FRAGMENTS OF TALK.
"Step by step the journey's taken."
SUNDAY-SCHOOL was over. Mr. Clarke had shaken hands with the last
teacher; answered the last question; smiled upon this or that group as
he passed down the aisle; stopped a moment to speak a word of welcome
to a new scholar; and then walked briskly up the street to overtake
Miss Dare, who looked so tired to-day, as if she needed an encouraging
word, a word which Mr. Clarke knew how to speak. The teachers had done
their class-work for the day, whether well or ill, and gone their
various ways; the sexton had closed the shutters and locked the door,
but still that group of boys lingered.
A year had gone by since that Sabbath when Mabel Wynn was first sent to
them. Two more had been added to their number, Arthur Knapp and Willy
Loring, but one was not there, and the boys grew sad whenever Henry's
name was mentioned; for it was now well understood that he would never
be strong again. Arthur Knapp was a newcomer, and they had stopped to
talk a little and get acquainted. Something had gone wrong with Perry
Morse, and he was pulling at Herbert Bradford's sleeve, saying—
"Come, Bert; if you are going my way, come along."
"Don't be in a hurry; I want to talk a little while," replied Herbert.
Perry started down the walk, halted half-way, and turned back.
"You are so awful particular," he said, "I shouldn't think you'd think
it quite the thing to stand there gossiping. Seems to me your white
line has a good many curves in it. It leads you in a curious way."
"You are mistaken," responded Herbert. "The line is straight, but the
trouble is, we boys get away from it—I mean I do."
"I should think you'd better speak for yourself," was the half-surly
remark of Perry.
"Miss Wynn talked solemn to-day, didn't she?" broke in Willy.
"Yes, and you made a baby of yourself," said Perry, who seemed disposed
to say hateful things.
Sensitive little Willy flushed and drew back, but Duncan McNair flashed
out, saying—
"I tell you what it is, Perry Morse, I'd rather be a baby than a stone;
and another thing, I don't think it is very good manners to be gazing
about, or winking at somebody across the aisle, while Miss Wynn is
talking."
"Nobody asked for your opinion upon good manners," retorted Perry.
"Come," said Herbert. "There will be a quarrel here, if we don't
look-out."
"All your fault," growled Perry. "We should have been half-way home, if
you had not been so slow."
Herbert gathered up his books as if about to start. A small box marked
"Willing Workers" attracted Arthur's attention.
"Is that your class name?" he asked.
"Ha, ha!" laughed the provoking Perry. "Better be called 'Willing
Idlers.' Class collection last month, thirty-five cents! That's a good
one! I'd parade the name."
"Well," said Lewie Amesbury. "I was ashamed. Can't we do better next
quarter? Let's pledge ourselves to do more."
"How much more?"
"Oh, make it the biggest of all!" said Perry.
"Suppose we calculate a little," said Lewie. "There are six of us, and
twelve Sundays in quarter. Suppose we each give five cents a week—five
times twelve are sixty, and six times sixty are three hundred and
sixty. Three dollars and sixty cents! That would do. Miss Wynn would
make it up to four dollars."
"Better make it up ourselves," said some one.
"Well, let's do it! All in favour of giving four dollars next quarter,
say I."
There were fire prompt "I's."
"Arthur Knapp, why didn't you vote?" was asked.
"Because I am not sure that I can give so much," was the timid reply.
"Well, some of us will have to give more to make it up. I have plenty
of money. I can put in more as well as not," said Perry, grandly.
The boys were used to his boasting and did not mind.
Lewie had a new idea. "I've heard," he said, "that it is a good rule to
give one-tenth of a person's income. Who will do that—give one-tenth of
all we get to the fund?"
"I will!" exclaimed one and another, until all seemed to agree.
"Well, here is the beginning," and Lewie turned out his pockets,
counting his money rapidly. "Sixty-seven cents! I won't cheat the
missionaries out of half a cent—here are seven cents." Duncan,
following his example, handed over eleven cents to the treasurer. The
rest had empty pockets, though Perry said he had five dollars at home.
"All right," said Duncan. "Hand over your fifty cents to-morrow
morning. Jolly! Won't it count up?"
"I reckon you needn't count up quite so fast; I guess I see myself
giving fifty cents to your eleven! I guess!"
"But that is according to the pledge."
"I don't care. I sha'n't do it. There goes Uncle John. I'll go home
with him and get my dinner. Bert, you can talk until night, if you want
to!"
"What is the matter with Perry to-day?" asked Lewie Amesbury.
"I don't see as anything unusual is the matter," responded Duncan. "I
believe he likes to be as hateful as possible."
"Thinketh no evil," said Herbert softly.
"Well—I know, but I can't help it, he does provoke me so."
"Is not easily provoked," continued the same soft voice.
"Dear me!" said Duncan. "If you saw as much of him as I do, you'd
get provoked. He never seems to care for anybody but himself, and
don't mind hurting other folk's feelings one bit. A body can't stand
everything."
"Beareth all things . . . Suffereth long."
"O Bert, you are determined to throw that lesson at me in pieces. Well,
I own I haven't much of that precious article so much talked about
to-day. I know people who do deal largely in it, get on a great deal
better; somehow it smooths off a great many sharp edges. But when I can
see as plain as day that a person means to be hateful (I am not talking
about Perry Morse now), or says things that aren't true, or is tricky
and dishonest, how am I going to think no evil?"
"I think Miss Wynn explained that a great deal better than I can,"
said Herbert. "You know she said we ought to have our hearts so full
of love that we would be ready to think the very best of everybody; to
put the best instead of the worst construction upon their acts, and
remember that they may have a true motive in many things that seem to
us altogether wrong."
"It was a beautiful lesson," said Willy Loring. "It made me feel as if
I should never say or think evil of anybody again."
"Oh, you dear little innocent!" exclaimed Duncan. "It isn't necessary
for you to turn over a new leaf. I'd like to hear you burst out with
something dreadful about somebody just for once. Do you know, little
one, that you are altogether too good now? Don't, I beg of you, go to
getting any better. We shall all suffocate with goodness before long.
But since Perry spoke of dinner I feel my need; so come on, Bert, I'll
go around your way."
These two started off, leaving the others to go their ways, which they
did at once.
Not long before this, the class had been talking of "opportunities,"
and now as they walked up the street, Herbert said to himself, "I
wonder if this is my opportunity."
Duncan always seemed so careless. Could he say anything that would make
him think? If Miss Wynn had failed, should he try? At length he said,
not so much because he meant to use his opportunity as by way of saying
something—
"Dunny, did you ever notice that, no matter what the lesson is about,
Miss Wynn always brings the talk around to Christ?"
"Why, no. I never thought about it particularly," replied Duncan. "The
fact is, I don't always pay attention."
"And you'll own that after the lecture you gave Perry," said Herbert.
"Oh, I just said that to give him a chance to explode. I know he was
dying for an excuse. I don't pretend to do better myself," replied
Duncan. "Hang it!" he continued. "I must have fun."
"But there are things that are better than fun," remarked Herbert.
"Yes, I know. Dinners, for instance!"
"Dear me," thought his friend, "he won't be serious." But he began
again, this time coming to the point at once.
"Say, Danny, won't you be in earnest about following Christ?"
"Couldn't think of it at present," was the light reply. "I've got too
many things on hand just now. Besides, it must be hard work. Christ was
all the time going about preaching and helping folks. Everybody can't
do that—somebody must stay at home; and if I should set out in earnest,
I might be bothered to know whether I belonged to the preachers or the
stay-at-home-ers."
"O Duncan! But don't you remember what Mr. Earle said in his sermon the
other Sunday, that we could preach Christ in our homes sometimes to
more purpose than we could in the pulpit?"
"I reckon my father wouldn't thank me to turn his house into a
preaching chapel," said Duncan, laughing.
"But you know what he meant," replied Herbert. "Just to let our light
shine."
"Well, you just go ahead with your lantern and light me along."
Herbert could not say another word, his heart was full, and presently
Duncan said—
"Don't bother yourself, Bertie. Maybe some day I shall think as you do;
but I really can't sober down just yet. Good-bye;" and he turned in at
his father's gate.
As Herbert walked on alone, he said softly, "Dear Jesus, I wanted to
do something for thee. I tried, but I failed. But I want Duncan to be
thy disciple, and wilt thou send some one to say just the right word?
He leads the boys at school, and if he were only a Christian, he could
do so much to help others along. Don't let him slip away from the right
path. Dear Saviour, hear my prayer for my friend."
Meantime Mabel and her friend Lou Joslyn walked home together. Lou
taught a class of little girls—ten of them. Among them were Julia
Bradford and Duncan McNair's sister Jenny. While the boys thought
Miss Wynn perfection, the girls were equally certain that Miss Joslyn
was the very best teacher in the world, and occasionally an excited
discussion took place concerning this matter, ending of course, as such
discussions generally do, each party sticking to their point. Both
were earnest, faithful teachers, and they often took counsel together,
comparing their experience, and laying out plans for further effort.
To-day Mabel was perplexed.
"I don't like," she said "the way our missionary collections are
managed. I don't mean that the money is not taken care of and sent
where it does good; but the trouble is, the scholars have no interest
in the matter. Our class collection is almost nothing, and while I am
mortified, I can't blame the boys, for after the quarterly report of
the amount collected, they never hear anything more about it. Willy
Loring asked me to-day where the money went to."
"That is just what my little girls are always asking," said Lou. "And
you know it goes in with the church collection, and is divided up among
the half dozen boards that we are supposed to be interested in; and
where poor little Jenny's pennies finally find their destined work is
more than I can tell. If I should grow pathetic over suffering Persia,
or try to awaken an interest in these mission schools in Turkey, or
tell them about the young Zulu that our church has undertaken to
educate, Julia Bradford would be sure to ask, 'Are you certain that our
money goes there?'"
"That is it," replied Mabel. "They want to know exactly what is done
with it; and I wish we could have a different arrangement."
"I wish so too," responded Lou. "I did speak to Mrs. Culver about it a
while ago, and she thought that it was best as it is; that the children
ought to be trained to give from principle; that they understood
perfectly well that it was given for the support of missionaries among
the heathen, and that ought to satisfy them."
"Well," said Mabel, "that may satisfy Mrs. Culver's young ladies, but
it does not satisfy my boys."
"Nor my girls; and I tell you, Mabel, we will have something done about
it."
"We will try anyway," returned Miss Wynn. "I'm going to see Dr. Myers
about it."
"I suppose you think it will go, if he takes hold of it," laughed Lou.
"Things generally do," was the quiet reply.
They walked on in silence for a few moments; then Lou spoke in a soft
tone—
"Do you know, Mabel, I think that several of my little girls have
learned the sweet lesson of trust in Jesus? I have known for a long
time that Julia Bradford sang 'Jesus loves me' as if it had a meaning
for her; and now there are three more who can join her. You don't know
how glad I am."
"Yes, I do. I remember how I felt when Henry and Herbert made the
decision," replied Mabel. "But why should the work stop there? Do you
know," she continued, "I sometimes think that perhaps that motto was a
mistake. I am afraid that some of the boys have fallen into the error
of supposing that an outward observance of the rules and precepts which
Christ laid down is sufficient. In their outward lives, they follow
closely, but so far as I can judge, their hearts have not been opened
to the Saviour. I try to make them understand how worthless is such
service; but so far God seems to withhold his blessing. Pray for us,
Lou."
"But you are aware, no doubt, that your plan will meet with opposition?
Mrs. Culver, for one, will object to a change," said Dr. Myers the
next afternoon, when Mabel had broached the subject of a Sunday-school
missionary society.
"I know, but it seems as though the matter was of sufficient importance
to warrant a moderate amount of pushing. It is very essential that
our pupils be taught the right way of giving, and as the matter is at
present conducted it is very difficult to interest them in the subject,
especially the younger ones."
"Just so," replied the doctor. "Mr. Clarke has spoken of it, and I
think we had better make a move. We will talk it over a little quietly,
as we meet the other teachers, and see what can be done at the next
meeting."
"Another thing," said Miss Wynn. "I am troubled about Perry Morse.
He has grown very careless and reckless in manner, and I fear I am
losing what little hold I have had upon him. Perhaps you may have an
opportunity to influence and help him, when he would be quite beyond my
reach. You will look-out for him?"
"Certainly, I will. I have noticed something of that recklessness.
Perry has good capabilities, but I think his home-training is in fault.
You have a new scholar in your class?"
"Yes, Arthur Knapp. Do you know anything of the family?"
"Not much," replied the doctor. "I was called there professionally.
They seem to be quite poor. The father is employed in Miller's shop. He
inquired about our schools, and said, as Arthur must go to a trade in
the spring, he wanted to send him to a good school through the winter."
"Do they attend church?" asked Mabel.
"I conclude that they have not been church-going people. I invited them
to our church, and Mr. Knapp was out last evening."
"I must call there at once," and taking the address from her friend,
Mabel proceeded to carry out the intention.
Mrs. Knapp was a pale little woman, with a fretful and careworn
expression. She was prepared to receive her visitor with pleasure,
for Arthur had found things very much to his liking the previous day.
Someway—neither of them knew how—Mabel walked right into the woman's
heart, and soon found herself listening to the story of her trials, not
the least of which seemed to be the boy Arthur.
"He was always a hard child to manage," said the mother. "He has a
violent temper, and was always getting into trouble at school. If the
boys provoked him, he would fly at them in a rage, and would just as
quick fight a big boy as one of his own size; so he was always coming
home with a bruised head and torn clothes, until we took him from
school."
"I thought he appeared like a very pleasant boy," said Mabel.
"So he is, only when he is angry. If he could only control his temper!
Sometimes I think perhaps we have not managed right. His father is very
strict, and never overlooks any little fault in the children."
At this point, there came from the next room the sound of angry voices,
and Mrs. Knapp stepped out to quell the disturbance.
"What is this all about?"
"Willy has put my dolly in a pail of water."
"Well! She got my pictures first, and made pencil marks on 'em."
"Helen!" said the mother. "Pick up those cards and give them to Willy."
"I sha'n't! Do it yourself!"
"No more of that! Obey me instantly, or I'll punish you," threatened
Mrs. Knapp. "And, Willy, you may go out and fill the wood-box."
"I ain't ageing to fill the old wood-box. You can wait until Arthur
comes," was the dutiful reply.
Mabel could not avoid hearing this colloquy, and even the mother's deep
sigh reached her ear.
"The children have been out of school so long," said Mrs. Knapp, on
re-entering the room, "that they have grown quite unmanageable. I must
send them soon."
"I remember," said Mabel, smiling, "that I always got into mischief
when I had nothing to do. Mother was always contriving things for me to
do."
"But I haven't time for that," returned the mother, quickly. "There are
so many things that must be done; so much that must be contrived."
Mabel was not prepared to solve the problem that vexes the lives of
so many mothers—how to meet all the demands made upon them; or, if
this is not possible, how to decide what shall be crowded out—so she
said nothing, but soon took leave, pitying the mother and pitying the
children, and wondering if there was any way to help them.
The next call was upon the Lorings. Willy was the pet and plaything of
a group of grown-up brothers and sisters. These belonged to what Mrs.
Wynn denominated "our circle," and were pleasant, agreeable people,
without apparent thought of anything beyond the good things of this
life.
"So you've coaxed Willie into your Sunday-school class!" said Louise,
the gayest and prettiest of the group. "He is too good to live already."
"Well, we can't spare him just yet," said her sister Henrietta; "so
don't go to making a saint of him. But, really, Mabel, aren't you a
little fanatical upon that subject?"
"Hardly that," said Mabel; "though I think it a very important subject,
and I am, perhaps, more interested in the work than in anything else in
the world."
"Indeed!" laughed Louise. And, arching her eyebrows, she asked, "Isn't
Dr. Myers still an inhabitant of this world?"
"Hush, Louise," interposed Henrietta. "Such allusions are not becoming."
"O, Mabel don't mind. But, seriously, have you declined Mrs. Granger's
invitation because you would not leave your Sunday-school class?"
"That was my principal reason," replied Mabel.
"I am so sorry!" replied her friend. "It would be so pleasant to be in
the city together. I shall spend the most of the winter with Cousin
Fanny. Why, Mabel, think how nice it would be! Mrs. Granger moves in
the highest circles!"
"I know—socially speaking—but—" Mabel hesitated. She felt, as she
often did when talking with her mother, that her friends would not
understand her should she explain all her motives. However, she went
on after a moment's pause, "The atmosphere of Aunt Granger's home is
not calculated to promote Christian growth. If I was called to go
there, I should expect supplies of grace sufficient to withstand the
many temptations; but if I ran away from my work here, for the sake of
worldly pleasure, I should not look for God's blessing."
"Dear me! What notions you do have. If you are so anxious for work, as
you call it, I suppose there is plenty in the city," said Louise almost
pettishly.
"Very likely; but I might not get a chance at it; and don't you
remember, Louise, that I always had a way of holding on to things?"
"Yes, I know; and I suppose there's no use in saying any more about it."
It must not be supposed that it cost Mabel Wynn nothing to decline her
aunt's flattering invitation to spend six months in her beautiful home.
She was fond of society, and the prospect of a whole winter in the city
was very delightful; but, as she said, "she could not see her way clear
to accept;" and I do not think she ever regretted her sacrifice.