Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: BE CAREFUL FOR NOTHING; BUT IN EVERYTHING BY PRAYER AND
SUPPLICATION WITH THANKSGIVING LET YOUR REQUESTS BE MADE KNOWN UNTO GOD.
AND THE PEACE OF GOD, WHICH PASSETH ALL UNDERSTANDING,
SHALL KEEP YOUR HEARTS AND MINDS THROUGH CHRIST JESUS.]
[Illustration]
Look on the Sunny Side,
AND OTHER SKETCHES.
BY
RUTH LAMB
Author of "Thoughtful Joe," "Katie Brightside," etc.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
[THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY]
56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD;
AND 164, PICCADILLY.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
LOOK ON THE SUNNY SIDE
MARTHA'S CHOICE
AS A LITTLE CHILD
A WITNESS FOR THE SABBATH
WHICH PAYS BEST
BEN BARRY'S CHRISTMAS BOX
TWO PICTURES BY THE WAYSIDE
A WORD IN SEASON
A RASH PROMISE, AND HOW IT ENDED
BEATEN WITH HIS OWN WEAPONS
WIDOW HENDERSON; OR, THE REBELLIOUS HEART SUBDUED
Look on the Sunny Side,
AND OTHER SKETCHES.
[Illustration]
LOOK ON THE SUNNY SIDE.
IT was drawing towards evening, when a woman, carrying a large bundle
of work, entered a room on the ground floor of a ready-made clothes
warehouse. She was bringing back a pile of finished shirts made by
machine at her own home.
There were a number of girls and women at work in the room as she
entered, some employed in fixing for the machinists, or finishing off
their garments by making button-holes or putting on buttons. Others
were cutting out, or making up parcels of garments to give to the
out-door workers. All looked tired, for the day had been hot and close,
and many glances were cast towards the clock, for this last working
hour seemed longest of all to the weary women.
The new-comer, however, entered with a smiling face, though any one
might tell that she, too, was tired, by the great drops of perspiration
which she wiped from her hot face, and the look of relief with which
she placed her heavy bundle on the counter, that its contents might be
examined by the forewoman.
"Eh, Mrs. Duncan," said the latter, "here you come again with a heap
of work! How do you get through so much this hot weather? I'm sure it
seems to take all the strength out of me. It doesn't do to give in when
I have to keep the whole room going," she added, dropping her voice;
"but I've been as bad for looking at the clock this afternoon as the
youngest learner amongst them. I never felt time go so slowly in my
life, I think."
"And there's just the difference between you and me, Miss Evans. I've
been looking at the clock, too, but it was because the time was going
all too fast for me, and I was sadly afraid I should not finish before
closing time; but I have managed it, I am thankful to say. You wonder
how it is I get through so much; but you see I have seven little
drivers and a big one to keep me going!"
The girls glanced at each other as they heard Mrs. Duncan's words, and
many a kindly look was turned towards her. They knew that her husband,
a skilled mechanic, had recently met with a serious accident, which had
quite unfitted him for work. A painful operation had been necessary,
and though he was recovering, it would most likely be months before he
would be strong enough to earn anything.
There was a small weekly allowance from a club, the eldest of the eight
children, a boy, was just earning enough to repay the cost of his food,
and, for the rest, nothing but what the hard-working mother could earn
by her constant labours with the sewing machine.
And yet the toil-worn mother never came into the warehouse to receive
her hard-earned wages without bringing, as it seemed, a ray of sunshine
along with her. No cross looks, no murmuring words; no railing at the
rich because they were rich, or grumbling because her own lot was one
of almost incessant labour, and her pay small at the very best.
"I must look over your work for form's sake, Mrs. Duncan," said the
forewoman; "but it is always right, and amongst the best done of all
that comes into this place. I wish everybody gave me as little trouble
as you do." And the forewoman, having glanced at the work, put it
aside, and wrote out an order for the money, which Mrs. Duncan must
receive at the pay-desk on her way out.
"How is your husband getting on?" she asked, as she handed the ticket
to Mrs. Duncan.
"As well as one can expect, Miss Evans, thank you. And he's very
patient, considering that it is harder work for a man like him to be
quiet than it is for some. He was always on the move, you see, when he
was able to work, and to a willing man, the worst job you can give him
is to lie still."
"That's true enough; but I didn't know your husband was one of that
sort. I thought—" and then the forewoman hesitated, for she did not
like to say to the self-devoting wife and mother what she had heard
about John Duncan. How he spent in drink a large share of the money he
had worked hard to win, and how the poor wife was often afraid to leave
her tidy home, especially on a Sunday, lest she should return to find
her crockery broken and the little ones frightened out of the house by
the harsh words, perhaps even blows of the intoxicated father. And yet
she had also heard that, when sober, John Duncan was a kind man enough
and very proud of his comely wife and fine healthy children.
A flush crossed Mrs. Duncan's face as she heard the "I thought" of
the forewoman. She guessed what was passing in her mind, and what
had prevented her from giving utterance to it in words. "There's no
harder-working man than John, when he can work, Miss Evans; but he has
sometimes given the neighbours reason to talk, poor fellow! Still, if
they do talk, it's not my place to help them by finding them materials.
I'm in hopes that there's a better time coming to us, for all we may
seem to be under a cloud now," said Mrs. Duncan, as she hastily whisked
away a tear that was going to run down her cheek.
"You're just a wonder to me, Mrs. Duncan. I do not know how you keep
up. Work, work, work, from early morning till nobody but yourself knows
how late at night; with all those children to think about and care for;
cooking, mending, nursing—for you've two little better than babies—and
your husband as he is! It's enough to break down half-a-dozen women.
And here you come with a smile and a pleasant word for everybody."
"Why, now, Miss Evans, we'll look at the other side, and see what a lot
of things I have to keep me up. I've wonderful health, and feel strong
and hearty. I'm willing to work, and you find me as much work as I can
do. There's a real houseful of children but, then, those that are too
little to work can run errands and amuse those that are less still.
They're all very good, considering I cannot look after them so well as
I should like. Then there's John! Ailing, to be sure, but living and
likely to live, though he was in the very grip of death, as one may
say, a month ago. Now haven't I something to be cheerful about, Miss
Evans?"
"You are determined to look at the best side of everything, Mrs.
Duncan; but I doubt there are not many of us that would bear up as you
do, if we were in your place."
"Well, to say the truth, I don't bear up at all. It is just Christ that
bears me up and my trouble too. He says, 'Cast thy burden upon the
Lord,' and He does not tell me to do that without a plain promise that
He will sustain me. He tells me to call upon Him in the day of trouble,
and He will deliver me. So I lift up my heart to Him all the time I am
treadling away at the machine, and my feet go faster and my heart feels
lighter when I think that I've told Him all about it. Not but what He
knew before. Still He has said He will be inquired of to do all these
things that we want, and if we can receive for asking, surely it should
not be too much trouble to speak. The wonder is that God is willing to
answer such as I am."
"And do you really think God does answer you, Mrs. Duncan?" asked a
pale-faced eager-looking girl, who had been listening attentively to
the conversation between her and the forewoman.
"Do I believe God answers? To be sure I do, my dear. I don't mind
telling you something about that, for I know we are so apt to get
doubtful, in spite of all the promises, and the experience that a poor
woman like me has had of God's faithfulness may help to strengthen
some one else. You would hardly believe it now, but my poor John's sad
accident has brought an answer to my prayer of years and years."
"Why, you don't mean to say you asked for that, Mrs. Duncan?"
"No, my dear. God forbid that I should ever desire pain and suffering
for anybody, much less my husband. I wouldn't hurt a hair of his head.
But you're not married, and you don't know what it is to walk one way
and your husband another. For some time after I was John's wife, it
did not matter to me that he never went down on his knees at home, or
taught our first children anything about God, or entered a place of
worship.
"We were both alike. We cared for none of these things. But the time
came when God was pleased to show me what a poor helpless sinner I was,
and to let me see that I could never save myself. I could not tell you
now how it came about, it would take too long; but I think nobody in
this world was ever more rejoiced after having been shown myself, to
have a sight of my Saviour and realise what He had done for me.
"How thankful I was for my share in His salvation! And, oh, how I
longed for John to feel like me! I prayed and prayed for him. I talked
to him, begged of him to go with me to church, told him how happy I Was
in thinking that I had a heavenly Friend that would never forsake me if
I put my trust in Him. I sent the two eldest children to Sunday-school,
and I wanted to a place of worship. But it was no use. John could not
see any good in it. He did not hinder the children going on Sundays,
he said the house was quieter without them; but he would neither go
himself to the house of God nor let me. I have often been near giving
up, but I was kept from that, though when one knew that one was praying
for a right thing, it seemed hard to pray so long without getting an
answer. I got almost desperate, I was so anxious for John, and I really
did pray that he might be brought to Jesus, no matter how rough the way
might be, or at whatever cost of hard work to me.
"Then this accident happened: poor John lay helpless and senseless,
sometimes still enough, sometimes talking all sorts of wild talk, but
knowing nobody. And then I wondered whether it could be that this was
to be the end, and I was to get no answer to the prayers of all these
years.
"One night the children were all gone to rest but baby, and I was just
getting her to sleep to put her in the cradle beside her father's bed.
I don't know how it happened, but I was praying aloud as I rocked her
backwards and forwards, when all at once I heard poor John's voice
from the bed. So weak and low it was, but it rung through me, like the
loudest trumpet, for it brought the answer to my prayer.
"'Mary,' he said, 'I heard what you were asking God for me. I'm a poor
good-for-naught, and I'm not worth all your praying and thought for me;
but you're a good wife, and I can't bear you to keep asking and asking,
and all for nothing. We've been sixteen years married, and I've never
gone on my knees to God in all that time. I cannot kneel now, and I
don't know how to pray, but if you'll come beside the bed and teach me
what to say, I'll try.'
"I got up and reached him his medicine and gave him a drink, and then,
with the little one in my arms, I dropped on my knees and prayed as
well as I could for tears and sobs. But they were not sorrowful tears,
for my heart was full of joy. At last I begun the Lord's Prayer, and
John said it after me bit by bit, with his voice all trembling, like a
little child learning from its mother.
"And when I got up, he said, 'Kiss me, Mary. I've never deserved to
have you; but I hope, if I live, I shall be helped to behave better to
you than I have done.'
"That was the beginning of better days for us, I am sure. John cannot
be happy without daily prayer now, and I do believe he is a changed
man, and that our latter days will be more blessed than our beginning.
"Now you understand how John's accident has been made the means of
answering my prayer, and how it is that I can thank God even for what,
at first look, seemed a sore trial."
There was a murmur of sympathy amongst the young folks in that busy
room. The tired workers had forgotten their own weariness as they
listened to Mrs. Duncan's story, and more than one amongst them told
her that it made them ashamed of a complaining spirit when they saw the
cheerful way in which she met her troubles and shouldered her burden,
and that story was long remembered among them.
By this time, the new parcel of work was ready, and Mrs. Duncan bade
Miss Evans and the young work-women "Good day," and went on her
homeward way with a rejoicing and thankful heart. She had long been
sowing in tears. She had been instant in prayer, despite long waiting
and many discouragements, and her Heavenly Father had sent her a
gracious answer, though it was indeed, after many days.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
MARTHA'S CHOICE.
MANY years ago, when I was comparatively new to family joys and cares,
we had two servants, sisters, who had both lived some time in the
family. One was older by ten years than the other, but each had won our
good will and esteem by her steadiness and faithful service. Moreover,
each had what is called a "follower," though not without my knowledge.
We profess to take an interest in all the members of our household, and
we are accustomed to be treated with confidence by them, and are often
consulted about their affairs, especially in matters of importance. I
was not, therefore, surprised when Martha, the elder sister, asked for
a few minutes' conversation; but I quite expected it would convey news
of an approaching wedding, and terminate in the usual month's notice to
leave.
Martha said, "I was wishing to ask your advice, ma'am, about my young
man. You know what he is, and that most people would think he is rather
above me, only I have saved a bit of money," added she, with pardonable
satisfaction.
"You have earned your money well, and used it prudently," I interposed,
by way of encouragement.
"And I did think how nicely it would come in to furnish a home; but I
am not satisfied that George is the man to make one happy. He professes
to go to church with me, and to be religious when we are together; but
he never enters a place of worship when I am not with him, though he
has all his Sundays to spend as he likes. Now, I think, if he really
loved going to God's house, he would go all the same when it is my
turn to stay in. Then he can go to theatres and such like places quite
comfortably without me, for he knows it would be no use asking me to
join him. So I have come to think that he attends theatres because
he likes them, and church because he likes me. I don't deny that it
would be a trial to break with George," she added, her trembling voice
showing how much she was pained at the thought of a separation.
"Have you spoken to George about these things?" I asked.
"Yes, ma'am, and he just laughed at me, said I was a great deal too
particular, and it was likely when a man had no settled home and no
wife to make him comfortable, that he would want a little amusement. He
'was sowing his few wild oats now, and after he was married—.' When he
spoke like this, I put in my word, and said a few grains often brought
a large crop, and I did not want to have the reaping of it in sorrow;
but he just laughed again, and told me to give notice, and then we
would be married at the month's end."
"And is that what you have decided to do, Martha?"
"No, ma'am. I opened God's Word, for somehow it has a message for
everybody and every time, and I read this verse, 'Can two walk together
except they be agreed?' And I said—'No,' out loud, just as if I were
answering a question that some person had asked me; for I had never
noticed that verse before, and I did feel it was for me. I had not gone
down on my knees to ask for guidance, but I did wish to see what was
the right thing to do; and I know when my Lord and Master was here on
earth, He used to answer people's thoughts. And now, ma'am, will you
read this letter before I send it, and tell me what you think? Have I
done right?"
"Certainly, Martha," I said, "and I rejoice to find that you go to the
best of all sources, the Bible, for guidance."
I read the letter which Martha had written to George, and in which she
announced her intention of remaining in her situation and of setting
him free from his engagement. Poor girl! I knew what the writing of
that letter must have cost her. How I sympathised with the brave heart,
the Christian firmness, which made her resolve to give up her affianced
husband—not because she did not love him, but because he did not love
God.
"Martha," I said, "if George is worthy of your affections, your letter
will not be long unanswered."
"I can leave myself in God's hands," she said; "but I have another
trouble. My sister is young and pretty, and she is taken up with one
who is far worse than George, for he makes game of people who even
profess to be religious, and he is neither steady nor temperate. Will
you try to persuade her to give him up? She is almost like a daughter
as well as sister to me, for mother died when she was only five, and I
took care of her for years till father married again."
I promised Martha to use my influence with Jessie, and I did all in
my power, but in vain. Pretty foolish Jessie married a worthless,
idle spendthrift, in defiance of tears, entreaties, and advice.
And,—alas!—still reaps the fruit of her self-will in the companionship
of a drunkard, amid poverty and perpetual domestic strife.
George did not answer Martha's letter. His family had always been
against his marriage with her, because she was a servant and they
were small tradespeople. So they encouraged him when he expressed his
determination not to eat humble pie, and told him "there were as good
fish left in the sea as any that had been taken out."
We were all sorry for Martha's trial, for such it was, but thankful
that she never for a moment wavered in her resolution. She served us
well for some years more, and then became the wife of a man like-minded
with herself, and able to maintain her in comfort.
After sixteen years of married life, Martha's husband volunteered this
testimony: "She has been a good wife and a good mother. She has brought
up her children in the fear of the Lord, both by precept and practice,
and has been a real help to me in everything. She has often told me
about giving up the man she was to have married, but she always says,
'I thought it was a trouble at the time, though it was all for the
best. It would have been no use to ask God's guidance, and then take
one's own way.'"
A pleasant testimony this, after many days. Truly, "A woman that
feareth the Lord, she shall be praised."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
AS A LITTLE CHILD.
A MOTHER and a little child of six years were together one afternoon,
the former busily plying her needle, the latter building a wonderful
castle with a box of jointed bricks. They were almost constant
companions, for all the elders of the flock were at school, whilst
Nellie was still her mother's pupil. A bright, merry, intelligent
young creature was the little scholar. She needed neither coaxing nor
driving; but loved to learn as the mother loved to teach.
As she laboured away at her building on that summer afternoon, the
small architect reminded one of a bird by her ceaseless motion. She
flitted about, piling brick upon brick; sometimes talking, sometimes
singing, as she drew back now and again to observe the effect of her
work.
And, childlike, she chattered for a time, hardly noticing how brief
were her mother's answers, or that, very often, there was no reply at
all to her many questions. But this state of things was so contrary to
custom that it attracted Nellie's attention, and, turning towards her
mother, she saw that her hands were lying idle in her lap, and that her
eyes were filling with tears.
In a moment the bricks were on the ground and the castle a mere wreck.
The child darted to her mother, exclaiming, "Mamma, mamma! What is the
matter? Are you ill? Do tell me what you are crying for?" And at the
same time, she softly wiped the tear from Mrs. Matthews' cheek, and
followed this act by a loving kiss.
The mother lifted the child on her knee, and clasping her arms round
her, wept quietly for a few moments. Then, as soon as she could speak,
she said, "Nellie, your father and I are in great trouble about
something. You are too young to understand why I am crying, darling,
and I cannot tell you about it or I would, because I know my little
Nellie would like to comfort her mother."
The little arms gave an answering pressure as the child said, "Can't I
fetch or do anything, mamma?"
"Darling, I wish you could," was the answer.
Nellie remained silent for a moment, and then she said, with a
beautiful bright smile, "Mamma, I can ask God to take away the trouble
from papa and you. He can do everything."
The child's hopeful words thrilled through the mother's ears like a
message of mercy. She was a profound believer in the power of prayer.
She had taught her children to pray as soon as they could lisp, and not
one of them could say, "I remember the time when mother first prayed
with me." She had knelt with her babe in her arms; she had breathed
prayers over the little sleepers as they lay in their cots; and as soon
as they were old enough, mother and children had bowed the knee, and in
simple words sent up their petitions at the throne of grace together.
And now this youngest of them all was bringing her lessons to mind, and
strengthening the faith of her mother by her childlike confidence in
the love and power of God, and in His willingness to answer prayer.
Mrs. Matthews saw Nellie go to the window and behind the shelter of the
curtain. She remained silent for some minutes while the little bowed
figure, with clasped hands, was asking God to "take away the trouble
which made her mother weep." She was sure He knew all about it, though
she did not and could not tell Him.
The prayer ended, Nellie came back to her mother, and sat quietly for
a little while, until Mrs. Matthews was called out of the room; but
before she went to bed that night she whispered, "Is the trouble gone
yet, mamma?"
"Not yet, Nellie. We have to wait God's time for removing trouble."
"Well! He will take it away," replied the child, without one shade of
doubt as to the result of her prayer.
The mother sighed, as the thought came into her mind, "Oh, that I could
receive the kingdom of God, that I could grasp His promises and trust
Him, as this little child, who first heard of Jesus, the Saviour of
sinners, through me! How easy it seems to tell others; how difficult to
'Rejoice in the Lord alway,' and to trust Him as a child submits to the
leading of a loving parent."
The morning came, and again Nellie whispered her inquiry, "Mamma, I
have asked God again. Is the trouble gone yet?"
Mrs. Matthews was half afraid to say "No," there was something so
touching in the child's confidence. She replied, "Not yet, Nellie."
"But it will, mamma?" half inquiringly.
"Yes, dear," replied Mrs. Matthews, firmly, "it will, Nellie. But we
cannot be sure when or how. God knows what is best. Never forget that,
dear. Sometimes He makes us wait awhile, to see if we can be patient
and trust Him and sometimes, though He does not take away the trouble,
He makes us strong and willing to bear it."
This was something new for the child. She thought; the little face
brightened. "I understand, mamma. I know," she cried, eagerly. "You
love me; but you do not always give me everything I want, and sometimes
you make me wait. I will ask God to make you strong."
Day after day the child waited, prayed, and expected an answer,
believing it would certainly come. One morning, Mr. Matthews received
a letter as they were all at breakfast. As he read it his face grew
bright; he handed it to his wife, and Nellie heard her mother say,
while tears of a new kind ran down her cheeks, "Thank God!"
"Mamma, mamma! Is the trouble gone?" cried Nellie, eagerly.
"My darling, it is," was the answer, as she kissed the face of her
little comforter with a thankful heart.
Mr. Matthews wondered what Nellie meant, especially when he heard her
glad shout, "I knew it would go! I was sure it would go."
But when her mother told him how the child's prayer, and her daily
expressions of confidence, had cheered and comforted her during those
days of trial, he understood it all, and rejoiced that the good seed
sown in the young heart had already brought forth fruit.
The words of Jesus are—
"Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he
shall not enter therein."
May this true story of a little child's prayers, faith, and patient
waiting, be the means of carrying comfort to some weary and heavy-laden
soul, longing, but fearing to take God at His word, and to lay hold on
those precious promises which are all "Yea and amen in Christ Jesus."
[Illustration]
A WITNESS FOR THE SABBATH.
TWO gentlemen were talking together one evening about the inestimable
value of the Sabbath as a gift to mankind.
Both had led busy lives, and though one of them had long since retired
from active commercial pursuits, he was incessantly occupied, not in
making money, but in doing all that he could to promote the welfare and
happiness of others.
"Better to wear out than rust out," was this man's motto, and his clear
complexion and the bright expression on his countenance, together with
his active step, showed that his labour of love, instead of making him
older, was helping to preserve his vigorous health.
The younger of the two was still in the very prime of life, and was the
owner of an immense manufacturing concern, which constantly taxed all
his powers, both of mind and body. Yet he, too, found leisure to look
around amongst his toiling hands, and to think of and carry into effect
plans both for their moral improvement and bodily comfort.
[Illustration: Better to wear out than rust out.]
"I used to think," said Mr. Baird, the elder of the two, "that I had
weight enough to carry on my shoulders when I stood alone as the
proprietor of mechanical works, and with hundreds of men in my employ.
But my responsibilities seem small to look back upon in comparison with
yours of to-day. There is such keen competition; news flies with such
rapidity; in fact, the world lives so fast that we have hardly time to
think. We seem to be in a perpetual whirl of business."
"It is quite true," returned Mr. Jackson, the younger speaker. "Times
have changed greatly during the last fifteen years since you retired
from business. And I could not stand it, but for one blessed relief."
"I can guess what that is—the Sabbath, that precious gift of which so
many now seem to think lightly enough."
"Yes, it is precious indeed, and through all my life, I am thankful
to say, I have valued its rest and been jealous of any attempt to
encroach upon it. I think you know that for some years I travelled for
the founders of the very works which now belong to me, and which you
consider so vast and important."
"You have told me as much before," said Mr. Baird, "and just now, as
you spoke of the Sabbath, I was wondering whether you succeeded in
acting up to your principles whilst leading a life which exposed you to
so many temptations."
"I wish I could say that I always did. I tried; but sometimes, alas!
I yielded to the temptations around me. I can say this much, that I
never, either as a traveller or employer, transacted business, or
allowed others to do it, on the Sunday. As a rule, when 'On the road,'
I so arranged my journeys that I ended the week in some quiet country
place or old cathedral city. I often went a few extra miles on Saturday
nights in order to reach such a resting-place; and words could not
express how sweet the quiet was to me after the bustle and hurry of the
week. I do not believe many men entered the house of God with a more
thankful sense of its privileges than I did during those busy years."
"But you say there were exceptions to these happy Sabbaths."
"Yes. It happened occasionally that I could not reach one of my havens
of rest, and that I was thrown into company with my brethren of the
road who did not feel as I did, and was persuaded to spend my Sunday
with them and after their fashion."
"Without attending public worship, for instance?"
"That would be one thing neglected. Then we sat longer at the table,
and, though I was never intemperate, I perhaps took a little extra
wine, and talked of subjects that would have been better kept out of
mind."
"What difference did this make on you, body and mind, during the week?"
"My body missed its periodical rest, and was sooner tired. My mind was
less bright; my conscience accused me. I exactly realised the truth of
those words of old Judge Hale:
"'A Sabbath well spent brings a week of content,
And health for the toils of the morrow;
But a Sabbath profaned, whatsoe'er may be gained,
Is the certain forerunner of sorrow.'
"But that is not all. I kept during all those years an exact record of
my Sabbaths, and particulars as to how and where they were spent. I
also kept an account of the week which followed each, and the business
done in it. I possess those memoranda now; and it is a fact that I
never had a good and prosperous week in business matters after an
ill-spent Sabbath, and I never had anything but a happy and prosperous
one after a Sunday which had been spent in accordance with God's
gracious and loving purpose in bestowing it. Well now, how do you
account for this, Mr. Baird?"
"I fancy we should both account for it in the same way, my friend,"
said the elder gentleman. "We have not forgotten those words spoken by
the Prophet Isaiah to the Israel of olden time but as true as ever to
the Israel of God to-day: 'If thou turn away thy foot from the Sabbath,
from doing thy pleasure on My holy day and call the Sabbath a delight,
the holy of the Lord, honourable; and shalt honour Him, not doing thine
own ways, nor finding thine own pleasure, nor speaking thine own words:
then shalt thou delight thyself in the Lord; and I will cause thee to
ride upon the high places of the earth, and feed thee with the heritage
of Jacob thy father: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.'"
"Yes, I believe the words with all my heart. It is a good gift for the
body, a blessing to the soul, a time bestowed on us here to fit us to
enjoy eternity. Thank God for the Sabbath!"
Mr. Jackson paused, and his friend added a fervent "Amen."
As the testimony and experience of a business man in these busy days,
I thought this conversation worth recording. I trust it may carry home
a lesson to some of those who deny themselves the enjoyments and the
privileges attached to God's good gift of one day in seven.
"See, for that the Lord hath given you the Sabbath." "Remember the
Sabbath day to keep it holy."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
WHICH PAYS BEST?
TWO shops stand side by side, in one of our city roads. Both are
inhabited by hard-working and most obliging tradesmen. But there is a
difference; for the one with the larger family works hard enough—the
other works too hard. Six days' work in each week is enough for one,
the other cannot do with less than seven.
One shop is closely shut on the Sunday, and from the side door, the
father, a widower, may be seen, twice during the day, starting to
join the assembly of God's people in His house. His eldest girl, a
sweet-faced modest young woman, is on her father's arm, the younger
ones go in front—a little family band, of one heart and one mind. There
is a sweet sense of peace and rest on the young faces, and a light on
that of the father which tells of that other peace, which the world can
neither give nor take away.
Those who know them best say they are a happy family—that a loving
father has dutiful children, and that the home, under the careful
management of that young girl, is a sweet picture to look upon.
The secret of it is, that they leave the six working days outside the
Sabbath as far possible; but they take as much as they can of the
Sabbath lessons into the week days' work to cheer them onward.
Leaning against the door-post of the next shop is the too industrious
master of it. He cannot spare himself the Sunday, and, though he puts
up part of the shutters during morning hours, as a sort of compliment
to the day of rest, you can see all the goods in tempting array within.
You feel quite sure the master is ready to serve any customer who may
be as unscrupulous as himself with regard to the Lord's day. Perhaps he
thinks he will be the richer for his seven days' work in each week; but
his home does not give evidence of this.
What can be more miserable than an untidy home on Sunday morning,
and clothing with all the soil of the working days evident upon it!
As no member of that household is thinking of going to church, no
child has a place at the Sunday-school; neither parents nor children
think of washing or dressing until the afternoon. So, slatternly and
comfortless, they go about preparing the only sign of Sunday in the
shape of a really extravagant dinner.
When this is over, and the kitchen cleaned, after a fashion, the mother
takes her Sabbath rest, by sleeping until tea-time, and spends her
evening in gossip with the stray customers whom her husband serves—at
least when he is to be found in the shop.
But most of his time is passed in a neighbouring public-house, where
he spends far more than the profits of his Sunday trading. As to the
children, they are either displaying tawdry finery in the streets, or
following the mother's example, and spending the precious hours in idle
talk.
So the days and weeks go on unmarked by rest—either for soul or body.
No walking to the house of God together; no taking sweet counsel
together; no telling of the love of Jesus to the little ones, or
bringing them to footstool for a welcome or a blessing. Seven working
days in each week means no time for the concerns of any other world
than this. No time for the Bible, for prayer, for thought of what is to
follow when this world, its work, and its bustle, are ended for us; no
time to think of a home beyond the grave, or to prepare for the great
and solemn change that must come to us all sooner or later.
It seems strange that two families so unlike each other should continue
to live side by side for years, and each go on its own way unchanged.
But the Sabbath-keeper has tried many a time to influence the
Sabbath-breaker, and it grieves him to see his neighbour's children,
and especially a fine lad of fifteen, growing up in this godless
fashion.
"Why don't you take John to church?" he asked, one Sunday morning, as
the father and son were lounging by the shop door.
"He may go," was the answer. "They may all go. I tell them so always.
Don't think I hinder them."
"You should take your children, not send them," said the other. "If I
had only said 'Go' to mine, they would have been like yours. We all
go together, and that is why we like it twice as well. I tell you,
neighbour, that if one of us is kept away from God's house on the
Sabbath, we feel as if we had lost something all the week through."
Depend on it, when we are called on to give an account at the last
great day, it will be a poor excuse for us parents if we can only say
that we gave them leave to do right if they liked; but never either
used our authority as parents, or set them an example to induce them to
do it.
We would repeat this Sabbath-keeper's advice. "Do not send, but take
your children to church. Work together through the week. Worship
together on the Sabbath; and so may you hope to be able, through
Christ, to stand in His presence at the last, and to say with joy,
'Behold I and the children which God hath given me.' A family chain
without one missing link."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
BEN BARRY'S CHRISTMAS-BOX.
THERE was not a better known man in all the town than old Ben Barry. He
was the owner of a large tilted wagon with a truck attached to the back
of it by a chain, and a horse which looked neither strong enough nor
fat enough for the labour of dragging wagon and truck when fully laden.
Ben was a handsome fellow, who had been a sailor, and who still went to
and fro in a river steamer from the comparatively small town in which
he lived to the large seaport near the river's mouth. People called him
old, not because he was so, but because everybody knew him so well, and
looked on him as a person of large experience.
Ben's business was to start at the end of the town the farthest from
the pier whence the steamer sailed, and to collect the goods and
parcels which were to be sent by it. He blew a long horn at all the
street corners, and used to delight the lads by the musical flourishes
in which it was his pleasure to indulge.
On the return of the steamer, it was Ben Barry's duty to deliver all
parcels and packages brought by it, and often a passenger's luggage as
well. The process of collecting the goods in the morning was a long
one, but as nothing compared with that of distributing them at night.
The poor old horse went at a snail's pace, and it was noticed that he
stopped, without the admonitory "Whoa," at every public-house, and that
it took longer to leave goods at such a place than at all the shops in
the town beside.
Ben was not a good master to his bony steed, and in the bitter weather
did not care that old Jack was standing supperless in the cold,
whilst he was taking glass after glass, professedly to keep it out
of his own throat, in a well-warmed, well-lighted room. Still Ben's
immovable good temper, merry jokes, and really obliging disposition,
made him a favourite with many, and at Christmas time especially, he
received a gift, and too often a glass along with it, from most of the
tradespeople.
It happened one very cold winter, that Ben's potations to keep out the
frost became more frequent, and the delivery of goods more tardy and
irregular; so Mrs. Barry, fearing for the safety of the parcels, sent
her little son Jack—a sturdy ten-year old—to guard the same whilst the
father was indoors. This made Ben all the more comfortable. Jack was a
trusty fellow, too small to deliver goods, but certain not to forsake
his charge. So Ben stayed a little longer by the warm tap-room fire,
and Jack and the old horse shivered outside in company.
Christmas came, and Christmas-boxes. Ben dropped many a coin into
his pocket, and swallowed many more glasses free of cost than were
good for him. At the principal stationer's shop, which was also the
post-office, Ben had had many large packages to deliver. There he did
not expect that his Christmas-box would be supplemented by a glass, for
the postmaster was a staunch teetotaler; but he felt sure of a handsome
tip, and with a smiling face wished him a merry Christmas and a happy
new year!
[Illustration: The coat fitted him just a little too much.]
"Same to you, Ben, and many of them. I have a Christmas-box here, but I
can't give it you without the old horse and Jack are with you."
The old horse was round the corner, but Ben had sent Jack home, so it
was arranged that the trio should call on the following day.
There was a humorous twinkle in the postmaster's eye as the old horse,
at his usual snail's pace, came crawling on, and was brought to a stand
opposite his shop. Out came the shopman with a nose-bag containing as
much corn as any horse could possibly consume, and at which Ben's steed
set to work, moving his jaws with a steady, rapid crunch, of which no
one who saw his legs move would have thought them capable.
"That is the old horse's share, and this rug will keep his old sides
warmer when you are delivering those parcels that take so much stowing
at the Red Lion," said the postmaster, as he put a warm rug over the
poor beast's thin ribs. "And Jack, where's Jack? There's something for
you. My boy's legs and arms are too long for this good overcoat. Try it
on, and see if it will fit you."
Little Jack was speedily inducted. The coat fitted him just a little
too much; but then it would last, and there was room to grow. In order
to help him to fill it out, the postmaster added a large mince pie and
a Christmas cake, and, on condition that he started an account with it
in the penny bank that very evening, a bright shilling.
Ben touched his hat, thanked the postmaster, and looked expectant.
"Nay, Ben," said the latter, "I have no Christmas-box for you in
addition. So far you have had all the money and the drink, whilst Jack
and the old horse have had double share of cold and all the waiting.
If they share the labour, they should share the benefit, and I prefer
giving my Christmas-boxes in food and clothing, and where both are most
needed, to bestowing money where it is likely to be misspent in drink
by one who has had too much already."
Ben was a good deal abashed at this, but he was not without fatherly
feelings, and he was pleased in his boy's pleasure. "Thank you, sir,
all the same," he said; "you have been good to my lad, and in that kind
to me. And if you had given me nothing but the old horse's feed, at any
rate you have taught me a lesson."
He waited patiently till the corn was finished, and then went on
his way. The joke got wind, and Ben was often laughed at about the
postmaster's Christmas-box. He took the jests with his usual good
temper but it began to be noticed that Ben's eyes grew brighter, his
pauses at the Red Lion shorter, and that his old horse's ribs became
better covered. Little Jack, his mother, and the youngsters at home had
more of Ben's company after that day.
By God's blessing, the postmaster's lesson proved a word in season,
and that Christmas time, the turning-point in Ben's life. He began to
think less of self and more of others. Then he became discontented with
himself and his life, and in want of a Saviour. And when he found that
Saviour in Jesus, he wondered how he had ever lived without Him.
Need I say that Ben Barry, the Christian, was a far happier man than
the old Ben of whom we caught a glimpse at the beginning of this sketch?
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
TWO PICTURES BY THE WAYSIDE.
IN passing along one of the busy crowded streets of a large city, it
was my lot, on the same day, to witness two pictures very opposite in
character. There was much of sadness in each, and much to learn from
both.
The figures in the first were an elderly man and woman; evidently
husband and wife. By right, the wife should have leaned on the arm of
her partner; but, alas! His step Was unsteady, his gait tottering, and
she was guiding him with a firm clasp, looking around from time to
time, as if afraid and ashamed to be seen by any casual passenger to
whom they might be known. It was evident that the wife's sorrowful task
was a new thing to her, and that the man was no habitual drunkard.
All the way along the road as they tottered on, it was touching to
hear the poor old fellow pouring out expressions of regret for having
yielded to temptation, and promises to avoid it for the future. The
woman wiped her eyes now and then with the corner of her apron, and
spoke soothingly and tenderly, as if she would fain comfort her old
partner in his evident humiliation. Then the man began to remind her in
a broken pleading voice of all the years and years during which he had
never transgressed by taking a drop too much; adding, "And thee knaws,
my lass, I've had to wark reet hard a' the time."
The wife tightened her hold of her husband's arm, and, as she clasped
her other hand across it, said, while her voice was fairly broken with
a sob, "Doan't I knaw it, Jem? Doan't I knaw it?"
As she uttered these words, she and her half-helpless charge came to
the turning into a narrow street, down which they went, and I saw them
no more.
There was a dark shadow cast over this little picture by the
condition of the old man; but there were some beautiful lights in it
nevertheless. To see that wife's homely face, full of combined love
and sorrow, and the earnestness with which she strove, as far as her
strength would allow, to hide her husband's fault from the eyes of
their neighbours, stirred my warmest admiration and sympathy. Not one
word of reproach did she utter, to increase the pain her husband was
already feeling. She was ready to meet his penitence half-way; to call
to mind his long perseverance and hard work, and to strengthen him in
making and keeping good resolutions for the future.
My fancy followed them to their little home, and I seemed to see its
fast-closed door shut, to prevent prying eyes from knowing anything
to Jem's discredit. And I pictured, too, the sorrowing wife on her
knees, asking pardon for his fault and new strength for both. The two,
doubtless, long joined together by the strongest earthly ties, would
be drawn closer still; for all who practise such conduct as that wife
manifested realise the truth of those sweet words, "He that covereth a
transgression seeketh love."
Thus thinking as I passed onward, I reached a railway arch, under which
my road lay. There I witnessed a scene of a very different character.
A much younger couple than those I had lately noticed were standing
beneath the arch; the man steadying himself against the wall as well as
he could; while the woman, in a perfect fury of passion, was heaping
reproaches and abuse upon his head.
She taunted him with her rags and dirt, with his barefooted children
running wild in the streets and not half fed, whilst he, worse than a
brute, was setting in a public-house. She was so bitter in her words,
so quick-witted and sharp in her taunts, that they stung him, heavy as
was his head, and muddled as were his senses. He replied by an oath
and an expression which was full of hate and contempt towards herself,
vowing, in addition, that he would spend every farthing he had left of
his wages, and she might get money where she could; though he had meant
to give it to her.
Stung to fury at this, she seized his arm, as If to drag him homeward,
but she only succeeded in throwing him down on the ground. The man with
difficulty regained his feet, and his first act was to aim a blow at
the face of his wife which would be heavy enough to leave cruel marks
there; his next to reel forward and enter the nearest public-house,
which was just outside the arch.
There were several witnesses to this miserable scene, this picture all
black, and without any gleam of light to relieve it. The woman's shrill
taunts had called more from the adjoining street; for her idea seemed
to be, not to cover, but to expose her husband's transgression to the
very utmost.
Now she went on her homeward way alone, weeping, disfigured, hopeless,
and surely we may suppose self-accusing, if conscience were not
altogether deadened within her.
I suppose my face told something of the sorrowful feelings which this
scene had stirred within me; for a decent-looking woman, who evidently
knew the unhappy couple, said to me, "Isn't it a pity she can't hold
her tongue a bit, not even till she gets him home and the door shut
behind him? But it has always been the same!"
"You know this couple, then?"
"Yes, ever since they were boy and girl; when they were first wed, he
would only get a little drop of drink now and then; but when he did,
she would make such an outcry, scolding and going on like anybody mad,
that if he had come home meaning to stop, it was pretty sure to drive
him out again. I think she might have done a good deal to improve him
if she'd only had a bit of patience. But, poor lass! She never could
hold that sharp tongue of hers. So they have gone on from bad to worse,
and no signs of mending. She has made herself a lumpy bed; but as she
has made it, so she'll have to lie."
The speaker then bade me good-afternoon, and went on her way. I went on
mine also, musing sorrowfully on the last picture I had witnessed, and
calling to mind that other lesson from God's Word:
"A soft answer turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir up anger."
I thought with deep sorrow of that poor young wife who, having a very
real trouble to battle with in the intemperate habits of her husband,
had made it greater and him far worse by her own ungoverned temper and
bitter words. And oh, what a touching contrast did the example of the
patient old woman present! It is hard, terribly hard, to be linked for
life to a drunkard; to have a miserable home and ragged children, where
peace, comfort, and plenty ought to reign. But surely, where a woman's
own intemperance of language has tended to make bad worse, conscience
must speak with a stern accusing voice; unless by long neglect she has
succeeded in silencing its pleadings.