished to have the window raised, that she might see the
ocean and trees once more. "Oh!" said her mother, bending over her, "is
my dear little girl dying?" "I want to go," said Mary Ellen; "I want my
father and mother to go with me." "Will you not stay with us?" said the
stricken father; "will you not stay with us?" She raised her little
hands and eyes--"Oh no," said she; "I see them! I see them! 't is
lighter there; I want to go; get a coffin and go with me, father. 'T is
lighter there!" She died soon after she ceased speaking. Her pure spirit
winged its way to the blest home where we shall _all_ have more light,
where the mortal shall put on immortality.
She died when flowers were fading; fit season for one of so gentle and
pure a nature to depart.
"In the cold, moist earth they laid her
When the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so beautiful
Should have a life so brief.
And yet 't was not unmeet that one,
Like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful,
Should perish with the flowers."
But Oh! when that little form was laid in the cold grave,--when the
childless parents returned to their lonely home, once made so happy by
the smile of their departed child,--Oh! who can express or describe
their anguish! In her they had all they could ask in a child; she was
their only one. Everything speaks to their hearts of _her_; but her
light step and happy voice fall not upon their ears; to them the flowers
that she loved have a mournful language. The voice of the wind sighing
in the trees has to them a melancholy tone. The light laugh of little
children, coming in at the open window,--the singing of birds which she
delighted to hear,--but speak to their hearts of utter loneliness. They
feel that the little form they had nursed with so much care and
tenderness, so often pressed to their bosoms, is laid beneath the sod.
Yet the sweet consolation which religion affords, cheered and sustained
the afflicted parents in their hours of deepest sorrow. They would not
call their child back. They feel that she has reached her heavenly home.
Happy must they have been in yielding up to its Maker a spirit so pure.
Two years Mary Ellen has been sleeping in the little grave-yard. Since
then another little daughter has been given her parents,--a promising
little bud, that came with the spring flowers, to bless and cheer the
home which was made so desolate. The best wish I have for the parents,
and all I ask for the child, is, that it may be like little Mary Ellen.
I have an earnest wish, too that all little children who read this
sketch may be led to love and obey God as much as Mary Ellen.
[Illustration]
THE DEAD CHILD TO ITS MOTHER.
BY MRS. E.R.B. WALDO.
Mother, mourn not for me;
No more I need of thee;
Call back the yearning which would follow where
No mortal grief can go;
All thine affection throw
Around thy living ones; they need thy care.
Let not my name still be
A word of grief to thee,
But let it bring a thought of peace and rest;
Shed for me no sad tear,
Remember, mother dear!
That I am with the perfect and the blest.
Yes, let my memory still
With joy thy bosom fill;
For, though thou dost along life's desert roam,
My spirit, like a star,
Bright burning and afar,
Shall guide thee, through the darkness, to thy home
HOPE.
BY REV. H.B. NYE.
Expectation is not desire, nor desire hope. We may _expect_ misfortune,
sickness, poverty, while from these evils we would fain escape. Bending
over the couches of the sick and suffering, we may _desire_ their
restoration to health, while the hectic flush and the rapid beating of
the heart assure us that no effort of kindness or skill can prolong
their days upon the earth. _Hope_ is directed to some future good, and
it implies not only an ardent desire that our future may be fair and
unclouded, but an expectation that our wishes will, at length, be
granted, and our plans be crowned with large success. Hence hope
animates us to exertion and diligence, and always imparts pleasure and
gladness, while our fondest wishes cost us anxiety and tears.
There are _false_ and _delusive_ hopes, which bring us, at last, to
shame. There are those who expect to gain riches by fraud and deceit, in
pursuits and traffics on which the laws of truth, love, and justice,
must ever darkly frown. They forget that wealth, with all its splendor,
can only be deemed a good and desirable gift when sought as an
instrument to advance noble and beneficent aims,--when we are the
almoners of God's bounty to the lonely children of sorrow and want.
If we seek wealth, let us not forget that pure hearts gentle affections,
lofty purposes, and generous deeds, can alone secure the peace and
blessedness of the spiritual kingdom of God.
There are some who have a strong desire for the praise and stations of
men, yet are often careless of the means by which they accomplish their
ends. Remember, my young friends, that no station, no crown, or honor,
will occupy the attention of a good and noble heart, except it opens a
better opportunity for philanthropic labor, and is conferred as the free
offering of an intelligent and grateful people.
There are many, especially among the young, who seek _present_ pleasure
in foolish and sinful deeds, vainly believing the wicked may flourish
and receive the blessing of the good. Believe me, young friend, such
hopes are delusive, and such expectations will suddenly perish. Let
fools laugh and mock at sin, and live as if God were not; but consider
well the path of _your_ feet! When your weak arm can hold back the
globes which circle in space above us in solemn grandeur and beauty
forever, then may you hope to arrest the operation of those laws which
preserve an everlasting connection between obedience and blessedness,
sin and sorrow.
In the spring-season of life, how beautiful are the visions which Hope
spreads out to our admiring view, as we go forth, with gladsome heart
and step, amid the duties of life, its trials and temptations. It begets
manly effort by its promises of success, and leads us to virtue and
self-denial, in our weakness and sin. When our heads are bowed to the
earth in despondency and gloom, hope putteth forth her hand, scattereth
afar the clouds, dispelleth our sorrow; and again, with a firmer step
and a more trustful heart, we go forth on the solemn march of life! It
is our solace and strength in the hours of woe and grief, when those in
whose smile we have rejoiced pass from our presence and homes to the
valley and shadow of death. And if we weep that they are not, and can
never return,
"Hope, like the rainbow, a creature of light,
Is born, like the rainbow, in tears,"
and we rest in the calm and blest assurance that we shall ultimately go
to them, and with them dwell forever in a land without sorrow.
It may be said that we scarcely live in the present. =Memory=, in
whose mysterious cells are treasured the records of the past, carries
us back to our earlier years, and all our pursuits, and sports, and
joys, and griefs, pass rapidly in review before us; and =Hope= leads
us onward, investing future years with charms, and bidding us strive
with brave and manly hearts in the conflicts and duties that remain. The
former years--sorrowful remembrance!--may have been passed in luxury,
indolence, or flagrant sin; the fruits of our industry and skill may
have wasted away; friends, whose love once cast a golden sunshine on the
path of life, may have proved false and treacherous; our fondest
desires, perchance, have faded, and sorrows may encompass us about;--yet
above us the voice of Hope crieth aloud, "_Press on_!"--through tears
and the cross must thou win the crown; be patient, trustful, in every
duty and grief; "_press on_," and falter not; and its words linger like
the music of a remembered dream in our ear, until, at the borders of the
grave, we lay down the burden of our sinfulness and care, and, through
the open gate of death, pass onward to that world where hope shall be
exchanged for sight, and we, with unveiled eye, shall look upon the
wondrous ways and works of God.
THE YOUNG SOLDIER
BY REV. J.G. ADAMS.
A soldier! a soldier!
I'm longing to be;
The name and the life
Of a soldier for me!
I would not be living
At ease and at play:
True honor and glory
I'd win in my day!
A soldier! a soldier!
In armor arrayed;
My weapons in hand,
Of no contest afraid;
I'd ever be ready
To strike the first blow,
And to fight my good way
Through the ranks of the foe.
But then, let me tell you,
No blood would I shed,
No victory seek o'er
The dying and dead;
A far braver soldier
Than this would I be;
A warrior of Truth,
In the ranks of the free!
My helmet Salvation,
Strong Faith my good shield.
The sword of the Spirit
I'd learn how to wield.
And then against evil
And sin would I fight,
Assured of my triumph,
Because in the right.
A soldier! a soldier!
O, then, let me be!
Young friends, I invite you--
Enlist now with me.
Truth's bands will be mustered--
Love's foes shall give way!
Let's up, and be clad
In our battle array!
[Illustration]
THE STOLEN CHILDREN.
BY MRS. M.A. LIVERMORE.
Not many years ago, the beautiful hills and valleys of New England gave
to the wild Indian a home, and its bright waters and quiet forests
furnished him with food. Rude wigwams stood where now ascends the hum of
the populous city, and council-fires blazed amid the giant trees which
have since bowed before the axe of the settler. Between that rude age
and the refinement of the present day, many and fearful were the strifes
of the red owner of the land with the invading white man, who, having
crossed the waters of the Atlantic, sought to drive him from his
hitherto undisputed possessions. The recital of deeds of inhuman cruelty
which characterized that period; the rehearsal of bloody massacres of
inoffensive women and innocent children, which those cruel savages
delighted in, would even now curdle the blood with horror, and make one
sick at heart.
It was in this period of fearful warfare that the events occurred which
form the foundation of the following story.
Not far from the year 1680, a small colony was planted on the banks of
the beautiful Connecticut. A little company from the sea-side found
their way, through the tangled and pathless woods, to the meadows that
lay sleeping on the banks of this bright river; and here, after having
felled the mighty trees whose brows had long been kissed by the pure
heavens, they erected their humble cottages; and began to till the rich
alluvial soil. The colonists were persevering and industrious; and soon
a little village grew up beside the shining stream, fields of Indian
corn waved their wealth of tasselled heads in the breezes, the
rudely-constructed school-house echoed with the cheerful hum of the
little students, and a rustic church was dedicated to the God of the
Pilgrims. He who officiated as the spiritual teacher of this new parish,
also instructed the children during the week. A man he was of no
inferior mind, or neglected education; of fervent, but austere piety,
possessing a bold spirit and a benevolent heart. His family consisted of
a wife and two daughters; Emma, the elder, was a girl of eight summers,
and Anna, the younger, was about five.
Never were children so frolicsome and mirth-loving as were Emma and Anna
Wilson, the daughters of the minister. Not the grave admonitions of
their mother, or the severe reproofs of their stern father; not their
many confinements in dark and windowless closets, or the memory of
afternoons, when, supperless, they had been sent to bed while the sun
was yet high in the heavens; not the fear of certain punishment, or the
suasion of kindness, could tame their wild natures, or force them into
anything like woman-like sobriety. Hand in hand, they would wander amid
the aisles of mossy-trunked trees, plucking the flowers that carpeted
the earth; now digging for ground-nuts, now turning over the leaves for
acorns; sometimes they would watch the nibbling squirrel as he nimbly
sprang from tree to tree, or overpower, with their boisterous laughter,
the gushing melody of the bobolink; they mocked the querulous cat-bird
and the cawing crow, started at the swift winging of the shy blackbird,
and stood still to listen to the sweet song of the clear-throated
thrush; now they bathed their feet in the streamlets that went singing
on their way to the Connecticut, and then, throwing up handfuls of the
running water, which fell again upon their heads, they laughed right
merrily at their self-baptism. They were happy as the days were long;
but wild as their playfellows, the birds, the streams, and the
squirrels.
One beautiful Sabbath morning in July, their mother dressed them tidily
in their best frocks, and tying on their snow-white sun-bonnets, she
sent them to church nearly an hour before she started with their father,
that they might walk leisurely, and have opportunity to get rested
before the commencement of services. But it was not until near the
middle of the sermon that the little rogues made their appearance. With
glowing faces, hair that had strayed from its ungraceful confinement to
float in golden curls over their necks and shoulders,--with bonnets,
shoes and stockings tied together and swinging over each arm,--with
dresses rent, ripped, soiled and stained, and up-gathered aprons filled
with berries, blossoms, pebbles, fresh-water shells and bright sand,
they stole softly to where their mother was sitting, much to her
mortification, and greatly to the horror of their pious father.
For this offence, they were forbidden to accompany their parents, on the
next Sabbath, to church, but were condemned to close confinement in the
house during the long, bright, summer day--a severer punishment than
which, could not have been inflicted. When the hour of assembling for
worship was announced by the old English clock that stood in the corner,
the curtains were drawn before the windows; two bowls of bread and milk
were placed on the dresser for their dinner; a lesson in the Testament
was assigned to Emma, and one in the Catechism to Anna; a strict
injunction to remain all day in the house was laid upon both, and Mr.
and Mrs. Wilson departed, locking the door, and taking the key. The
children soon wiped away the tears that their hard fate had gathered in
their eyes, and applied themselves to their tasks, which were speedily
committed. Then the forenoon wore slowly away; they dared not get their
playthings,--they were forbidden to go out doors,--and the only books in
the room were the Bible, Watts' Hymns, and the Pilgrim's Progress, which
lay on the highest shelf in the room, far beyond their reach. Noon came
at last; the sun shone fully in at the south window, betokening the
dinner hour, and then their dinner of bread and milk was eaten. What
were they next to do? Sorrowfully they gazed on the smiling river, the
green corn-fields, the large potato-plats, the grazing cattle, the
blooming flower-beds, and the shady walks which led far into the cool
recesses of the forest; and earnestly did they long for liberty to
ramble out in the glorious sunshine. As they were gazing wistfully
through the window, they saw their playful little kitten, Fanny, dart
like lightning from her hiding-place in the garden, where she had long
lain in ambush, and fasten her sharp claws in the back of a poor little
ground-bird, which had been hopping from twig to twig, chirping and
twittering very cheerfully. The little bird fluttered, gasped, and
uttered wailing cries, as it ineffectually labored to free itself from
the power of its captor, until Emma and Anna, unable longer to witness
its distress, sprang out the window, and, rushing down the garden,
liberated the little prisoner, and with delight saw it fly away towards
the woods.
Delighted to find themselves once more in the open air, the joyful
children forgot the prohibition of their parents, and leaping over the
dear little brook with which they loved to run races, they filled their
aprons with the blue-eyed violets that grew on its margin. On they
bounded, further and further, and a few moments more found them in the
dense wood, where not a sunbeam could reach the ground. But suddenly the
leaves rustled behind them, and the twigs cracked, and there sprung,
from an ambuscade in the thicket, the tall figure of an Indian, who laid
a strong hand on the arm of each little girl, and, despite the cries,
tears, and entreaties of the poor children, hurried them deeper into the
forest, where they found a large body of these cruel savages, clad in
moose and deer skins, armed with bows and arrows, tomahawks, and
muskets. The children were questioned concerning the village, the
occupation of the inhabitants on that day, and the number of men at
home, and they replied correctly and intelligibly. A consultation was
then held among the Indians, which resulted in a determination to attack
the village; and forthwith, leaving but one behind to guard the little
prisoners, they made a descent on the quiet settlement, burning and
ravaging buildings on their way to the church. But they did not find the
body of worshippers unarmed, as they doubtless expected; for, in those
days of peril and savage warfare, men worshipped God armed with musket
and bayonet, and the hand that was lifted in prayer to heaven would
often, at the next moment, draw the gleaming sword from its sheath. At
the meeting-house, the savages met with a warm repulse; and were so
surprised and affrighted that they retreated back into the wild woods,
after wounding but one or two colonists, among whom was Mr. Wilson,
Emma's and Anna's father.
The Indians commenced, about dark, a journey to the settlement where
they belonged, taking the stolen children with them; they reached their
destination early on the second day of their travel. Rough, indeed,
seemed the Indian village to the white children: the houses were only
wigwams, made by placing poles obliquely in the ground, and fastening
them at the top, covered on the outside with bark, and lined on the
inside with mats; some containing but one family, others a great many.
The furniture consisted of mats for beds, curiously wrought baskets to
hold corn, and strings of wampum which served for ornaments. Into one of
the smallest of these wigwams Emma and Anna were carried, and were given
to the wife of one of the chief warriors, who had but one child of her
own,--Winona was her name, which signifies the first-born,--a
bright-eyed, pleasant, winning little girl of two years of age. The
mother scrutinized them closely, but the child appeared overjoyed to see
them, and wiped away their tears with her little hand, and, jabbering in
her unknown language, seemed begging them not to cry. This interested
the mother, and she soon looked more kindly upon them, and set before
them food. But they were too sorrowful to eat, and were glad to be shown
a mat, where they were to sleep. Locked in each others' arms, cheek
pressed to cheek, they lay and wept as if their hearts were broken.
"Let us pray to God," whispered Emma, after the inmates of the wigwam
were reposing in slumber, "and ask Him to bring us again to our father
and mother."
So they rose, and knelt in the dark wigwam, with their arms about one
another's necks, and their tears flowing together, and offered to God
their childish prayer:
"Our Father in Heaven, love us poor children; take care of us; forgive
us for doing wrong, and help us be good; take care of our dear parents;
comfort them, and bring us again to meet them."
Then, more composed, and trusting in the blessed Father of us all, they
fell asleep, and sweet were their slumbers, though far from their dear
parents and home, for angels watched over them, and gave to them happy
dreams.
A few days' residence among these untutored red men made Emma and Anna
great favorites among them; their pleasant dispositions, their good
nature, and, above all, their love for the little Winona, which was
fully reciprocated, endeared them to the father and mother of the Indian
girl. Though sad at being separated from their parents, and though they
often wept until they could weep no longer when they thought of home,
yet their hearts, like those of all children, were easily consoled, and
their spirits were so elastic that they could not long be depressed.
Winona loved them tenderly; at night she slept between them, and during
the day she would never leave them. She wore garlands of their
wreathing, listened to their English songs, stroked their rosy cheeks,
and frolicked with them in the woods, and beside the running brooks.
Two months passed away; all the Indian women in the village were
speaking of the love that had sprung up between the little white girls
and the copper-colored Winona; and many a hard hand smoothed the golden
curls of the little captives in token of affection. Then Winona was
taken sick; her body glowed with the fever-heat, her bright eyes became
dull, and day and night she moaned with pain. With surprising care and
tenderness, Emma and Anna nursed the suffering child,--for to them were
her glowing and burning hands extended for relief, rather than to her
mother. They held her throbbing head, lulled her to sleep, bathed her
hot temples, moistened her parched lips, and soothed her distresses; but
they could not win her from the power of death--and she died!
Oh, it was a sorrowful thing to them to part with their little
playmate,--to see the damp earth heaped upon her lovely form, and to
feel that she was forever hidden from their sight! They wept, and, with
the almost frantic mother, laid their faces on the tiny grave, and
moistened it with their tears. Hither they often came to scatter the
freshest flowers, and to weep for the home they feared they would never
again see; and here they often kneeled in united prayer to that God, who
bends on prayerful children a loving eye, and spreads over them a
shadowing wing.
The childless Indian woman now loved them more than ever; but the death
of Winona had opened afresh the fountains of their grief, and often did
she find them weeping so bitterly that she could not comfort them. She
would draw them to her bosom, and tenderly caress them; but it all
availed not, and when the month of October came, with its sere foliage
and fading flowers, Emma and Anna had grown so thin, and pale, and
feeble, from their wearing home-sickness, that they stayed all day in
the wigwam, going out only to visit Winona's grave. They drooped and
drooped, and those who saw them said, "The white children will die, and
lie down with Winona."
The Indian mother gazed on their pallid faces, and wept; she loved them,
and could not bear to part with them; but she saw they would die, and
calling her husband, she bade him convey them to the home of their
father. Many were the tears she shed at parting with them; and when they
disappeared among the thick trees, she threw herself, in an agony of
grief, upon the mats within the wigwam.
It was Sabbath noon when the children arrived in sight of their
father's house; here the Indian left them, and plunged again into the
depths of the forest. They could gain no admittance into the house, and
they hastened to the meeting-house, where they hoped to find their
parents. They reached the church; the congregation was singing;
silently, and unobserved, they entered, and seated themselves at the
remotest part of the building. The singing ceased; there was a momentary
pause, and their father rose before them. Oh, how he was changed! Pale,
very pale, thin and sad was his dear face; and Emma's and Anna's hearts
smote them, as being the cause of this change. They leaned forward to
catch a glimpse of their mother, but in her accustomed seat sat a lady
dressed in black, and this, they thought, could not be her; they little
supposed that their parents mourned for them as for the dead, believing
they should see them no more.
Mr. Wilson took his text from Psalms: "It is good for me that I have
been afflicted." With a tremulous voice, he spoke of their recent
afflictions; of the sudden invasion of the colony, the burning of their
dwellings, the wounding of some of their number, and then his tones
became more deeply tremulous, for he spoke of his children. The sobs of
his sympathizing people filled the house, and the anguish of the
father's feelings became so intense, that he bowed his head upon the
Bible and wept aloud. The hearts of the children palpitated with
emotion; their sobs arose above all others; and, taking each other by
the hand, the wan, emaciated, badly-dressed little girls hastened to the
pulpit, where stood their father, with his face bowed upon the leaves of
the Holy Book, and laying their hand upon his passive arm, they sobbed
forth, "Father! Father!" He raised his head, gazed eagerly and wildly
upon the children, and comprehending at once the whole scene, the
revulsion of feeling that came over him was so great,--the sorrow for
the dead being instantly changed into joy for the living,--that he
staggered backwards, and would have fallen but for the timely support of
a chair.
The whole house was in instant confusion; in a moment they were clasped
in their mother's arms, and kisses and tears and blessings were mingled
together upon their white, thin cheeks. "Let us thank God for the return
of our children," said the pastor; and all kneeling reverently, he
thanked our merciful heavenly Father, in the warm and glowing language
of a deeply grateful heart, for restoring to his arms those whom he had
wept as lost to him forever.
Oh, there was joy in that village that night again and again the
children told their interesting story, and those who listened forgot to
chide their disobedience, or to harshly reprove. Need I tell you how
they were pressed to the bosoms of the villagers; how tears were shed
for their sufferings, and those of the little lost Winona, whom they did
not forget; how caresses were lavished upon them, and prayers offered to
God, that their lives, which he had so wonderfully preserved, might be
spent in usefulness and piety? No, I need not, for you can imagine it
all.
The sermon which was so happily interrupted by the return of the
children was the first Mr. Wilson had attempted to preach since the day
they were stolen; the wounds he that day received, and the illness that
immediately afterwards ensued, with his unutterable grief for the loss
of his children, had confined him mostly to his bed during their
absence. On the next Sabbath, Emma and Anna accompanied their father and
mother once more to church, when Mr. Wilson preached from these words:
"Oh, give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good, and his mercy endureth
forever."
[Illustration: My Grandmother's Cottage]
MY GRANDMOTHER'S COTTAGE.
BY REV. J.G. ADAMS.
Of all places in the wide world, my own early home excepted, none seem
to me more pleasing in memory than my grandmother's cottage. Very often
did I visit it in my boyhood, and well acquainted with its appearance
within, and with almost every object around it, did I become. It stood
in a quiet nook in the midst of the woods, about five miles from the
pleasant seaport where I was born. The cottage was not a spacious one.
It had but few rooms in it; but it was amply large for my aged
grandparents, I remember. They lived happily there. My grandfather was
somewhat infirm; my grandmother was a very vigorous person for one of
seventy-five; this was her age at the time of my first recollection of
her. She used to walk from her cottage to our home; and once I walked
with her, but was exceedingly mortified that I could not endure the walk
so well as she did.
I used to love this cottage home, because it was so quiet, and in the
summer time so delighting to me. I believe I received some of my very
first lessons in the love of nature in this place. It was a charming
summer or winter retreat. If the sun shone warmly down anywhere, it was
here. If the wind blew kindly anywhere, it was around the snug cottage,
sheltered as it was on every side by the tall old pines. If the robin's
note came earliest anywhere in the spring-time, it was from the large
spreading apple-tree just at the foot of the little garden lot. How
often has my young heart been delighted with his song there! And then,
what sweet chanting I have heard in those woods all the day from the
thrush and sparrow, yellow-bird and oriole! How their mellow voices
would seem to echo in the noon-silence, or at the sunset hour, as though
they were singing anthems in some vast cathedral! They were; and what
anthems of nature's harmony and praise! God heard them, and was
glorified.
It seemed to me that every animate thing was made to be happy. I loved
to stand beneath a tall old hemlock in a certain part of the wood, and
watch the squirrels as they skipped and ran so swiftly along the wall,
or from branch to branch, or up and down the trees. Their chattering
made a fine accompaniment to the bird-songs. And here I learned to
indulge a fondness for the very crows, which to this day I have never
outgrown. Though they have been denounced as mischievous, and bounties
have been set upon them, I never could find it in my heart to indulge in
the warring propensity against them. They always seemed to me such
social company--issuing from some edge of the woodland, and slowly
flapping their black wings, and flocking out into the clearing, huddling
overhead, and sailing away, chatting so loudly and heartily all the
while, and reminding the whole neighborhood that when we have life, it
is best to let others know it! Yes--the cawing crows have been company
for me in many a solitary ramble; and whenever I hear them, I inwardly
pay my respects to them. All these, and other familiar sights and
sounds, did I richly enjoy at the old cottage in the woods.
I loved to sit at the shed-door, and watch my grandfather at his slow
work; for he had been a mechanic in his day, and was able to do a little
very moderately at his trade now. He would tell me the history of the
old people in the neighborhood, and of the customs and fashions when
they were boys and girls; and my eyes and ears were open to hear him. I
used to wish I could see them just as they looked when they were
children. It was very difficult then for me to imagine how those who
had become so wrinkled could ever have had the smooth faces of infants
and children. But my grandfather could remember when he was a boy; and
his father had told him what things were done when he, too, was a boy.
And so I concluded that wrinkles were no disgrace, nor the fairest faces
of the young any protection against them.
My grandmother was very fond of me, and took great pleasure in having me
read to her, as her eyesight had become somewhat dim. And so I used to
load myself with story-books and newspapers, when I became older, to
carry and read to her. And such times as we had with them! Voyages,
travels, discoveries, adventures, perils,--the wonders of the world, the
wonders of science, the wonders of history,--all came in for their share
of reading. Though I should read myself tired and sleepy, my grandmother
would still be an interested listener. Since I have been a minister, I
have often wished that many hearers would as eagerly listen to what I
had to say especially to them, as did my aged grandmother to my young
words then.
Those sunny days have departed. The old cottage is not there now. Years
ago it was taken down. My grandfather died when I was yet a boy, and I
followed him to the grave with a heavy heart. My grandmother lived to
be almost a hundred years old,--her powers all gone, and she helpless.
It would sometimes, even in my manhood, deeply affect me to have her
look into my face with no sign in hers that she knew me, when she had
once loved her talkative and delighted grandchild so fondly. But she,
too, found her resting-place at last beside her companion. Peace to
them! They blest me with their kindly, cheering words when most I needed
them, and I will bless their memories. And peace to the spot where once
stood their quiet home! Wherever in life I may be,--however brightly its
pleasures may shine, or heavily its cares and afflictions press upon
me--never would I outgrow the inspiration of these early enjoyments;
never forget, that, however the great, proud, and contentious world may
distract and dishearten, there will yet be peace to the humble and
virtuous soul in many a nook like that which sheltered and blest my
grand mother's cottage.
THE FIRST OATH
BY REV. EBEN FRANCIS.
It is now many years since a near friend of mine uttered his first oath.
We were very intimate in our youthful days. I have thought that I would
write a little story about him, for some of the little folks of these
times to read, hoping that it will not only be interesting, but do them
good; for I am indeed sorry to know that swearing is a very common sin
among the boys of our times.
The parents of my young playfellow were of the humbler class in society;
they were industrious and prudent, and took great pains to teach him
what was right. They lived in the metropolis of New England, where my
schoolmate was born. His father wrought with the saw, the plane, the
hammer, and such tools as carpenters use about their business. His home
was a neat, wooden two-story house, in one of the streets of that part
of Boston which was generally known, when we were boys, by the name of
the MILL-POND. I suppose that most of my little readers who live in the
city can tell where it is. Many changes have taken place there since my
childhood. When I was a small boy it was called the _town_,--now we
never hear of it but as the _city_ of Boston. Its population has
increased rapidly; its territory has been extended; it has grown in
wealth, in splendor, in its means for mental and moral improvement; in
the number and convenience of its public schools,--the pride and
ornament, or the disgrace, of any place. Yes, Boston is not, in
appearance or in fact, what it once was.
But I am getting off from my story. I was saying that my young friend
resided on the "new-land"--no; the "Mill-Pond;"--well, it's all the
same--for when they dug down old Beacon Hill, they threw the dirt into
the Mill-Pond, and when it was filled up, or made land, the spot was
still known as the Mill-Pond, and oftentimes was called the new-land. In
later years, there have been other portions added to the city, by making
wharves, and filling up where the tide used to ebb and flow, and where
large vessels could float.
But again I am digressing too far from the story.
So soon as my friend was old enough, he was sent to one of the primary
schools, and was a pretty constant scholar at that, and afterwards at a
grammar school, till he was about twelve years old. He was, of course,
much with other lads of his own age, and some who were older and
younger than himself. He was, also, often in the streets, and as there
were a great many people who used profane language in those days,--as
there are at the present time,--he heard much of it; yet he had been so
carefully trained that he did not for years utter wicked words.
It is always painful to most persons, old as well as young, to hear
profanity, even though it be very common in their hearing, if they are
never accustomed to its use.
My young friend had been taught to reverence the name of that great
Being who made heaven and earth and all things. He was a member of a
Sabbath school, and thus had much valuable advice from his faithful
teacher to govern his conduct in word and deed. For a while he heeded
this, and was careful of his moral character. But by-and-by, he
overstepped the bounds of right.
It is very true that "evil communications corrupt good manners;" and
that if one would not be bad, one means of safety is to keep out of bad
company.
My friend was, in a few years, placed in a store, where there was a
large business carried on. He came in contact with persons who were not
so carefully instructed as he had been. They made no hesitation in
pronouncing the names of God and Jesus Christ in a blasphemous and
profane manner. He resisted the pernicious influence of their example
for a while, but at last it became so familiar to his ears, that he
could hear wicked words spoken without even a thrill of horror in his
bosom.
He, however, had not the disposition to speak them, till one day, when
some little thing in the store did not suit him, his passion was
aroused, and, in the angry excitement of the moment, he spoke out,--and
in that unguarded expression there was profanity,--a miserable,
blasphemous, wicked word. He had uttered his _first oath._ The
disposition had been lurking in his heart for several days to do this;
but he had not been able to so far lower his moral sense as to do it
before. Now he felt as though he had done a brave act,--that he had
achieved something very grand. But soon, very soon, conscience whispered
her gentle yet severe rebuke. She complained sadly of the wickedness
that was done. The blush of shame mantled his cheek. Remorse took hold
on his spirit. He looked about to see who was upbraiding him; but none
seemed to notice it. He resolved that he would not again give occasion
for such feelings of regret and sorrow to himself as he then felt.
Could you have then looked into his heart, you would have pitied him.
This resolution he kept a few weeks, when, being a little irritated, he
a second time profaned the holy name of Deity. This time he felt some
compunctions of conscience, but they were not as powerful as before; the
first step had been already taken, and a second was much easier.
I need not go on to tell you how he, not long after, broke a second
resolution, and so on, till, ere many months, he had become really a
swearing young man.
It all sprang from the first sinful act; and when at last he did break
himself of the habit, it was not done without a serious struggle.