be, not only interesting to you, but because I hoped it might be the
means of leading you to reflect upon the uselessness and wickedness of
PROFANITY; and that it might aid in impressing on your minds the
importance of governing your passions and keeping your tongues free from
evil speaking.
I see my friend, about whom I have written, quite often. He is now a
parent, and occupies an eminent position in the community; but he often
thinks of his former life, and says he has not yet ceased to lament his
FIRST OATH. Let this fact, then, teach you how a recollection of the
sins of boyhood, even though you may call them little sins, will be
cherished through life, and poison many moments that would otherwise be
happy ones. How important that childhood be pure and righteous in the
sight of God, and to our own consciences, in order to insure a happy
manhood and old age!
[Illustration]
THE FAIRY'S GIFT.
BY REV. J. WESLEY HANSON.
It was a quiet summer's day,
The breeze blew cool and fair,
And blest ten thousand happy things
Of land, and sea, and air,
And played a thousand merry pranks
With MARY'S golden hair.
MARY was not a happy girl;
Her face was sad and sour,
And on her little pretty brow
Dark frowns did often lower,--
And she would scold, and fret, and cry,
Full fifty times an hour.
She sat and wept with grief and pain,
And did not smile at all,--
And when her friends and mates came near
She shunned them, great and small,--
And then upon the Fairy Queen
She earnestly did call.
"Oh, hither, hither, good Fairy,
I pray thee come to me!
And point me out the Path of Peace,
That I may happy be,
For I cannot, in all the world,
A moment's pleasure see!
"I try my work, my play I try,
My little playmates, too;
Help me to find true happiness,
I sadly, humbly sue;--
Oh! my lot is a darksome one,--
Fairy! what shall I do?"
A humble-bee comes riding by,
No bigger than my thumb,
And on his browny, gold-striped back,
Behold the Fairy come!
One look upon her loveliness
Makes little MARY dumb.
She wore a veil of gossamer,
Her tunic was of blue,
A golden sunbeam was her belt,
And bonnet of crimson hue,
And through the net of her purple shawl
Clear silver stars looked through.
Her slippers were of sunflower seeds,
And tied with spider's thread,
A rein of silkworm's finest yarn
Passed round the bee's brown head;
An oaten straw was her riding whip,--
Oh how her courser sped!
She beckoned to the sighing maid,
And led her a little way,
And showed a hundred fountains bright
That bubbled night and day,
And flashed their waves in the glad sunlight,
And showers of crystal spray.
She said: "Each stream has secret power
Upon the human heart,
And, as you drink, the mystic draught
Shall joy or woe impart;
'T will give you pleasant happiness,
Or sorrow's painful smart."
The founts were labelled every one,
With titles plainly seen,--
The fountains _Pride_, and _Sin_, and _Wrong_,
And _Hate_, and _Scorn_, and _Spleen,
Goodness_ and _Love_, and many more,
Sparkled along the green.
And MARY drank at each bright fount,
To draw her grief away;
But, spite of all the water's power,
Her sorrows they would stay.
And still she mourned, and still was sad,
Through all the livelong day.
One morn she saw a little spring
She never saw before,
Down in a still and shady vale,
Covered with blossoms o'er,--
And when she 'd drunk, and still would drink
She thirsted still for more.
She gladly quaffed its cooling draught,
And found what she had sought;
No more her heart with sorrow grieved.
She thirsted now for nought;
She'd found a blessed happiness,
Beyond her highest thought.
And when she moved the vines aside
That hid the fount from sight,
In loveliest, brightest characters,
Like stars of silver light,--
_Goodness of heart, and speech, and life_,
She read in letters bright.
And MARY drank the liquid waves,
And soon her little brow
Became as pure, and clear, and white,
As bank of whitest snow;
And when she drank of that blest fount,
She purest joy did know.
Then MARY learned this highest truth.
Beyond all human art,--
That there are many things in life
Can pain and woe impart;--
But Goodness alone of act and deed
Can make a happy heart.
A LESSON TAUGHT BY NATURE.
BY MISS LOUISA M. BARKER.
When I was a little child, younger than those for whom this book is
written, my home was in a valley. The usual appendages to a farm-house,
the garden, orchard and small pasture grounds, lay very near it; and I
was as familiar with these enclosures as with the rooms of the house. A
little further off there was a mimic river, which, as it wound about,
divided itself into different streams, and surrounded little islands,
shaded with the tall plane tree and the flexible willow. Here, too, with
those who were old enough to be careful in crossing the rustic bridges,
I sometimes played on summer afternoons;--gathered the prettiest flowers
in the sweetest little woods, and dipped my feet into the clear running
water.
Beyond these there lay less frequented fields, which rose gradually, at
no very great distance, into a range of hills as green as the valley
below. One of them was covered all over its summit, and a little way
down its sides, with some dark old woods. The trees which grew there
were very tall, and so large that their thick and heavy tops seemed to
crowd together, so that you might have walked on them almost as well as
upon the hill itself. I loved sometimes, when the air was full of the
bright sunshine, to look at the rich shades of green upon those
tree-tops; but if ever my eye rested, for a moment only, upon the dark
and mysterious avenues which led into the depths of the wood beneath
them, there would creep such a chill to my heart,--such a feeling of
dread would come over me,--that I turned quickly to the glad-looking
homestead, that I might again grow warm and happy.
At first it was probably no more than the idea that those woods formed a
limit to the world of light and gladness in which I lived. My eye could
not penetrate their dimness, and with a childish, human feeling I shrank
from the undiscovered and unknown. But as I grew older, and read the
stories in the small books which were given to me for presents, or lent
by my little friends, I had other and plainer reasons for the
apprehensive feeling with which I looked at the woods. I found that
children had been so lost among their thickets as hardly to be found
again; and that two poor little orphans, left there on purpose, had lain
down and died of hunger and weariness; and the birds covered them over
with leaves. Strange birds I thought there were in the woods. Then the
fairies that dwelt there, and the strange elfin creatures, and the
perils that travellers fell into with robbers and wild beasts; and still
I referred the scene of every story I read directly to those very woods
upon the hill-side, although they were so near that I could see them
plainly enough from the windows of the cheerful rooms at home.
Time passed along in its usual way; but before I had acquired knowledge
or strength of mind enough to correct my early impressions of the woods,
I had permission, one bright afternoon in June, to go with an older
sister to a strawberry meadow across the creek. We were accompanied by
some little maidens, who were older and more adventurous than me; and so
it happened that when we did not find the fruit so abundant as we could
wish, they persuaded us to go into another field, and then into another,
I little thought where, until I became suddenly sensible of a shaded
light around me, of a breeze a little cooler than that which tempered
the warm air of the valley, and a low, wild music that I had never heard
before; and looking up, I saw that we were actually upon the ascent of
the hill which led up to the dreaded woods.
Strange and almost horror-struck as I felt, I did not scream out,
(perhaps I should not have had breath to do so,) but I gathered up all
the wisdom that my little heart could boast, into the resolution not to
look at the woods, not to think of them; for we should soon go back
again, I thought, and nothing would happen. And my young friends can
judge how terrified I must have grown, when I heard one of the girls
begin to talk of the beautiful flowers her brother had brought her from
the woods, and end by proposing that we should go there, and get some
for ourselves. I waited breathlessly to hear the objections which I
doubted not would be urged against this plan, but none were offered; and
when I ventured to remonstrate, they paid so little attention to me,
that my pride was hurt at the thought of saying any more.
There was another way in which my pride was at work. I was ashamed,
among those who were so brave, to own that I was afraid; so, though I
held the hands of those who led me pretty tight, and gave them some
little trouble to pull me along, they knew nothing more of my reluctance
to go with them.
We got up the hill very fast; so at least it seemed to me. Here and
there a solitary tree, a few feet in advance, looked as if it had
stepped out to welcome and encourage us to pass on; and I cannot say
that my strength did not revive a little as I passed under the heavy
branches, and out again into the freer air. Be that as it may, it was
terrible enough to me, the approach to those woods. My companions were
eager and gay, and shouted out, as we entered them. They little thought
how overpowering were my feelings. And I little thought, myself, that I
was then and there to receive a lesson that I should never forget; one,
perhaps, that would do me more good than any other that I should ever
learn.
At first, I was so frightened that my senses were all in confusion; but
as I gradually recovered the use of them, I took notice of the coolness
and the shade, and the dimness away in the distance; I heard the leafy
murmur above my head, the sweet notes that the birds were singing, and
the loud echoes. All these things seemed to blend together into
something so solemn and so magnificent, that I began to feel for the
first time what it was to be a little child. With that, soon came a
feeling of confidence and even love. I thought that the majestic
presence that filled the woods, whatever it was, would not hurt me, and
my heart grew so light at the thought, that I began to gather flowers
with the rest. How pretty they were! and what clean, shining leaves! And
here and there, wherever a little sunshine found an opening in the
branches and streamed down upon the bright green moss, it seemed so
golden, so clear, and so real, just as if I might clasp it in my hands!
I grew so much affected, at length, that I sobbed myself into tears, and
my sister said that I had never been in the woods before, and she would
take me home. I did not like to say that I wanted to stay longer, but
held to my flowers; and after I reached home, was washed and rested, I
went to the window, and remained there a long time, looking at the
woods. I did not quite comprehend all I had thought and felt, but it
seemed to me that a great truth, one that would do me good, had dawned
upon my mind.
It was a long time before I fully understood the lesson. In a few weeks
I caught one of those contagious diseases which children must have once;
and it went so hard with me, that, before I was able to walk about, and
go out of the house, the leaves were all gone, and the snow had covered
the ground. When spring returned I thought often of the woods, but I was
too sickly to go there; and when I grew strong again, my thoughts were
all occupied with an approaching event. Several changes had occurred in
the family, and others were expected, to which my friends though
discontented at first, had grown quite reconciled. It was not so with
me. There was one circumstance which affected me more than it did
others, and from that I prophesied a continual succession of evils. It
seemed to me that my life was to be wholly changed, and all the joy and
beauty left behind. It was childish, I know. I knew it then, for I would
not for the world have told any one how I felt. Still I was as much
affected by it as I have ever been since at any real grief.
Late one afternoon, when my thoughts were busy with my fears, I went to
the window, and looked up at the woods. The sunshine was very bright on
their tops, and the shadow very dark on the hill-side below. Very
vividly then came back to me the memory of my visit to them the year
before. I thought of the evils which I expected to meet, and of the
beauty which I found there. It was some good angel which whispered then
in my thoughts, that, just as I went to the woods, full of fears and
forebodings, I was approaching the expected misfortune; that I might be
as happily disappointed in this as I had been in that.
I cannot tell how delighted I was with this suggestion, nor how
completely it took possession of my mind. I was gloomy and fearful no
longer. I did not, indeed, when the change came, resign what I lost by
it without regret; but I was so certain of finding new enjoyments, that
I resigned it cheerfully. And when, after a few weeks' experience had
taught me that many advantages and many pleasures had come to me in
consequence of those very circumstances which I had dreaded so much, I
bound the lesson of the woods to my heart so firmly that there it still
remains.
And let me say to you, for whom I have related this little incident of
my childhood:--do not tremble at the disappointments and trials which
await you. Do not seek to throw upon others any part of them which you
may more becomingly bear yourself. If you live always in the open
sunshine, you will never know what beauty there is in the woods. You
will find the sentiment in your books, that it is the night-time only
that shows us the stars; and in the gloom which must sometimes fall upon
this uncertain and mortal life of ours, you may find, if you will, as
much to rejoice in as to dread. You will form plans, and indulge in
hopes, which cannot be realized, and disappointment will look frowningly
upon you; but if you will submit yourself to the trial like a little
child, the hand that will lead you through it will point you to happier
scenes than those of your own imagining.
You will have friends to love, that death may take away from you--and,
oh! then, the shadow of the woodland, as it lies against the sunny
meadow, will be less dark than your life. But do not despair. The few
rays of light that reach you will be richer, the flowers will be purer,
and the music will be softer and sweeter; for you will be nearer heaven
than you were before.
There is another shadow which you and I, and all of us, are
approaching,--"the shadow of death." But will not "the lesson" brighten
our approach even to that? Certain I am, that if _that_ hour of my
childhood, when, with a fearful heart, I went into the solemn woods, and
heard the sweet singing of the bird and the breeze, shall be remembered
then, even though the light of life be fading away, "I shall fear no
evil."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: FLORENCE DREW.]
FLORENCE DREW.
"I will not go to Sabbath school to-morrow," said Florence Drew, as she
threw aside her catechism and sat herself sullenly by the window.
"Florence!" said her mother; "I am astonished to hear you speak so
rashly."
"I don't care,--I will not go,--my lesson is so hard I can't get it;"
saying which, she burst into tears. Mrs. Drew cast a look of sorrow upon
her only child as she left her to regain her good humor.
No sooner had the door closed after her mother than the rustling of
leaves beneath the window drew the attention of Florence. Thinking it
her favorite Carlo, and being in no mood for a frolic, without lifting
her eyes she bid him "begone;" but she was soon undeceived by a shrill
voice pronouncing her name, at the same time finding her arm tightly
grasped by the thin, bony fingers of Crazy Nell, the terror of all the
truant children in the village. The terrified child vainly tried to
disengage herself from the maniac's hold; and, finding her calls for
help all unheeded, she gave up in despair.
The wild, searching eyes of Crazy Nell detected her terror, and her
stern features relaxed into a smile as she said, "Poor child! I will not
harm you; you fear me, and think me mad; yes, I have been mad, but I'm
not now; and I have come to save you from being as I have been. Nay,
Florence, 't is useless for you to try to escape me; I will detain you
but a short time. I heard your angry words as I was gathering herbs, and
saw you fling your book away. I heard all. Listen to me, Florence Drew,
and I will tell you a story by which I hope you will profit.
"I was once young, gay, and happy, as you, and, like you, an only and
indulged, but wilful child, with a quick and ungoverned temper.
"One day, I was studying my Sabbath school lesson, and finding it, as I
thought, rather hard, I threw it away, as you did yours, saying that I
would not go to school at all. My poor mother's entreaties were all
unheeded by me, and I grew up in idleness and ignorance. My mother's
health daily declined, partly through my ill-treatment and wickedness.
Often did she plead with me, with tears streaming down her cheeks, to
alter my conduct; but I rudely repulsed her."
Nell paused, and seemed very much agitated; her eyes glared wildly, and
bending close to Florence, she continued in a whisper: "We became very
poor, in consequence of my extravagance; I then thought my mother a
burden; she was too ill to work, and I left her to starve; she did not,
however; she died of a broken heart. _I was her murderer_! 'T was that
which drove me mad. Look! see you not that black cloud which darkens the
sunshine of my life?"
"I cannot see a cloud," sobbed poor Florence, who was now tasting the
bitter cup of repentance.
"I know it, poor child!" continued Nell; "the cloud I mean is such as
you just felt,--=Temper=. _It is within us_! Conquer your temper,
Florence Drew, and you may yet be good and happy. Go, now, and seek
mother, who is at this moment shedding tears of sorrow for her little
girl's ill-temper. Go to her and--" But, ere she could finish, Florence
had glided into her mother's room, and was kneeling humbly at her feet
Tears of sorrow were changed to those of joy and repentance, as Mrs.
Drew folded her little girl to her breast in a long and affectionate
embrace.
Florence has never been unkind to her mother, or given freedom to her
temper, since that day. She is now the teacher of a class in a Sabbath
school, and she often relates to her little scholars the story I have
just related to you.
Crazy Nell continues to gather herbs, an object of pity to the
benevolent, and of sport to the unfeeling. And now, my dear little
readers, I must repeat Crazy Nell's expression: "Conquer your temper,
and you will be happy;" or, in the words of the sacred Scriptures, "He
that ruleth his own spirit is greater than he that taketh a city."
MAY.
[Illustration: SHECHEM.]
SHECHEM.
BY REV. J.G. ADAMS.
In the picture opposite, the reader will see represented a part of the
city of Shechem, at the foot of Mount Gerizim. It is a very noted place
in history. It is called Sychar in the Gospel, John 4:5. It was here, at
Jacob's well, that Jesus met the woman of Samaria. The account of the
conversation which they held together is one of the most interesting
records in the New Testament. I wish all our young readers would make
themselves acquainted with it. Jesus was a Jew; and the Jews had no
dealings with the Samaritans. Weary with travelling in the heat of the
day, our Lord sat down to rest by that ancient well, when the stranger
woman came to draw water from it. Jesus said unto her, "Give me to
drink." She was surprised that he, being a Jew, should ask water of her,
a Samaritan. This very surprise which she expressed led to a most
instructive conversation. Read it, and see how plainly Jesus teaches us
the nature of true worship. The Jews had their temple at Jerusalem; the
Samaritans had theirs on Mount Gerizim. The woman said to Jesus, "Our
fathers worshipped in this mountain, and ye say that Jerusalem is the
place where men ought to worship." She would ask which was the true
place. Jesus declared to her that it was not so much the place, as it
was the heart, which made worship what it should be. Read the answer of
Jesus as the New Testament gives it, and then see if the Quaker poet,
Barton, has not beautifully expressed it thus:
"Woman, believe me, the hour is near
When He, if ye rightly would hail him,
Will neither be worshipped exclusively here.
Nor yet at the altar of Salem.
For God is a spirit, and they, who aright
Would perform the pure worship he loveth
In the heart's holy temple will seek with delight
That spirit the Father approveth."
Through the knowledge of Christ obtained by the Samaritan woman in this
conversation, many of her sect were induced to believe on him.
Shechem, or Sichem, is a very ancient place; though we do not find it
mentioned as a city until the time of Jacob, who purchased a piece of
land, and dug the well of which we have just spoken. The city lay
between the two mountains Ebal and Gerizim. It was made a city of
refuge. Joshua 20: 7. 21. 20, 21. Quite a number of events mentioned in
the Old Testament occurred here. It was at Shechem Joshua met the
assembled people for the last time. It was here that Rehoboam was made
king, and the ten tribes rebelled.
In after time Shechem became the chief seat of the people who
thenceforth bore the name of Samaritans. They were made up in part of
emigrants from other eastern nations. When the Jews returned from their
long captivity in Babylon, and began to rebuild Jerusalem and their
temple, the Samaritans desired to aid them in their work. "Let us build
with you," was their request. The Jews refused to admit them to this
privilege; hence a strong hatred between the two sects arose. The
Samaritans erected their temple on Mount Gerizim.
Shechem received the new name of Neapolis from the Greeks--a name which
it retains to the present day. The city has passed through many changes,
which, had we time to recount them, might be of deep interest to the
reader. But it would take a larger space to do this than we can now
occupy. The Samaritans are still here; but their number now is small,
not exceeding one hundred and fifty. They have a synagogue, where they
preserve several ancient copies of the books of Moses, and among them
one ancient manuscript which they believe to be three thousand four
hundred and sixty-five years old, saying it was written by Abishua, the
son of Phinehas (1 Chron. 6: 3, 4.) The manuscript, so travellers who
have seen it say, is very ancient; but they do not all think it so old
as the Samaritans pretend it is.
Mount Gerizim is still held in great veneration by the Samaritans. Four
times a year they ascend it in solemn procession, to worship. The old
feeling of hostility between them and the Jews is still existing.
The city of Neapolis, or, as the Arabs call it, Nablous, is long and
narrow, stretching close along the northeast base of Mount Gerizim. The
population is about eight thousand souls, all Mohammedans, with the
exception of about five hundred Greek Christians, and the one hundred
and fifty Samaritans already mentioned. Those who have taken part in its
eventful past history are gone. But never shall be heard there a more
glorious voice than that which uttered those sublime words of heavenly
truth to the woman at Jacob's well.
"ARE WE NOT ALL BROTHERS AND SISTERS?"
BY REV. W.R.G. MELLEN.