Stop singing a moment, and look over there;
While you are so safe in the sheltering fold,
With treasures of silver, and treasures of gold,
Just a few steps away, in a dark, narrow street,
With no pure, cooling drink, and no morsel to eat,
A poor girl is dying, no older than you;
Her lips were as red, and her eyes were as blue,
Her step was as light, and her song was as sweet,
And the heart in her bosom as merrily beat.
But now she is dying, so lonely and poor,
For famine and fever crept in at the door.
While you were so gay, in your beautiful dress,
With music and laughter, and friends to caress,
From the dawn to the end of the weariful day,
She was always at work, with no moment for play.
She saw you sometimes, but you seemed like a star
That gleamed in the distance, so dim and afar.
And often she wondered if God up above
Remembered the poor girl, in pity and love.
Ah, yes, _He remembered_, 'mid harpings and hymns,
And loud alleluias, and waving of wings,
He heard in _His_ heaven the sound of her tears,
And called her away while the sun of her years
Was yet in the east; now, she never will need
From you any more a compassionate deed.
Nay, some time, perhaps, from her home in the skies,
She will look back to see you with tears in your eyes,
For sooner or later we quiver with pain,
And down on us all drops the sorrowful rain.
She never will need you; but many bereft,
Hungry, and heart-sore, and homeless are left.
You can, if you will, from the place where you stand,
Reach downward to help them; the touch of your hand,
The price of one jewel, the gift of a flower,
May waken within them, with magical power,
A hope that was dying. O, don't be afraid
The poor and the desolate spirit to aid.
The burdens are heavy that some one must bear,
You dear little girl with the flowers in your hair.
ELLEN M. H. GATES.
[Illustration: RICH AND POOR.]
LACE-MAKING.
"See, mamma what is the woman doing? She looks as if she was holding a
pin-cushion in her lap and was sticking pins in it."
"So she is, my dear," Ellen's mother remarked. "But that is not all
she is doing. There is a cluster of bobbins hanging down one side of
the cushion which are wound with threads, and these threads she weaves
around the pins in such a manner as to make lace."
"I never saw anybody make lace that way. I have seen Aunt Maria knit
it with a crochet-hook."
"This is a different kind of lace altogether from the crocheted lace.
They do not make it in the United States. The woman whom you see in
the picture lives in Belgium in Europe. In that country, and in some
parts of France and Germany, many of the poorer people earn a living
at lace-making. The pattern which in making the lace it is intended to
follow is pricked with a pin on a strip of paper. This paper is
fastened on the cushion, and then pins are stuck in through all the
pin-holes, and then the thread from these bobbins is woven around the
lace."
"Can they work fast?"
"An accomplished lace-maker will make her hands fly as fast as though
she were playing the piano, always using the right bobbin, no matter
how many of them there may be. In making the pattern of a piece of
nice lace from two hundred to eight hundred bobbins are sometimes
used. In such a case it takes more than one person--sometimes as many
as seven--at a single cushion."
"It must be hard to do."
"I dare say it would be for you or me. Yet in those countries little
children work at lace-making. Little children, old women and the least
skilful of the men make the plainer and coarser laces, while
experienced women make the nicer sorts."
"What do they do with their lace when it is finished?"
"All the lace-makers in a neighborhood bring in their laces once a
week to the 'mistress'--for women carry on the business of
lace-making--then this 'mistress' packs them up and takes them to the
nearest market-town, where they are peddled about from one
trading-house to another until they are all sold."
"Do they get much for them?"
"The poor lace-makers get hardly enough to keep them from starvation
for their fine and delicate work; but the laces, after they have
passed through the hands of one trader after another, and are at last
offered to the public, bring enormous prices. A nice library might be
bought for the price of a set of laces, or a beautiful house built at
the cost of a single flounce."
"I think I should rather have the house, mamma."
"So should I. But the people who buy these laces probably have houses
already. There is over four million dollars' worth of lace sold every
year in Belgium alone."
Ellen thought she should never see a piece of nice lace without
thinking of these wonderful lace-makers, who produce such delicate
work and yet are paid so little for it; and while she was thus
thinking over the matter, mamma went quietly on with her sewing.
[Illustration: LACE-MAKERS.]
HELP YOURSELVES.
Many boys and girls make a failure in life because they do not learn
to help themselves. They depend on father and mother even to hang up
their hats and to find their playthings. When they become men and
women, they will depend on husbands and wives to do the same thing. "A
nail to hang a hat on," said an old man of eighty years, "is worth
everything to a boy." He had been "through the mill," as people say,
so that he knew. His mother had a nail for him when he was a boy--"a
nail to hang his hat on," and nothing else. It was "Henry's nail" from
January to January, year in and out, and no other member of the family
was allowed to appropriate it for any purpose whatever. If the broom
by chance was hung thereon, or an apron or coat, it was soon removed,
because that nail was "to hang Henry's hat on." And that nail did much
for Henry; it helped make him what he was in manhood--a careful,
systematic, orderly man, at home and abroad, on his farm and in his
house. He never wanted another to do what he could do for himself.
Young folks are apt to think that certain things, good in themselves,
are not honorable. To be a blacksmith or a bootmaker, to work on a
farm or drive a team, is beneath their dignity, as compared with being
a merchant, or practising medicine or law. This is PRIDE, an enemy to
success and happiness. No _necessary_ labor is discreditable. It is
never dishonorable to be _useful_. It is beneath no one's dignity to
earn bread by the sweat of the brow. When boys who have such false
notions of dignity become men, they are ashamed to help themselves as
they ought, and for want of this quality they live and die unhonored.
Trying to save their dignity, they lose it.
Here is a fact we have from a very successful merchant. When he began
business for himself, he carried his wares from shop to shop. At
length his business increased to such an extent, that he hired a room
at the Marlboro' Hotel, in Boston, during the business season, and
thither the merchants, having been duly notified, would repair to make
purchases. Among all his customers, there was only one man who would
carry to his store the goods which he had purchased. The buyers asked
to have their goods carried, and often this manufacturer would carry
them himself. But there was one merchant, and the largest buyer of the
whole number, who was not ashamed to be seen carrying a case of goods
through the streets. Sometimes he would purchase four cases, and he
would say, "Now, I will take two, and you take two, and we will carry
them right over to the store." So the manufacturer and the merchant
often went through the streets of Boston quite heavily loaded. This
merchant, of all the number who went to the Marlboro' Hotel for their
purchases, succeeded in business. He became a wealthy man when all the
others failed. The manufacturer, who was not ashamed to help himself,
is now living--one of the wealthy men of Massachusetts, ready to aid,
by his generous gifts, every good object that comes along, and honored
by all who know him.
You have often heard and read the maxim, "God helps those who help
themselves." Is it not true?
WILLIAM M. THAYER.
THE STORY OF JOHNNY DAWDLE.
Here, little folks, listen; I'll tell you a tale,
Though to shock and surprise you I fear it won't fail;
Of Master John Dawdle my story must be,
Who, I'm sorry to say, is related to me.
And yet, after all, he's a nice little fellow:
His eyes are dark brown and his hair is pale yellow;
And though not very clever or tall, it is true
He is better than many, if worse than a few.
But he dawdles at breakfast, he dawdles at tea--
He's the greatest small dawdle that ever could be;
And when in his bedroom, it is his delight
To dawdle in dressing at morning and night.
And oh! if you saw him sit over a sum,
You'd much wish to pinch him with finger and thumb;
And then, if you scold him, he looks up so meek;
Dear me! one would think that he hardly could speak.
Each morning the same he comes tumbling down,
And often enough is received with a frown,
And a terrible warning of something severe
Unless on the morrow he sooner appear.
But where does he live? That I'd rather not say,
Though, if truth must be told, I have met him to-day;
I meant just to pass him with merely a bow,
But he stopped and conversed for a minute or so.
"Well, where are you going?" politely said I;
To which he replied, with a groan and a sigh,
"I've been doing my Latin from breakfast till dinner,
And pretty hard work that is for a beginner."
"But now I suppose you are going to play
And have pleasure and fun for the rest of the day?"
"Indeed, but I'm not--there's that bothering sum;
And then there's a tiresome old copy to come."
[Illustration: JOHNNY DAWDLE.]
"Dear me!" I replied, and I thought it quite sad
There should be such hard work for one poor little lad;
But just at that moment a lady passed by,
And her words soon made clear that mistaken was I:
"Now, then, Mr. Dawdle, get out of my way!
I suppose you intended to stop here all day;
The bell has done ringing, and yet, I declare,
Your hands are not washed, nor yet brushed is your hair."
"Ho, ho!" I exclaimed; "Mr. Dawdle, indeed!"
And I took myself off with all possible speed,
Quite distressed that I should for a moment be seen
With one who so lazy and careless had been.
So now, if you please, we will wish him good-bye;
And if you should meet him by chance, as did I,
Just bid him good-morning, and say that a friend
(Only don't mention names) hopes he soon may amend.
THE MOTHERLESS BOY.
One day, about a year ago, the door of my sitting-room was thrown
suddenly open, and the confident voice of Harvey thus introduced a
stranger:
"Here's Jim Peters, mother."
I looked up, not a little surprised at the sight of a ragged, barefoot
child.
Before I had time to say anything, Harvey went on:
"He lives round in Blake's Court and hasn't any mother. I found him on
a doorstep feeding birds."
My eyes rested on the child's face while my boy said this. It was a
very sad little face, thin and colorless, not bold and vicious, but
timid and having a look of patient suffering. Harvey held him firmly
by the hand with the air of one who bravely protects the weak.
"No mother!" said I, in tones of pity.
"No, ma'am; he hasn't any mother. Have you, Jim?"
"No," answered the child.
"She's been dead ever so long; hasn't she, Jim?"
"Yes, ever since last winter," he said as he fixed his eyes, into
which I saw the tears coming, upon my face. My heart moved toward him,
repulsive as he was because of his rags and dirt.
"One of God's little lambs straying on the cold and barren hills of
life," said a voice in my heart. And then I felt a tender compassion
for the strange, unlovely child.
"Where do you live?" I asked.
"Round in Blake's Court," he replied.
"Who with?"
"Old Mrs. Flint; but she doesn't want me."
"Why not?"
"Oh, because I'm nothing to her, she says, and she doesn't want the
trouble of me." He tried to say this in a brave, don't-care sort of
way, but his voice faltered and he dropped his eyes to the floor. How
pitiful he looked!
"Poor child!" I could not help saying aloud.
Light flashed over his pale face. It was something new to him, this
interest and compassion.
"One of God's little lambs." I heard the voice in my heart saying this
again. Nobody to love him--nobody to care for him. Poor little boy!
The hand of my own child, my son who is so very dear to me, had led
him in through our door and claimed for him the love and care so long
a stranger to his heart. Could I send him out and shut the door upon
him, when I knew that he had no mother and no home? If I heeded not
the cry of this little one precious in God's sight, might I not be
thought unworthy to be the guardian of another lamb of his fold whom I
loved as my own life?
"I've got heaps of clothes, mother--a great many more than I want. And
my bed is wide. There's room enough in the house, and we've plenty to
eat," said Harvey, pleading for the child. I could not withstand all
these appeals. Rising, I told the little stranger to follow me. When
we came back to the sitting-room half an hour afterward, Jim Peters
would hardly have been known by his old acquaintances, if any of them
had been there. A bath and clean clothes had made a wonderful change
in him.
I watched the poor little boy, as he and Harvey played during the
afternoon, with no little concern of mind. What was I to do with him?
Clean and neatly dressed, there was a look of refinement about the
child which had nearly all been hidden by rags and dirt. He played
gently, and his voice had in it a sweetness of tone, as it fell every
now and then upon my ears, that was really winning. Send him back to
Mrs. Flint's in Blake's Court? The change I had wrought upon him made
this impossible. No, he could not be sent back to Mrs. Flint's, who
didn't want the trouble of him. What then?
[Illustration: THE MOTHERLESS BOY.]
Do the kind hearts of my little readers repeat the question, "What
then?" Do they want very much to know what has become of little Jim
Peters?
It is just a year since my boy led him in from the street, and Jim is
still in our house. No one came for him. No one inquired about him. No
one cared for him. I must take that last sentence back. God cared for
him, and by the hand of my tender-hearted son brought him into my
comfortable home and said to me, "Here is one of my lambs, astray,
hungry and cold. He was born into the world that he might become an
angel in heaven, but is in danger of being lost. I give him into your
care. Let me find him when I call my sheep by their names."
As I finished writing the last sentence a voice close to my ear said
"Mother!" I turned and received a loving kiss from the lips of Jim. He
often does this. I think, in the midst of his happy plays, memory
takes him back to the suffering past, and then his grateful heart runs
over and he tries to reward me with a loving kiss. I did not tell him
to call me "Mother." At first he said it in a timid, hesitating way,
and with such a pleading, half-scared look that I was touched and
softened.
"She isn't your real mother," said Harvey, who happened to be near,
"but then she's good and loves you ever so much."
"And I love her," answered Jim, with a great throb in his throat,
hiding his face in my lap and clasping and kissing my hand. Since then
he always calls me "Mother;" and the God and Father of us all has sent
into my heart a mother's love for him, and I pray that he may be mine
when I come to make up my jewels in heaven.
THE GOOD SHEPHERD.
Jesus says that we must love him.
Helpless as the lambs are we;
But He very kindly tells us
That our Shepherd He will be.
Heavenly Shepherd, please to watch us,
Guard us both by night and day;
Pity show to little children,
Who like lambs too often stray.
We are always prone to wander:
Please to keep us from each snare;
Teach our infant hearts to praise Thee
For Thy kindness and Thy care.
THE ST. BERNARD DOG.
By the pass of the Great St. Bernard travellers cross the Pennine
Alps (Penn, a Celtic word, meaning _height_) along the mountain road
which leads from Martigny, in Switzerland, to Aosta, in Piedmont. On
the crest of the pass, eight thousand two hundred feet above the sea
level, stands the Hospice, tenanted by about a dozen monks.
This is supposed to be the highest spot in Europe inhabited by human
beings. The climate is necessarily rigorous, the thermometer in winter
being often twenty-nine degrees below zero, whilst sixty-eight degrees
Fahrenheit is about the highest range ever attained in summer. From
the extreme difficulty of respiration, few of the monks ever survive
the period of their vow, which is fifteen years, commencing at the age
of eighteen.
This hospice is said to have been first founded in the year 962, by
Bernard, a Piedmontese nobleman. It will be remembered that it was
over this pass Napoleon, in May, 1800, led an army of thirty thousand
men into Italy, having with them heavy artillery and cavalry.
For poor travellers and traders the hospice is really a place of
refuge. During winter, crossing this pass is a very dangerous affair.
The snow falls in small particles, and remains as dry as dust.
Whirlwinds, called "tourmentes," catch up this light snow, and
carrying it with blinding violence against the traveller, burying
every landmark, at once put an end to knowledge of position.
Avalanches, too, are of frequent occurrence.
After violent storms, or the fall of avalanches, or any other unusual
severity of winter weather, the monks set out in search of travellers
who may have been overwhelmed by the snow in their ascent of the
pass. They are generally accompanied in their search by dogs of a
peculiar breed, commonly known as the St. Bernard's Dog, on account of
the celebrated monastery where these magnificent animals are taught to
exercise their wondrous powers, which have gained for them and their
teachers a world-wide fame. On their neck is a bell, to attract the
attention of any belated wayfarer; and their deep and powerful bay
quickly gives notice to the benevolent monks to hurry to the relief of
any unfortunate traveller they may find.
Some of the dogs carry, attached to their collars, a flask of spirits
or other restorative. Their wonderfully acute sense of smell enables
them to detect the bodies of persons buried deeply beneath the surface
of the snow, and thus direct the searchers where to dig for them. The
animal's instinct seems to teach it, too, where hidden chasms or
clefts, filled with loose snow, are; for it carefully avoids them, and
thus is an all-important guide to the monks themselves.
We have stories without number as to what these dogs accomplish on
their own account; how they dig out travellers, and bring them,
sometimes unaided by man, to the hospice.
[Illustration: THE ST. BERNARD DOG.]
A few years ago one of these faithful animals might be seen wearing a
medal, and regarded with much affection by all. This noble dog had
well deserved the distinction; for one stormy day he had saved
twenty-two individuals buried in their snowy envelope. Unfortunately,
he met, at a subsequent period, the very fate from which he had
rescued so many persons. At the worst season an Italian courier was
crossing the pass, attended by two monks, each escorted by a dog
(one being the wearer of the medal), when suddenly a vast avalanche
shot down upon them with lightning speed, and they were all lost.
Another of these dogs, named "Barry," had served the St. Bernard
Convent during twelve years, and had saved the lives of fifteen
persons during that time. Whenever the pass was obscured by fogs and
wintry snow-storms, he would go forth in search of lost travellers. It
was his practice to run barking till he lost his breath, and he would
venture into the most dangerous places. If, as sometimes happened, he
did not succeed in drawing out from the snow some traveller stiffened
with cold or overcome with exhaustion, he would run back to the
convent and fetch some of the monks.
One day this brave dog found a little child in a half-frozen state. He
began directly to lick him, and having succeeded first in restoring
animation, and next in the complete resuscitation of the boy, he
induced the child, by his caresses, to tie himself on his back. When
this was effected, he transported the poor child, as if in triumph, to
the hospice. When overtaken by old age, the glorious dog was pensioned
off by way of reward, and after his death his body was stuffed and
placed in the museum at Berne.
It is said that dogs of this variety inherit the faculty of tracking
footsteps in snow. A gentleman once obtained a pup which had been
produced in London by a female of the St. Bernard breed. The young
animal was brought to Scotland, where it was never observed to give
any particular tokens of a power of tracking footsteps until winter.
Then, when the ground was covered with snow, it showed the utmost
inclination to follow footsteps; and such was its power of doing so,
that though its master might attempt to confuse it by walking in the
most irregular fashion, and by inducing other persons to cross his
path in all directions, yet it always followed his course with great
precision.
Sir Thomas Dick Lander, who for many years resided at Grange House,
Edinburgh, had a fine dog of the St. Bernard breed presented to him.
Its bark was so loud that it could be distinguished at the distance of
a mile. Its bark once led to its recovery, when stolen by some
carters. "Bass," as the dog was named, had been missing for some time,
when it was brought back to Grange House by a letter-carrier, who said
that in going along a certain street, he heard a barking inside a
yard, and at once recognized the voice of Bass. "He knocked at the
gate," writes Sir Thomas, "and immediately said to the owner of the
premises,--
"'You have got Sir Thomas Lander's big dog.'
"The man denied it.
"'But I know you have,' continued the letter-carrier. 'I am certain
that I heard the bark of Sir Thomas's big dog; for there is no other
dog in or about all Edinburgh that has such a bark.'
"The man then admitted that he had a large dog, which he had bought
for a trifle from a couple of coal carters; and at last, with great
reluctance, he gave up the dog to the letter-carrier, who brought him
home here."
Sir Thomas, after describing many of Bass's characteristics, then
proceeds:--
"He took a particular fancy for one of the postmen who delivers
letters here, though he was not the man whom I have already had
occasion to mention. It was the duty of this postman I now allude to,
besides delivering letters, to carry a letter-bag from one receiving
house to another, and this big bag he used to give Bass to carry. Bass
always followed that man through all the villas in the neighborhood
where he had deliveries to make, and he invariably parted with him
opposite to the gate of the Convent of St. Margaret's, and returned
home.
"When our gate was shut, to prevent his following the postman, the dog
always leaped a high wall to get after him. One day, when the postman
was ill, or detained by some accidental circumstance, he sent a man in
his place. Bass went up to the man, curiously scanning his face,
whilst the man retired from the dog, by no means liking his
appearance, and very anxious to decline all acquaintance with him. But
as the man left the place, Bass followed him, showing strong symptoms
that he was determined to have the post-bag. The man did all he could
to keep the possession of it. But at length Bass, seeing that he had
no chance of getting possession of the bag by civil entreaty, raised
himself on his hind legs, and putting a great fore paw on each of the
man's shoulders, he laid him flat on his back in the road, and quietly
picking up the bag, he proceeded peaceably on his wonted way. The man,
much dismayed, arose and followed the dog, making, every now and then,
an ineffectual attempt to coax him to give it up.
"At the first house he came to he told his fears and the dilemma he
was in; but the people comforted him by telling him that the dog
always carried the bag. Bass walked with the man to all the houses at
which he delivered letters, and along the road till he came to the
gate of St. Margaret's, where he dropped the bag; and making his bow
to the man, he returned home."
THE FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS.
O wise little birds! how do you know
The way to go
Southward and northward, to and fro?
Far up in the ether piped they:
"We but obey
One who calleth us far away.
"He calleth and calleth year by year
Now there, now here;
Ever He maketh the way appear."
Dear little birds, He calleth me
Who calleth ye:
Would that I might as trusting be!
[Illustration: FEEDING THE BIRDS.]
FOR THE CHILDREN.
Come stand by my knee, little children,
Too weary for laughter or song;
The sports of the daylight are over,
And evening is creeping along;
The snow-fields are white in the moonlight,
The winds of the winter are chill,
But under the sheltering roof-tree
The fire shineth ruddy and still.