“‘To obey my father and mother. Is _that_ right, uncle?’
“‘Yes, Frank. The Old Testament and the New give you the same
instruction. Now, _when_ must you obey?’
“‘My teacher said we must obey when we hear the command.’
“‘Yes, that is the time; not like a little boy I knew of last winter,
who went into the room where his mother was sitting, with a snowball
in his hand which he was eating. His mother bade him put it into the
urn, for she was afraid it would make him sick. He kept taking bite
after bite, and at length, when asked which he loved best, the snowball
or his mother, replied, “I love my mother best, but I can’t _eat_ my
mother.” Then to please himself he dropped the small piece he had left
into the urn. He might have said he loved _himself_ the best, for we
always try to please those most that we love best.’
“‘That was _me_, uncle; I remember it,’ Frank replied. ‘And _can it
be_, uncle, that my heavenly Father is as well pleased with me when I
pile wood as when I read the Bible?’
“His uncle replied, ‘To perform any duty with the spirit of obedience
is pleasing to your heavenly Father. “To obey is better than
sacrifice,” and great knowledge of the Scripture without practising it
cannot make a Christian any more than great knowledge of geography can
make a voyager of one who never leaves his home. The supposition that
a comet is about to destroy the earth is groundless; but if you fear
God and keep His commandments, not forgetting to do your duty after you
have closed your Bible, you will be prepared for any event that may
await you. Do you understand me, Frank?’
“‘Yes, sir,’ replied Frank, smiling, ‘and I’m going to help Charles,
and to tell him what you say.’
* * * * *
“There! isn’t that a nice story?” said Aunt Cynthia, complacently. “You
see, what God wants is for every little boy, and girl, too, to mind
their fathers and mothers. Praying and reading the Bible doesn’t do the
least mite of good unless we do all our stents without fretting, and
remember to hang up our hats, and when mother wants—”
“I don’t like morals stuck on behind,” said Maybee, with a defiant toss
of her head. “It’s a good ’nough story, an’ I’d just as lieves not hear
any more about it.”
XI.
BELL’S BIBLE READING.
“For our gospel came not unto you in word only, but also in
power, and in the Holy Ghost, and in much assurance.”
“Wasn’t it perfectly splendid?” said Bell Forbush, coming out of church.
“Did you think so?” queried Jenny King, stretching her neck for another
glimpse of Miss Georgiana’s new fall hat. “I thought it looked for all
the world like an L with a French roof, built right on to the back of
her head.”
“Oh! I meant the sermon,” said Bell, coloring, with a consciousness how
much more frequently it was bonnets than sermons she meant. “I do think
it was lovely. Don’t you, Cousin Mate?”
“‘Whatsoever things are lovely, think on these things,’” returned Miss
Marvin, smiling, and dropping behind to speak with Judy Ryan.
“Do you suppose we could read the Bible to poor folks and show them how
to be real nice, as he said that beautiful young lady did?” resumed
Bell, walking along with Jenny.
“I don’t know. It’s always ‘_beautiful_ young ladies’ in books. Don’t
you remember in ‘Ministering Children’ about the ‘snow-white pony,’ and
the children all running to meet her, and the old blind women so glad
to see—hear her, I mean—”
“You know,” broke in Bell, “there’s lots of poor folks down to the
Mills.”
“Yes; but they wouldn’t like it, I don’t believe; we’re so small.”
“Why, I’m most as tall as my mother, Jenny King; and besides, doesn’t
Cousin Mate say the Bible can help everybody? That’s enough to convert
them, of course.”
They stopped to ask Sue Sherman to join them.
“We’ll go separately, and see who reads the most chapters to the most
folks,” said Bell.
“Does Miss Marvin approve?” asked Sue.
“Yes, indeed. She told us we ought to first,” returned Bell, enlarging
a little upon her cousin’s suggestion.
They set out promptly Monday afternoon,—Sue with some misgivings, as
Bell would not allow her to consult her mother, because no one was to
know anything about it till all the folks down at the Mills began to
come to church. Wouldn’t people be so surprised!
At the first house Bell found a big, red-faced woman, washing, with a
dozen children, more or less, rolling around on the floor. “Wouldn’t
you like to send the dear little things to Sabbath School?” inquired
Bell, in her sweetest manner.
“Faith, an’ haven’t they a church of their own, an’ a praste to look
after them, letting alone it isn’t your business at all, at all?” was
the rather indignant response.
“Perhaps you would like to hear me read a chapter in the Bible,”
persisted Bell, very graciously, at the same time drawing her light
muslin dress away from the wooden chair one of the “little dears”
pushed towards her, without the dusting process so common in stories.
“Get out wid your hiritic books, an’ you a turning up your noses at the
likes of us!” snapped the frowzle-headed woman, facing her visitor with
arms akimbo. Bell took a rather informal leave, and hurried on to the
next house. A little, meek-faced woman, who had evidently been crying,
opened the door.
“Shure, an’ I wish you’d do something to make my poor Tommy feel
aisier! The docther says he’ll die for sure,” and she broke out in
violent demonstrations of grief.
“I’m certain he’ll be glad to hear some of these beautiful verses,”
rejoined Bell, opening her Bible,—“only,” she added, as a sudden
thought struck her, “I hope it isn’t anything catching?”
“It’s some kind of a faver with a quare name. Poor little Tommy! he’ll
be so glad to see somebody.” And the mother opened the door into a
small, close, although passably clean room.
“I—I don’t believe I can stay now,” stammered Bell. “Here’s a nice
tract. I really can’t stop.” And away she went, thinking to herself,
“It may be the _yellow_ fever or something horrid, and I should
certainly catch it. Dear me! look at the children’s heads in that
large tenement house; it will be such a bedlam it’s no use to go in.
And next comes Molly Dinah’s; she’s so dreadfully dirty, I shall just
lay a tract right in at that open window.” As she did so, a coarse,
tawdrily-dressed woman looked out of the house opposite.
“Molly’s not at home. Won’t you come in and wait, dear? It’s seldom so
purty a face comes our way. An’ I should know you was a born lady just
by your walk. Do sit down, miss,” and she wiped a chair with her ragged
dress, after the most approved style.
Bell was on tiptoe at once. Here was just the opportunity.
“Would you like to hear a chapter from the Bible?”
“Sure, wouldn’t I? It’s long since the likes of me has been that lucky.
You have beautiful eyes, miss, and such a lovely complexion!”
Bell, highly gratified, selected the one hundred and nineteenth Psalm.
“How beautifully you read!” exclaimed her listener when she had
finished. “Haven’t you a bit of loose change a body could buy a sup of
tea with? What with the hard times, it’s meself hasn’t tasted tea for
months, an’ you see how the old room looks.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Bell, dignifiedly. “I was just thinking how much
better it would be if only the windows were washed and those shelves
cleared up. Your dress, too, is very ragged, and it doesn’t take money
to keep ourselves clean and neat. _I_ am not allowed to drink tea,
and—”
Presto! what a change! Bell was glad to get out of hearing.
“Is that you?” called Jenny King, from across the street. “How _do_ you
make out?”
“I’ve called at four houses,” returned Bell, evasively.
“Honor bright? Why, I’ve been reading the whole time to one real old
man. Had to holler like anything. I declare! here comes Sue with a big
pail and a mite of a boy. Where have you started for now?”
“Berrying. Want to go?” laughed Sue.
“A queer way to read the Bible,” remarked Bell, loftily.
“Well, it all seemed to go together. I found a little girl with a
sprained ankle and read her some Bible stories; one was about the
healing of Jairus’ daughter, and she cried right out and said, ‘O
mother! don’t you wish that Man would make me well? we want the berries
_so_ bad!’ and I coaxed her to tell me all about it. Some crusty old
woman has engaged to buy all the berries they will bring her every
day for two weeks, and the money is to pay their rent; but she’s
so fussy if they disappoint her one single night they’ll lose the
chance. Saturday night Abby hurt her foot, and this little chap can’t
go alone, although he’s a dabster at picking, aren’t you, Bub? To-day
and to-morrow the mother has to wash for folks; after that she can go
herself; so I’ve offered. Let’s all go and get them a lot.”
“The idea of _my_ picking berries to sell!” exclaimed Bell.
“Or to give away, either,” laughed Jenny. “Never mind, I’ll go with
Sue, and you can call at all the other houses, you get along so fast,
Bell.”
“I do believe that good Man sent you,” said little Abby, clapping her
hands, when Sue came back with three well-filled pails.
“I think He did,” whispered Sue, with tears in her eyes. “And you must
be all ready early in the morning, Jaky, before it is so hot.”
“And will you bring the Book and read another bit?” asked Jaky’s
mother. “I’ve never believed a word of it before, but it sounded
wonderful comfortin’ to-day with your doing and all. I’ll never say
’em nay again when they ask for the childers to go to Sabbath School.”
“It needed the berries and Bible both, didn’t it?” said Jenny,
thoughtfully, as they walked home. “How came you to think to offer? I
never should.”
Sue hesitated.
“I guess I know,” said Jenny, hurriedly. “You prayed beforehand, and I
forgot all about it. I do believe that makes all the difference in the
world.”
XII.
WHAT COUSIN MATE SAID.
“For the word of God is quick and powerful, and sharper than
any two-edged sword.”
“I don’t think reading the Bible to folks is any sort of use,” said
Bell, coming out on the piazza where her cousin was sitting, the next
Saturday night.
“Have you been trying it?” asked Miss Marvin.
“Why, yes; last Monday I went all the whole afternoon, and I never saw
such hateful, disagreeable people in all my life,—they didn’t seem to
care the least bit; and then Sue and Jenny went off berrying—”
“I met Sue this afternoon, and she says some little boy and his mother
are coming to Sabbath School to-morrow.”
“They are? Dear me, I couldn’t get a single one to say they would
come. I don’t think the Bible is so very powerful.”
“Let me read you a bit of poetry,” said Cousin Mate, opening her book.
“Let me hear, too,” said Jenny King, coming up the path and sitting
down on the steps.
“Thy Word, a wondrous guiding star
On pilgrim hearts doth rise,
Leads to their Lord, who dwells afar,
And makes the simple, wise.
“Thy Word, O Lord! like gentle dews
Falls soft on hearts that pine.
Lord, to thy garden ne’er refuse
This heavenly balm of thine.
Watered for Thee, let every tree
Break forth and blossom to thy praise,
And bear much fruit in after days.
“Thy Word is like a flaming sword,
A wedge that cleaveth stone;
Keen as a fire so burns thy Word,
And pierceth flesh and bone.
Let it go forth o’er all the earth,
To purify all hearts within
And shatter all the might of sin.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with our Bible-reading,” said Bell,
peevishly.
“I was thinking,” said Miss Marvin, “how carefully the gardener needs
to loosen the earth around his plants to help the dew in its work; and
how, although the sword may be keen and studded with jewels, there must
be a strong, willing arm, obedient to a wise captain, before it can
accomplish its whole mission.”
“But what has it to do with us?” repeated Bell, impatiently.
“Why, can’t you see?” said Jenny. “We didn’t do our part of the work
right.”
“I should like to know why.”
“Well, for one thing, I forgot to pray,” said Jenny, hesitatingly;
“and—well, to make folks love the Bible I guess you have to show them
you love their bodies, somehow, don’t you, Miss Marvin?”
“Exactly. When God sent the apostles out to preach the gospel, He gave
them, not only the Word, but power to heal the sick and work many
miracles. They had also, what you forgot to ask for, the help of God’s
Holy Spirit.”
“But you told me your own self about a man who found just a torn page
of the Bible, and it made him a Christian,” said Bell, sulkily.
“Yes, God can make His Word accomplish what He will in any way He
pleases. But _we_ need, when we use it, the Holy Spirit, and warm,
sympathizing, helping, human hands as well.”
“I’m going to try again,” said Jenny. “I’ve been picking out some
verses for my old man, and I’ve made him a little pocket for his
spectacles; he said he was always losing them.”
XIII.
“CHRIST” OR “SELF.”
“For we preach not ourselves, but Christ Jesus the Lord; and
ourselves your servants for Jesus’ sake.”
“Let me read you something else, Bell, dear,” said Miss Marvin, after
Jenny had gone. “Perhaps it will show you another reason why you met
with so little success, last Monday.
“THE MASTER’S FACE.
“A great artist called together his friends to view a magnificent work,
on which he had been long engaged.
“‘Tell me,’ he said to the friend on whose judgment he most relied,
‘what do you think is the best point in my picture?’
“‘O brother,’ said the enraptured artist, ‘it is all beautiful; but
that chalice,—that is a perfect masterpiece, a gem!’
“Sorrowfully the artist took his brush and dashed it over the toil of
weary days, and turning to his friends, he said, ‘O brothers, if there
is anything in my piece more beautiful than the _Master’s face_ I have
sought to put there, let it be gone!’”
* * * * *
“St. Bernard once preached an eloquent sermon which all the great and
learned went away applauding; but he walked sadly home with downcast
eyes, while occasional sighs revealed a mind deeply dejected.
“The next day he preached a plain but earnest discourse, which touched
the hearts of many, but elicited no applause. That day his heart was
glad and his countenance glowing. On being questioned why he should be
sad when so applauded, and yet so cheerful when he received no praise,
he answered, ‘Yesterday I preached Bernard; to-day, Jesus Christ.’
“So we shall have most comfort ourselves in our teachings when we have
most of Christ in them; then, too, we shall do most good to the souls
of others.”
* * * * *
Bell sat still, listlessly twirling her rings.
“My dear little cousin,” said Miss Marvin, “was it God’s glory or your
own you thought of, when you set out to draw all the people of Mill
Village into our Sabbath School? Did you want them to admire and love
yourself, or the Lord Jesus of whom you read? Was it Self or Christ you
were trying to serve?”
“You always make me out wrong! but I shan’t trouble people reading the
Bible any more,” said Bell, flinging herself into the house.
Cousin Mate resumed her book with a sigh. “Poor little Bell!” she
thought. “How much harder a master Self is than Christ! One makes us
willing servants to our fellow-men, the other makes us miserable slaves
to our own passions.”
XIV.
MISS LOMY’S SERMON.
“And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not
unto men.”
Miss Lomy was helping Mrs. Sherman with her fall sewing. There were
three sisters who lived in the square two-story house on the hill. The
house full of old-fashioned furniture was all their father left them,
so Miss Lomy “went out” sewing, Miss Nancy “took in” work, and Dolly,
the youngest, a staid, sober woman of fifty-five, attended to the
housekeeping.
Miss Lomy had lost all her teeth, which puckered her mouth into the
funniest little O; there were wrinkles all around her eyes,—in fact
her face was so covered with wrinkles that when she laughed, as she did
every five minutes, it made you think of the ripples chasing each other
over a lake after a handful of pebbles has been thrown in, and her two
merry blue eyes lighted them up for all the world like the sunshine.
Everybody was glad when Miss Lomy came, and nobody could decide which
flew the faster, her tongue or her needle.
“You know you promised to make my dollie a severless jacket to-day,”
said Maybee, one morning.
“Yes, dear, if I get through with this mending before your ma has that
other suit cut and basted,” returned Miss Shelomith, cheerily.
Maybee watched her needle creep in and out of the frayed edges of a
fearfully long gash.
“I tore that getting through the hedge. It’s my every-day dress though:
what makes you take such teenty-tonty stitches?”
“So it’ll look nice, to be sure.”
“Nobody’ll ever see it, because most always I wear an apron.”
“I reckon the Lord’ll know about it,” said Miss Lomy, with so much
reverence in her tone you knew there was no levity in her meaning.
Involuntarily, Maybee’s eyes went up to the ceiling, and then her wee
bit of a nose followed, disbelievingly.
“You don’t suppose God looks at such things! Of course He don’t,” she
said, slowly.
“Well, now, if He cares for the sparrows and the weeds and all such,
and numbers the very hairs of our heads, it stands to reason He’ll
notice whether little girls’ dresses are neat and whole,—which they
wouldn’t be ketched together the way some folks do their darning. I
reckon He sees all we do, big _and_ little, and it ain’t so much the
‘what’ as the ‘how’ he takes account of.”
“But, Miss Lomy, He has to see to the sun and the rain, and the ocean
full of ships, and the things growing, enough to feed everybody.”
“_To_ be sure; and that’s what’s so wonderful,—to think of His holding
the sea in the hollow of His hand, and not forgetting to show the
little ant where to find its supper.”
“But He _has_ to do that; and He don’t have to notice everything we do.”
“No, He just wants to, and that’s the most wonderful of all. Because,
you see, it’s as easy again to do things well when you are trying to
please Him. Pleasing folks is a doubtful matter: you may, and then
again, you mayn’t,—accordin’ as they’re cross or over-particular or
feeling down in the mouth; and there may be times you mean well and
don’t make out much, an’ they’ll blame you all the same. But the Lord
knows just what we try to do, and gives us credit for that. He ain’t
never out of patience neither. Then there’s another thing. Folks can’t
watch you all the whole time, and there’s a temptation to sort of slip
things over, the way we oughtn’t; but the Lord, He’s looking every
minit, there’s no getting away from His eye; and so when you’re working
to please Him, you’ll just do your best right straight along.”
It was a short sermon, so short and simple Maybee could stow it all
away in her busy little brain. Some time afterwards she went with Sue
to see Molly Dinah. Molly Dinah had happened in to Mrs. Flynn’s one day
when Sue was reading to Abby.
“I’ve most forgot all I knowed of the Bible,” she said, sorrowfully.
“You see, I can’t read a word, myself. I’m a member of the church,
though, in good an’ reg’lar standin’, if I ain’t sot down in one for
years. I ain’t lost my hope, neither, but it’s so old, sometimes I’m
most afeared it’s worn out. I wish you’d come and read to me onct in a
while, to sort of patch it up.”
So Sue went. Poor Molly! Cleanliness, like godliness, was with her a
thing of the past. Once a year, perhaps, some of her neater neighbors,
out of pity, gave her the benefit of a little lime and soap. Otherwise,
dirt and disorder reigned undisturbed. Sue longed, but did not quite
dare, to suggest a reform, although Molly listened very attentively to
her reading.
That day, however, when Sue had shut up her Bible, Maybee broke out
with, “Do you s’pose the Lord likes the way your house looks?”
“Well, whatever does the dear child mean?” said Molly, holding up both
hands.
“Why, Miss Lomy says we ought to do things to please God, ’stead of
men; so now, I don’t darst to throw in whole pods when I’m shelling
beans. You get through quicker, but you don’t feel so nice when you
shirk. Of course, if He’s looking, you want to do everything just
perzactly right.”
“Well, to be sure! I never thought of that; but I don’t really think He
sees in here much.”
“I shouldn’t think He _could_, through that window,” said Maybee,
severely; “but if He counts the hairs on our heads, don’t you s’pose
He’ll know whether our faces are clean?”
“Well, I _do_ declare! Didn’t seem as if it paid to slick up, so few
folks come in; but if I thought the Lord really minded—”
“I’ll help you wash the window,” said Sue.
What a busy time they all had for the next two hours! The sun actually
looked in and laughed before he said good-night. And at the end of the
week—for Molly was capable enough when she set out—you would scarcely
have known the place.
That Saturday afternoon it was that the minister sat in his study,
utterly discouraged. What had his year’s work amounted to? Not one
soul saved or comforted that he knew of. His eye fell upon his church
manual; he took it up and read the name, Molly D. Inan. Some one had
said that was the woman down at the Mills known as Molly Dinah. Some
one ought to have looked her up, long ago. He took his hat and went out.
“To think the minister has actu’lly come to see me!” said Molly,
drawing out her one wooden rocking-chair. “I do suppose if the church
folks had only noticed me a leetle more, I shouldn’t never have stopped
going. You see, I hadn’t thought _then_ about the Lord’s minding.
I’m proper glad I’m slicked up. You ain’t no idee how it looked, an’
I never even mistrustin’ the Lord cared, till that little Miss put
it into my head, how we should do everything to please Him instid of
folks. And it does help wonderful, to think He’s lookin’ and mindin’. I
jest scrub with a will, now.”
“You’ve cheered me up, ’mazingly,” she said, as the minister took his
leave; but he carried away more cheer than he brought. He, too, could
go to work “with a will,” remembering it was the Lord, not men, he was
seeking to please.
And the next Monday morning little Benny Cargill, when he opened the
store, swept down all the cobwebs he could reach, and brushed out all
the corners, because the minister said in his sermon, “_Whatsoever_ ye
do, do it heartily as unto the Lord and not unto men.”
PART FOURTH.
I.
HOW NOT TO BE TROUBLED.
“But none of these things move me, neither count I my life dear
unto myself.”
“I should like being good well enough, if we could only do it once for
all, and have it done with,” said Maybee, despairingly; “but to just
keep at it and _keep_ at it! Don’t you ever get tired, mamma?”
“How little children know about the doctrines nowadays,” remarked Aunt
Cynthia, severely. “Now, I knew them all by heart before I was old as
Maybee,—sanctification, perseverance of the saints—”
“It was sinners I meant,” said Maybee, scowling, “folks what have to
be forgived every single day. I do believe, mamma, the harder you
try the worse it is. So many things keep happening, things you don’t
like, while things you _want_ to happen, won’t; and Miss Nancy says if
anybody ever gets real good and happy, they’re most sure to die.”
Miss Nancy was very different from Miss Lomy. She had a thin, peaked
face, a mouth always drawn down at the corners, and reminded you of a
northeast drizzle as much as anything.
“I thought somebody had been talking to my little girl to make her so
blue this morning, or else that she had lost her way,” said mamma.
“Lost what, mamma?”
“What was the hymn you learned last sabbath? Wait a minute,—let’s
smooth out some of the scowls, and shake a little sunshine into these
cloudy eyes. There! that’s better. Now we’ll listen.”
Maybee laughed, and climbing into mamma’s lap despite Aunt Cynthia’s
warning “Ahem!” she began,—
“The world looks very beautiful
And full of joy to me:
The sun shines out in glory
On everything I see.
I know I shall be happy
While in the world I stay,
For I will follow Jesus
All the way.
“I’m but a little pilgrim,
My journey’s just begun;
They say I shall meet sorrow
Before my journey’s done.
The world is full of sorrow
And suffering, they say.
But I will follow Jesus
All the way.
“Then, like a little pilgrim,
Whatever I may meet,
I’ll take it, joy or sorrow,
And lay at Jesus’ feet.
He’ll comfort me in trouble,
He’ll wipe my tears away.
With joy I’ll follow Jesus
All the way.
“Then trials cannot vex me,
And pain I need not fear;
For when I’m close by Jesus,
Grief cannot come _too_ near.
Not even death can harm me,
When death I meet one day.
To heaven I’ll follow Jesus
All the way.”