our quiet village of Whithaven. There were a few meetings held, a few
beer-saloons closed, a small amount of earnest, personal effort, and
then the tide of evil flowed on, stronger, if anything, than before.
“Patient, persevering effort—where is it to come from?” said Dr.
Helps, despairingly.
“From the wives and daughters,” said Miss Marvin, hopefully. “We will
pray and work in our quiet way, trusting God for the result. Poor aunty
is almost heart-broken over Warren’s disgrace. You know he was picked
up drunk on the street last week.”
So the ladies met weekly, not for discussion, but for prayer; they
reorganized the children’s “Band of Hope,” they talked temperance at
their tea-parties; and it was Miss Marvin’s suggestion that each member
of the Sabbath School should try to get one new name on their pledge a
week. Even the smallest scholar had his printed pledge with a pencil
attached.
“I shall never dare ask anybody who drinks,” said Sue Sherman.
Maybee said nothing. That some grave matter was working behind the
troubled little forehead, mamma knew very well, but she was quite
willing her little girl should solve the problem herself if she could.
The secret was this: Waiting in the post-office one day, Maybee
overheard one gentleman say to another, “So Dan Harte’s been drinking
again? How did it happen?”
“Oh, he was at work for ’Squire Ellis, had a slight ill turn, and was
dosed with liquor the first thing. To use Dan’s own words, it set him
on fire. He couldn’t eat nor sleep till he’d been down to Caffrey’s and
drank himself dead drunk.”
“All over with him now, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think so. He seems more determined than ever. But there’s no
safety for such poor fellows unless we can put the temptation quite out
of their way.”
“Which you won’t be likely to do at present. Of course the ’squire
didn’t mean any harm?”
“Oh, no! and he didn’t mean any harm to Warren Forbush, I suppose.”
“It’s a pity about him. There wasn’t a finer young man anywhere round
when he graduated last fall; talented, too.”
“Yes; and that gay new billiard-room on Pleasant Street is doing for
him exactly what Caffrey’s did for poor Harte; but, mind you, he took
his _first_ glass at the ’squire’s last New Year’s. He visits there
frequently now; the ’squire has an adopted daughter, you know. That
affair last week may open her eyes to the mischief their wines are
working. What’s the use battling against whiskey and lager beer, and
letting wine and ale alone? I believe in trying to save even the
poorest specimen of humanity, but I tell you, all the while the best
blood in our country is going to fill drunkards’ graves.”
“I’ll get ’Squire Ellis to sign my pledge,” thought Maybee, her black
eyes flashing with her new-born purpose.
But how? That was the problem.
The two families did not even exchange calls. The ’squire had some
trouble, years ago, with his brother, Say Ellis’s father, in which Mr.
Sherman had been involved.
Maybee walked around by the big store and looked in. Could she ever
speak to the big, broad-shouldered man, ordering, overseeing,
directing, with his sharp eye and quick, decided utterance?
The next night she coaxed Tod around that way.
“Suppose we go in,” she ventured.
“No, my _won’t_,” rejoined Tod, emphatically.
Evidently she need expect no help from that quarter.
“If I could meet him on the street,” she thought; but the portly
business man passed her as indifferently as he did the hand-organ on
the next corner.
Every day, for two weeks, she extended her walk past the big store on
her way to and from school. Every night after her usual prayer went up
the whispered petition, “Please, dear Father, show me how.”
At last she made a confidant of Sue.
“Mercy on me! Nobody ever could, and besides, you won’t have any
chance.”
Quite crushed by this chilling response, Maybee fled to mamma.
“He’d ought to; he’s hurting folks when he don’t know it,” she sobbed.
“Won’t you or papa or some big body ask him to please stop?”
“_May be_,” said mamma, wiping away the tears, “it is this little
body’s special work, and if it is, God will provide a way. When He has
a work for us to do He always opens the door. Only be patient, and
watch and wait.”
A week or two afterwards, Tod, neat and clean as a pin, started for
papa’s shop. Esq. Ellis stood in his store door. It had been an
unusually profitable day, and the merchant was in the best of humor.
“Well, my little man, where are you bound?” he smilingly remarked, as
Tod came along.
“My isn’t _your_ little man. Her said my was, but my isn’t; and my
isn’t a beggar neither,” rejoined Tod, straightening up.
“Well, ’pon my word! if it isn’t the little fellow who wanted fifty
cents one day, and I was in such a hurry—”
“Own-y-to-ny papas stop hurwying when their little boys ask weal hard,”
persisted Tod.
The merchant’s lip quivered: there came to him so suddenly the touch of
little fingers hidden away in the grave for more than twenty years, the
sound of childish voices to which he had never answered “Nay.” He sat
down on the steps and drew Tod to him.
“I used to love little boys,” he said, huskily, “but it’s so many years
ago. Will you tell me your name, and come and dine with me some day?”
“But my shall be my own papa’s little boy.”
“Yes, yes; but you could come and see me because I haven’t any little
boys. You shall have something nice.”
“Choc’late ca’mels and ice-cweam?”
“Yes, and I’ll send the carriage for you,—let me see, to-morrow. Wait
a minute and I’ll write mamma a note.”
“Can’t Maybee come too?”
“Who is Maybee?”
“Why, don’t you know Maybee Sherman, my cousin?” asked Tod, in
astonishment.
“Sherman, Sherman? Oh, well! she’s only a small chip, and it is time
bygones were bygones. Yes, I’ll write Maybee’s mamma a note, too.”
Wasn’t Tod on tiptoe with expectation, and didn’t he and Maybee sit
back so straight in the grand carriage, behind the colored driver, as
almost to break their dear little necks? And how splendid everything
was,—the pictures, the fountains and flowers, the china and silver,
Mrs. Ellis in her silk and laces, Miss Georgiana with her diamond rings
and soft, slender hands.
“I wonder if I dare,” thought Maybee, her heart giving a sudden bound
as the waiter came in with the dainty tray of wine-glasses. “If you
please, Mr. ’Squire, would you—so other folks wouldn’t—’cause they
can’t help it,” she broke out earnestly, slipping her little pledge on
top of the glass her host was raising to his lips.
“What? How? Nonsense! What does such a little midget as you know about
such things?”
“Please—I _do_ know; it’s so _very_ bad. You see, they were both
drunk,—Phosy’s father and Bell Forbush’s big brother; an’ he’s so
nice; an’ you’ve only to write your name under there, and never give
anybody any more.”
If she had coupled Dan Harte with Walter Forbush! But she had said
“Phosy’s father.” The ’squire looked at his daughter. She leaned
forward, with crimsoning cheeks.
“We have wanted so much not to use it any more,” she said in a low tone.
He turned to his wife.
“I think it would be better every way,” she ventured. She would never
have dreamed of making the suggestion, knowing how hard and selfish the
worldly heart had grown, missing the touch of those baby fingers.
Walter Forbush and Dan Harte! He coupled them now in his own mind. Was
it a common weakness, and would the one ever sink as low as the other?
Suppose _his_ boys had lived—and been tempted? Even old Dan Harte was
once somebody’s boy, fair and promising.
“Take the wine away,” he said to the waiter, at the same time picking
up Maybee’s little pencil and writing his name in full under the
simple promise.
“I knew there’d be a ‘door,’ somewhere! Mamma said God could make one,”
said Maybee, joyously. “And to think you ’vited me your own self!”
VII.
THE “NEW SONG.”
“And he hath put a new song in my mouth, even praise unto our
God: many shall see it and fear, and shall trust in the Lord.”
“It’s coming up fast!”
“Work lively, boys! Do your best and you shan’t be sorry.”
How they raked—great, heaping winrows! How they tossed—huge fork-fulls,
half covering the men on the loads! How they hurried the fat, lazy
horses and slow, plodding oxen hither and thither across the fields!
Meanwhile the low muttering of the thunder grew louder and louder, and
large drops of rain came thicker and faster.
“Pitch on what you can and make for the barn,” called out farmer Vance.
“It’s no use trying for the rest, and we’ve got the heft of it. Drive
up! Steady, Joe!”
“I reckon there’d a been some pretty tall swearing if the shower’d
come fifteen minutes sooner,” said one of the men, swinging his coat
over his shoulder and walking leisurely after.
“Vance may do a little in that line yet,” rejoined another, who was
shouldering rakes, forks, and a pile of hay-caps. “Look at that load,
will you? Just a lee-tle—there it goes!”
A stone on one side, a slight depression on the other, the unwieldy
mass swayed, toppled, and slid to the ground, carrying with it the
driver and Dan Harte, who floundered out of the drift as the rain began
to fall in torrents.
“Now look out for breakers! Take Dan and Vance together, they’ll make
it hot for Joe.”
These two had helped the farmer through more than one haying season,
and were accustomed to the passionate outbreaks of a naturally quick
temper.
“An’ if there’s one thing more aggravatin’ than another it’s to
have a lot of hay, jest in complete order, get a right down soakin’,”
remarked the first speaker, as they hurried up to the scene of the
disaster.
Joe, the driver, was staring bewilderedly around; Dan had already
seized a pitchfork; the farmer stood by the horses’ heads.
“You ought to have looked out for that low place,” he was saying.
“Where were your eyes, Joe? Never mind now, the mischief’s done.
Scrabble up, and drive on with what’s left,—no use crying for spilt
milk. We’ll pick up the pieces some other time. It’s coming, boys! Into
the barn all of you!”
The man in the shirt-sleeves looked at his companion and gave a low
whistle of astonishment.
“Beats all!” said the other; and then, as the tree-tops began to
reel in the oncoming tempest, everybody rushed for shelter. There
was ample room on the broad barn-floor. The horses quietly munched
their oats, the men disposed of themselves here and there, some
astride of milking-stools, some stretched at full length on the soft,
sweet-smelling hay, some propped up against the open door, till the
shifting wind obliged even that to be closed against the rain and hail.
“I say, Harte, tune up; give us a rouser. Haven’t heard you sing for an
age; wish you had your fiddle.”
All the frequenters of Caffrey’s groggery knew Dan’s musical powers,
which were really of no mean order, albeit for years they had served to
gratify the lowest passions of vile, half-drunken men. Many a time he
had helped the speaker make night hideous.
The man nudged Dan now, showing the neck of a small flask in his
pocket, as he whispered, “Give us a regular high one, and here’s for
you.”
Farmer Vance was busy with his horses. Dan waited a moment, a flush of
red showing through his bronzed cheek. Then in a full, clear voice, he
broke out with—
“Ho! my comrades, see the signal
Waving in the sky,
Reinforcements now appearing,
Victory is nigh!
_Cho_:—“Hold the fort for I am coming,
Jesus signals still.
Wave the answer back to heaven,
By Thy grace we will!”
Farmer Vance was the first to strike in on the chorus; he sang a
tolerably good bass. Very soon two or three of the others caught the
strain, and the barn fairly rang with the soul-inspiring words.
“I give it up,” whispered Joe Derrick to our friend of the
shirt-sleeves. “Think of Dan Harte singing psalm tunes! There must be
a something to turn him right square about so. An’ the old place, too.
Been by there lately? Looks like a garding—all the front yard does.
An’ he’s built on a shed for his wife to wash in; actu’ly has a carpet
in t’other room.”
“I suppose you an’ me could have carpets, Joe, if we’d let drink
alone,” said the other, soberly. “But what beats me is the way Vance
held in out there in the hay-field. ’Tain’t natural, ’n I can’t account
for ’t. If anybody’d a told me that man would stand there and see that
hay as good as sp’iled and never say a word—he looked kind a riled,
you could see that—I’d a risked my best hat!”
“But seein’’s believin’, and as for hearin’—Hark, now!”
Dan had struck into,
“No surrender to the foe!
Shout the cry where’er you go.
Falter never! we must win,
No surrendering to sin.
No surrender! Let it be
Battle cry for you and me.
God will help us, He is near,
He is with us, do not fear.
“No surrender! then at last
All our conflicts over-past,
Glad will be our welcoming
To the city of the King.
Forward, then! fall into line!
Bright the conqueror’s crown will shine.
Storm the camp of sin and wrong,
Sweet will be the victor’s song.”
“I ain’t sure but we’d better enlist,” said Joe, half-laughing, but
drawing his sleeve suspiciously across his eyes. “I never thought much
of psalm-singing an’ new doings; but when you see they’re good for
something—I tell you what: if Vance says anything more about our going
to church, I’m his man. I believe I’ll try a hand at that myself.”
VIII.
THE WONDERFUL BOOK.
“These were more noble than those in Thessalonica, in that they
received the word with all readiness of mind, and searched the
Scriptures daily, whether those things were so.”
“Aunty McFane is real sick,” whispered Dick to Sue Sherman in the
Sabbath School class. “I stopped there this morning. The doctor says
she can’t live a great while.”
“I’m so sorry. Who is with her?” asked Sue, her face full of real
concern.
“Judy Ryan. Father has hired her to stay all the time. Isn’t it nice?”
“Splendid! Judy is so neat,—and she likes what Aunty McFane likes.”
Sue added the last in a still lower whisper.
“I know,” said Dick. “She had just been reading a chapter in the Bible
out loud, and Aunty McFane said there was a promise for every ache she
had. Isn’t it funny,” he continued, turning to Miss Marvin, “that
folks just as different as can be find exactly what they want in the
Bible?”
“It was provided for everybody by One who knew all hearts,” rejoined
Miss Marvin; “and the more we study it, the more wonderful it seems. I
remember reading once about a silver egg, prepared as a present to a
Saxon queen. You opened the silver by a secret spring, and there was
found a yolk of gold. You found the spring of the gold, and it flew
open and disclosed a beautiful bird. Press the wings of the bird, and
in its breast was found a crown, jewelled and radiant. And within the
crown, upheld by a spring like the rest, was a ring of diamonds which
fitted the finger of the princess. ‘So,’ said the author, ‘there is
many a promise within a promise, in the Bible, the silver around the
gold, the gold around the jewels; and too few of God’s children ever
find their way far enough among the springs to discover the crown of
His rejoicing or the ring of His covenant of peace.’”
“There are great minds who don’t believe a word of the Bible,” said
Will Carter.
“Yes; but in spite of all these great minds can do and say, men, women,
and children go on, year after year, finding comfort, happiness, and
help, as well as eternal life, in its pages.”
“Oh! it’s all well enough for poor, low, ignorant people, who haven’t
any other comfort,” rejoined Will, carelessly.
“Poor, low, ignorant people like you and me, Will,” said Miss Marvin,
quietly. “_So_ poor, we have no right to a foot of God’s great earth
nor one breath of His pure air, save as He suffers us to use it; so
ignorant, we cannot trace one step of the way back to our Father’s
house. I remember an anecdote like this:—
“‘Young Harry was sent on an errand one evening in early winter. After
giving him his message his mother said, “Be sure you take the lantern
with you, Harry.”
“‘“Bother the lantern!” answered the boy, gruffly and disrespectfully;
and he started, muttering to himself, “What do I want with a lantern?
I guess I know the way well enough!”
“‘Very soon Master Harry, in crossing the street, stumbled into a hole
which had been made by a recent rain. By this fall he knocked the flesh
from his shin-bone and covered his clothing with mud.
“‘On his way back he forgot the fence had fallen in near the edge of
the ravine. As he groped his way along the bank, he fell over, and went
sprawling to the bottom of the ravine.
“‘With much ado and after many bruisings, he got into the road once
more; but when he finally reached his mother’s door, he looked more
like a scarecrow than a living boy.
“‘The lantern would have saved him from all this: wasn’t he a foolish
fellow not to take it?
“‘But what shall be said of those boys and girls who know the Bible to
be the only lamp which can guide their feet safely through the paths
of life to their home in heaven, and yet refuse to carry it! Are they
not still more foolish?’”
* * * * *
“I remember a story something like that,” said Jenny King. “It said,—
“‘A boy was once sailing down a river in which there was a very
dangerous channel. He watched the old steersman with great interest,
and observed that whenever he came near a ball of painted wood, he
changed his course.
“‘“Why do you turn out of your way for these painted balls?” asked the
boy.
“‘The old man looked up from under his shaggy brows, too much taken up
with his task to talk, and simply growled out, “Rocks.”
“‘“Well, I would not turn out for those bits of wood,” said the boy; “I
would go right over them.”
“‘The old man replied only by a look. “Poor, foolish lad,” it said,
“how little you know about _rocks_!”’”
“Yes,” said Miss Marvin, “many a poor soul has looked at the buoys
in the Bible, pointing out some danger, and said, ‘I know better; I
shall sail right along,’ and has gone down in a sea of darkness and
desolation. Remember, too, a good sailor _studies_ his course: he is
not content with a glance at the map or chart now and then. So, my dear
boys and girls, let us _study_ God’s Word, searching in it for hidden
treasures, for only those who find its pearl of great price can ever
be truly rich or wise or happy. Sceptics and unbelievers seldom search
the Scriptures. They deny without examination and reject without trial.
Their Bibles have no ‘pins’ in them like the old lady’s, of whom I read
not long since. As her sight began to fail, she found it hard to find
her favorite verses; but she could not live without them; so what did
she do? She stuck a pin in them, one by one, and after her death they
counted one hundred and sixty-eight. When people went to see her, she
would feel over the page after her pin, and say, ‘Read here,’ or ‘Read
there’; and she knew pretty well what promise was by this pin and what
by that.”
“I think Aunty McFane knows her Bible almost by heart,” said Susy, with
a tear in her eye. “And did you ever hear her repeat that beautiful
hymn? I learned it from her one day, it was so pretty.”
“Tell it to us, please. I think there will be just time enough before
the bell rings.”
IX.
AUNTY McFANE’S HYMN.
“For there is one God and one Mediator between God and men, the
man Christ Jesus.”
Weary of earth and laden with my sin,
I look at heaven and long to enter in;
But there no evil thing may find a home,
And yet _I hear a voice that bids me come_.
So vile I am, how dare I hope to stand
In the pure glory of that holy land,—
Before the whiteness of that throne appear?
_Yet there are hands stretched out to draw me near._
The while I fain would tread the heavenly way,
Evil is ever with me day by day:
Yet on mine ears the gracious tidings fall,—
Repent, confess, thou shalt be loosed from all.
It is the voice of Jesus that I hear,
His are the hands stretched out to draw me near;
And His the blood that can for all atone,
And set me faultless, there, before the throne.
’Twas He who found me on the deathly wild,
And made me heir of heaven, the Father’s child;
And day by day, whereby my soul may live,
Gives me His grace of pardon, and will give.
Yea, thou wilt answer for me, righteous Lord!
Thine all the merit, mine the great reward;
Thine the sharp thorns, and mine the golden crown;
Mine the life won, and thine the life laid down.
X.
HOW TO BE GOOD.
“Not slothful in business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord.”
“Oh, dear! I wish I had something to do,” sighed Maybee one afternoon.
“I think it’s real mean for Tod to have the measles ’fore I catched
’em too; ’cause we could have played sick all together; and now, mamma
stays over there and leaves me all alone—”
“That is just like _some_ little girls,—wanting to make their mothers
all the trouble they can,” remarked Aunt Cynthia, severely. “Get your
little chair and I’ll read you a story out of my basket.” There were
always a great many slips of paper in the “patch-work basket,” mostly
poetry, with now and then a story.
“Mamma always holds me,” pouted Maybee, dragging up her little rocker
rather reluctantly.
“Such a great big girl! I should be ashamed. I never wanted to tire
_my_ mother that way,” said Aunt Cynthia, turning over one paper after
another.
“I don’t believe she ever wanted you to,” muttered Maybee, curling her
head down on the sofa-pillow, and preparing to listen.
Aunt Cynthia put on her glasses, cleared her throat, and began:—
“‘Ma! get me the Bible, ma! I’m going to commence to be good, for there
is a comet coming that’s going to strike the earth and burn it up!’
said little Frank one day, as he ran with great haste into the room
where his mother was sitting.
“‘There is a Bible on the table, my son,’ said his mother; ‘but who has
been talking with you about the comet?’
“‘Oh! I heard the men in the yard say so. Where shall I read? It has
opened here itself. Shall I read aloud, ma?’
“Frank answered his mother’s question, and then without waiting for his
mother to reply to what he had asked her, began to read from the book
of Malachi as follows: ‘For behold the day cometh that shall burn as
an oven, and all the proud, yea, and all that do wickedly shall be as
stubble, and the day that cometh shall burn them up, saith the Lord of
hosts.’ Here he paused, and seemed to be reading to himself; then in a
manner more composed he said, ‘Is that about the comet, ma?’
“But his mother was prevented from replying by the entrance of her
brother, who presently, noticing Frank was reading the Bible, inquired
if he was studying his Sabbath School lesson.
“Frank replied that he was not, and added ‘I’m afraid the comet is
coming to burn the earth, uncle.’
“‘And where is Charles?’ said his uncle. ‘Is he not afraid, too?’
“‘Charles is out in the yard piling wood. I told him he’d better come
in and read the Bible, but he said pa had told us to pile the wood,
and that he remembered his last Sabbath School lesson, and could think
of that if he _wanted_ to, without reading the Bible; but I meant to
be good, so I came right in as soon as I could. And now shall I call
Charles, uncle?’
“‘Has he got the wood all piled?’
“‘I don’t know, uncle, but I don’t think he can have piled it all by
this time.’
“‘And if he comes in, who will pile the wood?’ asked his uncle.
“‘I don’t know; perhaps pa will,’ said Frank, somewhat thoughtfully.
“‘And would it be better for your father to pile the wood than for his
two little boys to do it?’ inquired his uncle.
“Frank waited awhile before he replied, and then said, in a tone of
earnest surprise, ‘Why, Uncle Thompson, do you think it is being as
good to pile wood as to read the Bible?’
“His uncle replied, ‘To pile wood when it is the proper time to pile
wood is as much an act of goodness as to read the Bible in the proper
time.’
“‘Why, uncle, I thought it was always proper to read the Bible at any
time. Isn’t it?’
“‘The truths of the Bible you should have stored in your mind,’ replied
his uncle, ‘and be always ready to act upon the precepts which it
teaches; but _duty_ can never call you two ways at the same time, so
there may be times when it is more proper to do something else than to
read the Bible. As you have the Bible before you, you may turn to the
sixth chapter of Ephesians and read me the first three verses.’
“‘I can tell without looking, uncle, for that was our last Sabbath
School lesson. It is, “Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for
this is right. Honor thy father and thy mother, which is the first
commandment with promise. That it ‘may be well with thee, and that
thou mayest live long on the earth.’” I said that last Sabbath to my
teacher; isn’t that right, uncle?’
“‘Yes, you have the precept in your mind; you can repeat it very
correctly. You can repeat the fifth commandment, too, can you not,
Frank?’
“‘Yes, sir, I can say them _all_,’ replied Frank, in a very happy tone.