discontent quite gone from her face and tone. “If we are ‘following
Jesus,’ we shan’t mind the bad things, and only be all the gladder when
He takes us up to heaven.”
II.
TOD’S “PERSECUTE.”
“The servant is not greater than his Lord. If they have
persecuted me, they will also persecute you.”
Tod came home from school one day, his eyes red and swollen, his
clothes dusty and tumbled; with him came Maybee, fierce, angry,
revengeful.
“They’re such dre-eadful boys!” she sputtered,—“such mean, hateful,
wre-etched boys! I wish I could pound ’em! I wish they’d catch the
measles or lock-jaw, an’ mos’ pretty near die! I wish—”
Aunty laid one hand over the angry lips.
“Let’s wait till we feel pleasanter,” she said. “Run up to the
bath-room, both of you, and then into the nursery for a nice play with
baby. After that we’ll hear about those ‘dre-eadful’ boys.”
“It was some of those new ones and Tom Lawrence. You see, Tod
wouldn’t, and they hung him right straight up. It’s just that way
always when folks try to be good! they’ll make fun, and I wish—”
But aunty playfully drove the little talker through the hall and up the
stairs.
Half an hour later two clean, happy-faced children came into the cool
back-parlor, and nestled down beside her.
“Well, what is it?” she said.
“Wam, we play marbles, you know,” began Tod.
“Big boys an’ all,” interpolated Maybee.
“Yes; and my beat ’em—”
“_Who_ beat?” asked mamma.
“My—me—no, _I_ beat ’em,” amended Tod, who was learning the
nominative case; “an’ then they wanted to play for keeps, an’ I said my
mamma wouldn’t ’low it; and they laughed real loud and teased me to put
up my new dime ’gainst Tom’s knife, you know; _and_ I said I couldn’t
’cause it was wicked, _and_ then they said ‘Pish!’ and ‘Pho!’ and
spwinkled sand in my hair, and made b’lieve pweach, and then somefin
fell out of Joe’s pocket,—I mos’ know it was Mr. Blackman’s pencil,
what he scwews out of a hole when he w’ites; but Tom said I must
pwomise to say it wasn’t if anybody asked me; an’ I couldn’t, ’cause it
would be a lie; an’ then they put a wope awound my neck and tied it up
in a twee. It scairt me some.”
“I saw ’em,” said Maybee, her eyes flashing; “but we can’t go one step
off our own side, now; and if you say a word to Mr. Blackman, he calls
you a tell-tale. I’m glad he’s going over to the ’cademy; we’ll have a
woman-teacher, and I guess she’ll ’tend to things and not be flustrated
to bits, neither.”
“But what became of my little boy?” asked aunty rather anxiously. “Did
he stick bravely to the right?”
“I wasn’t vewy bwave,—I cwied,” said Tod, carefully examining his
thumb, “‘cause they kep’ pulling; but I didn’t pwomise, an’ then the
bell wung—”
“But the minute school was out they went at it again,” broke in
Maybee, unable to wait Tod’s slower utterance. “An’ Tom followed us
coming home and told Tod to get right down on his knees and say his
prayers. It _is_ nice to pray, isn’t it, Aunt Sue? and all good folks
do, don’t they? and God tells us to, doesn’t He? But when they talk
about it so, they make you feel perzactly as if it wasn’t nice at all,
and they always will, if you are trying to be good; they’ll just poke
fun at it and make you feel awful. And then they shut Tod in Mis’
Lynch’s yard and fastened the gate. I wouldn’t let Tod go to that
school another single day.”
“_I_ would,” said aunty, stroking the downcast face beside her.
“Well, then, he’d better not say much more about being good.”
“He’d better not _say_ much about it, only when it’s necessary, but I
hope he’ll _be_ just as good as he knows how.”
“An’ be laughed at, an’ screwed round, an’ hung up?” queried Maybee,
with wide-open eyes.
“I am sorry the boys were so unkind, but it is better to bear it than
to do wrong. I don’t really think they meant to hurt you.”
“It hurts ’nough to be scairt, and poked fun at, _I_ think.”
“Yes; but whose little servants are you trying to be? Who tells you to
be brave and honest and truthful?”
“Jesus,” said Tod, softly.
“Well, once, when papa was a little boy,”—how eagerly the four little
ears listened!—“he went a long journey, away up into Vermont, with
his father and mother, Grandma Smith, you know. They missed their way
one night, and had to sleep in a log cabin, with only dry bread and
cold johnny-cake for supper. The little boy looked pretty sober; there
wasn’t much johnny-cake, and dry bread he didn’t fancy at all. Their
host, who had given them the best he had, said, possibly, by going a
quarter of a mile, he could get the boy a drink of milk. Theddy’s eyes
began to shine; but he happened to look around, and there was mamma
eating her dry bread without a drop of tea or coffee to moisten it. ‘I
can eat dry bread too, if my mamma does,’ he said, bravely, putting
away the johnny-cake, and taking the dryest crust on the plate.”
“Oh, wasn’t he nice!” cried Tod, clapping his hands.
“I mos’ know _my_ papa would have done perzactly so, only he wasn’t
there,” remarked Maybee.
“I think so, too,” said aunty. “And should not all Jesus’ little boys
and girls be willing to suffer, if He did?”
“Not—to—be—crucified?” inquired Maybee, huskily.
“Yes, if need be; but Jesus suffered many other things. The Jews used
to stone Him and tell stories about Him and call Him names; and don’t
you remember, when He was before Pilate, how they spit in His face,
and put a crown of sharp thorns on His head, and mocked Him and struck
Him—”
“Boys just like Tom Lawrence, do you s’pose?”
“Yes, I suppose the men and boys then were very much like the men and
boys now; and you remember Jesus told His disciples if they persecuted
Him, they would also persecute them.”
“Well, but did they?”
“Yes; all the disciples were treated very unkindly, and most of them
put to death by those same wicked Jews.”
“Folks don’t do so now?” said Maybee, rather anxiously.
“Not in our own land; but they sometimes laugh at those who follow
Jesus, and try to frighten them out of being good.”
“Is that being _persecuted_?” asked Maybee, in astonishment.
“’Tisn’t but a little mite of a persecute, when we fink about Jesus’s,
is it, mamma?” said Tod. “I don’t mean to even cwy, next time.”
“And remember,” added aunty, this time stroking Maybee’s rosy
cheek,—“Jesus never answered back nor wished any evil upon His
persecutors. He pitied them and asked God to forgive them.”
“Yes’m,” said Maybee, drawing a long breath. “I guess—I’d better not
think ’bout that Tom Lawrence any more.”
III.
WILL CARTER.
“But woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites; for ye
shut up the kingdom of heaven against men.”
“Seems’s if our minister never preached such helpful sermons,” said
Miss Lomy.
She would never know _how_ helpful her own little sermon, handed over
from Maybee to Molly Dinah, and from Molly Dinah to her pastor, had
proved to the latter.
He had written over his study-table,
“_Unto the Lord and not unto men_,”
but men found the simple, earnest, glowing words he brought from thence
strangely attractive. The congregation grew larger, the prayer-meetings
were never so full. Some of the boys, Tom Lawrence among them, began to
drop in and fill the “back seats,” not to laugh and whisper, but to
listen with apparent seriousness.
“Like as not they would come into Sabbath School if we asked them. Our
class is running-over full, but we could have another seat, and Miss
Marvin might work wonders with Tom,” said Dick to Will Carter. The two
were good friends now, having entered the academy together, with Will
ranking too far ahead to fear Dick’s rivalry at present. The misspent
years in the past would always bother poor Dick.
“For goodness sake, don’t get any more riffraff into our class!”
rejoined Will, contemptuously. “That Bill Finnegan is bad enough. Count
me out if there’s to be any more.”
“But what can we do? They’ll expect to come in our class if we ask
them.”
“Let them alone, then. I don’t see any particular need of doing
anything. I give you fair warning, there’ll be trouble if you do.”
Varney Lowe walked home with Will that Sabbath, and talked about the
meetings, the sermon, and the Sabbath School lesson, till Will broke
out impatiently, “One would think you were about setting up for a saint
yourself, Lowe. Do talk about something else. I’m disgusted with the
whole matter.”
Varney was a little surprised, but on the whole rather relieved to hear
that. The truth was, he had almost made up his mind he ought to be a
Christian. He had thought while Mr. Sampson was preaching he would say
so in meeting that evening. First, however, he determined to sound Will
Carter. Will was the deacon’s son and prided himself on doing exactly
right.
This was the result, and if Will was simply disgusted, he, Varney Lowe,
would drop the matter altogether, which he did, much to Miss Marvin’s
disappointment.
A week or two afterwards the minister met Will on the street, and after
a few pleasant remarks, asked very earnestly, “Will, my boy, when do
you mean to become a Christian?”
Just at that moment Tom Lawrence went sauntering past, and Mr. Sampson,
turning quickly, laid one hand on his shoulder, saying, “And you, too,
Tom,—don’t you want to be a Christian?”
Will drew himself up stiffly. Didn’t Mr. Sampson know he and Tom were
two _very_ different boys?
“I have more than I can attend to, now, sir,” he replied; “what with
all my studies and the Lyceum; you know I have Geology and Chemistry
this term, and I really haven’t time for those other things even if I
felt any desire.”
Mr. Sampson looked grieved, and transferring his hand from Tom’s
shoulder to Will’s, he stooped and whispered something in his ear.
“Wish I knew what ’twas,” thought Tom, walking slowly on.
Directly Mr. Sampson was beside him. “You didn’t answer my question,
Tom.”
“I—oh! I’m dreadfully busy, too; you know there’s hen-roosts to rob
and melons to hook and all the circuses to tend to. I really couldn’t
if I wouldn’t.”
It was very rude and saucy in Tom, but street-corners and saloon-steps
soon teach a boy to be that.
Mr. Sampson, however, instead of looking horrified and disgusted, laid
his hand on Tom’s shoulder again, and said, “My dear boy, you may work
for Satan all your life,—work hard, too,—and depend upon it, he’ll
turn you off at last without even a reward of merit. He promises well,
I know. He may pay up a while in counterfeit coin most as good as the
real, except that it won’t pass in another world, but he’ll give you
the slip some time. There is only one Master whose ‘promise to pay’ is
good for this world and the world to come. I’ve served Him twenty-five
years, and I ought to know something about it, hadn’t I? Come to my
house to-night and let us tell you what a good Master he is. A few
of us are going to meet to talk over this very thing. This evening,
remember, at seven o’clock.”
“Going over to the parson’s?” inquired Tom, strolling around by the
deacon’s that night, and finding Will on the steps, using the last bit
of daylight for his book. “Thought I’d go along, if you was.”
Will looked at him a full minute without speaking. What a battle there
was between good and evil in that sixty seconds! Then he said coolly
and deliberately, “No; I’m not going, and I don’t know what it is to
_you_ if I was.”
“Nor I either; haven’t the least idea,” rejoined Tom, turning on his
heel and whistling his way back to Jack Mullin’s, to play “toss-up” as
usual.
Will sat still in the gathering darkness, recalling the words Mr.
Sampson had spoken in his ear:—
“You may be shutting others out of heaven, as well as refusing to go
in yourself, Will. Remember what Christ said of such. You know you
are a leader among the boys—” (Yes; Will straightened even now at
the thought,—but what was it Mr. Sampson added?) “for good _or for
evil_.” For _evil_! The idea! Will Carter, with his character and
scholarship and high hopes of becoming a brilliant orator, who meant to
lead men some day to help elevate the world. But suppose, meanwhile, he
had hindered Varney Lowe or even Tom from becoming a Christian. Would
it be shutting them out of heaven? And what was it Christ said of such?
Away off in the wood a whip-poor-will seemed to make reply,
“Woe-to-poor-Will! Woe-to-poor-Will!” while close beside the step a
cricket chirped sorrowfully, “Shut-out-of-heaven! Shut-out-of-heaven!”
IV.
HOW DICK CARRIED THE DAY.
“And they were not able to resist the wisdom and the spirit by
which he spake.”
Dick could not quite give up his Sabbath School project. He first did
what the apostle James tells all those who lack wisdom, to do, and
then he consulted Miss Marvin. She proposed that the boys of her class
should withdraw and form a new one, inviting as many as they pleased
from outside to join them.
“But none of us want to leave you,” said Dick, regretfully, “and it
won’t help the matter for Will any.”
“I shall be sorry to lose you, but it is the good of others, not our
own pleasure, we are seeking. And Judy tells me there are several of
the mill girls who would join the school if they could come into her
class. Wouldn’t Will take hold of it if you should let him go ahead
about organizing, etc.?”
“Sure enough, that will suit him exactly. I wish Miss Cox hadn’t moved
away, so she could take the girls. Whom shall we have for a teacher?”
“Oh! we will find somebody. First, catch your class—”
“No, it’s first catch Will Carter; and I rather think I can if I set
about it right,” said Dick, musingly.
“Be wise as a serpent but harmless as a dove,” laughed Miss Marvin.
“Fishers of men sometimes need to work as warily as those who go down
to the sea in ships.”
Dick went around to Will’s that very night and began earnestly setting
forth the advantages of the new class and the necessity of Will’s
taking the lead.
“You know we’ve always depended on you for the reasoning out of things,
and the making it interesting generally,” he said.
And it was true every word. Will always had his lesson well learned,
was posted on the historical parts, could see straight through an
argument, kept all the dates on his tongue’s end, and could ask
questions by the half hour. It was only when they came to the practical
parts he shrugged his shoulders and looked listlessly out of the window.
“The boys will all think as much again of the class if you get it up,
and there’s no telling how much good you might do,” continued Dick;
and to his great surprise Will raised no objection whatever. Whether
Dick’s pleasant way of putting things, or the steady chirp-chirp of the
cricket under the doorstep, had most to do with it, nobody knew.
He preferred, however, that Dick should see the other boys, and invite
anybody he liked,—yes, Tom Lawrence, and even Jack Mullin, for all he
cared.
Varney Lowe consented as soon as he heard Will had. Dick went to see
Bill Finnegan; but the good, honest soul knew he wasn’t expected to
have any opinion. He did not relish leaving Miss Marvin, but said he
knew lots of fellows down by the Mills who ought to come only “they’d
never hear to his askin’.”
“Show ’em to me. I’ll pitch into ’em,” rejoined Dick, hopefully. “I’ll
come over to-morrow noon, and you and I together will fetch ’em, see if
we don’t.”
He met Tom Lawrence next, and was quite taken aback by a prompt,
decided “Not by a long shot!”
He had felt sure of Tom. How he did coax and persuade! What inducements
he offered! How skilfully he parried every excuse! till at last Tom
wound up with,—
“For pity’s sake, hush up! Go it is. You’re dead set, now, Dick, since
you ‘begun over,’ and you ain’t none the worse for it either.”
Wasn’t that a compliment worth having?
“And I shall depend on you to bring Jack Mullin,” said Dick. “He and
some of the other boys do just about as you say.”
Tom straightened as proudly as Will ever did. It is a weakness of
human nature, generally, to prefer leading to being led.
“They’ll be on hand, trust me,” he said; and Dick went his way, so
thoroughly happy he had to turn a somerset every other step. He must
run around and see Robert Rand; but Rob wouldn’t care a straw,—he
never said anything any way.
What was Dick’s astonishment when Rob declared his intention of leaving
Sabbath School altogether. It took him so completely by surprise he
could not think of a thing to say; he had never dreamed of opposition
in that quarter, and just did the very first thing his Master put it
into his heart to do. He threw both arms around his friend’s shoulder,
and said very earnestly, “I’m so sorry, Rob, because I’ve been hoping
this great while you’d be a Christian, too.”
And then he stood back, utterly confounded, to see the usually
impassive Robert hurry off into the orchard and fling himself down on
the grass, sobbing like a child. He followed him, half-frightened,
half-hopeful. “What is it, Rob? Tell a fellow, can’t you?”
“It’s—you know—I didn’t suppose anybody cared. I’d have been glad to,
if I knew how; but you never said a word, and she never even looked at
me in particular.”
You could detect something of Nettie’s jealous disposition, but there
was more of a real longing for personal help and sympathy which had
been withheld. Even Miss Marvin, faithful Christian that she was, had,
as too many of us do, looked into the eyes full of eager questioning,
wilful defiance, or forlorn hopelessness, but had passed thoughtlessly
by the dull, ordinary, well-enough boy.
“She didn’t mean to,—indeed she didn’t,” said Dick, slipping one hand
into his friend’s; “and I never supposed you ever thought of the thing;
but I have—prayed for you, Rob, lots of times; and only think, if
there’s two of us to pray for the rest—oh, I’m so glad you’re really
going to try!”
Was he going to? Had he really decided? People of Robert’s temperament
seldom fully make up their minds without strong outside pressure.
This, Dick’s earnest, taking-for-granted manner had furnished.
Almost before he knew it, they were going in Mr. Forbush’s gate. “Miss
Marvin could tell him how, so much better,” Dick said. There seemed no
way of backing out, even if Rob had wanted to, and he certainly went
home that night more thoroughly in earnest than he ever was in all his
life before.
V.
HOW FARMER VANCE REASONED.
“And as he reasoned of righteousness, temperance, and judgment
to come, Felix trembled.”
Mr. Vance was to take the new class in Sabbath School. He declared it
was the most absurd thing ever thought of, but Mr. Sampson insisted. He
knew the farmer to be a well-read man, and that, although but a learner
himself in Bible lore, he had that quick, keen, sympathetic grasp of
human nature which enables one to attract and influence others. Only
Will Carter objected. He had supposed Mr. Sampson would take the class
himself. What could Farmer Vance, who had only recently begun to attend
church, teach a boy well versed in algebra, geometry, and all the
’ologies? Will made extra preparations for that first Sabbath, studied
up on Biblical history, primed himself with contemporary events, and
fully expected to utterly confound the plain farmer at the outset.
The latter had his hands full, to say the least,—what with the
factory boys, to whom everything was new and strange; Tom and his
set, who meant to have a good time out of it; stupid Bill Finnegan,
indifferent Varney Lowe, and wise Will Carter,—but his ready tact,
a suggestion here, an illustration there, a hand upon Jack Mullin’s
knee when the latter’s risibles threatened to become unmanageable,
a quiet deferring to Will’s gratuitous information, all together,
maintained at least a show of interest and order. Very plainly,
however, he considered contemporary events of minor importance. Will
secretly chafed at the way everything drifted round to the one first,
foremost thought,—Christ and Him crucified. Heretofore he had always
been able to dodge the practical questions, but Mr. Vance made them
all practical. The lesson was in the twenty-sixth chapter of Second
Chronicles,—
“_Sixteen years old was Uzziah when he began to reign._”
“Just a year older than Dick and Will,—and only think how much more he
knew!” said Robert Rand, so honestly even Mr. Vance smiled.
“Was knowing so much the cause of his prosperity, Robert? Read the
fifth verse.”
“_As long as he sought the Lord, God made him to prosper._”
“Do you suppose the Jews invented the engines of war mentioned in the
fifteenth verse?” interrupted Will.
“Possibly.”
“It seems we made a mistake when we named our Base Ball Club. It’s the
Catapulta, you know; but the catapultæ were used for casting _darts_,
and the balistæ for _stones_. Sometimes the stones weighed three
hundred pounds. Rather awkward things, compared with weapons of war
now.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Vance. “Men have spent a great deal of money and genius
to perfect the art of killing each other. But some day—”
“Josephus says,” interposed Will, “that engines of this sort were used
with tremendous effect in the siege of Jerusalem by the Romans. They
would discharge stones to the distance of two furlongs. There was an
elastic bar, you see, bent back by a screw or cable, with a trigger to
set it free, and a sort of spoon towards the top to fling the stones.
At the siege of Jotapa, they were sent with such force as to break down
the battlements and carry away the angles of the towers. Both sides
used them at the siege of Jerusalem.”
Here Tom Lawrence puckered up his mouth and rolled his eyes around in
such mock amazement that a broad smile over-spread Bill Finnegan’s
freckled face, and Jack Mullin giggled outright.
“The main point was, which side used them with the greatest effect,”
said Mr. Vance, who had read Josephus thoroughly, but who had quite
another thing in his mind. “By the way, Jack,” and he turned suddenly
to that young scapegrace who was slyly slipping a bent pin in Will’s
direction,—“I saw an enemy slinging stones, or something worse, at you
the other day, and you not doing the first thing in self-defence.”
“Who?—me!—what?” stammered Jack. “Reckon there don’t nobody fire
stones at this chap and not get as good as they send.”
“Yes, there’s an enemy who must have machines something like those Will
has described. He begins with very small stones. You wouldn’t really
think _Satan_ had anything to do with that little game of ‘toss-up’
you and Tom were having. He flings very little sins at first,—just a
bad thought, a wrong desire,—and we think it’s all fun; but by and
by there comes a three-hundred-pounder and takes men right off their
feet, puts them in state-prison, or sends them to the gallows. We need
something to hurl back in self-defence, you see. Do you remember what
telling shots Christ sent against the tempter on that high mountain?
_Bible truth!_ That’s what you want for ammunition, boys. Have plenty
of that, keep close to your great Captain, and you are safe. Uzziah
forgot that last part. Dick, tell in your own words what happened to
him.”
“He grew proud as he grew great, and insisted on burning incense, which
only the priest had a right to do, and God sent leprosy upon him.”
“Josephus says,” put in Will, “that there was an earthquake just at
that moment, and a rent made in the temple through which the sun shone
upon Uzziah’s face, and he was immediately struck with leprosy.”
“That should remind us of the day of judgment,” rejoined Mr. Vance,
solemnly. “Then all the earth shall be shaken, and Christ, the Judge,
shall sit upon His throne, the brightness of His glory far exceeding
the sun; and in that clear light all who have not been washed in the
blood of the Lamb will be shown covered with the dreadful leprosy of
sin. It says of Uzziah not only that the priests thrust him out of the
temple as unclean, but that he himself ‘hastened to go out,’ he was so
ashamed and confounded. Just so sinners in that dreadful day will call
on the rocks and mountains to fall on them and hide them. Will you, my
boys, be of that number who must go away _forever_ from the presence of
the Lord?”
The superintendent’s bell announced the closing exercises, and then the
boys rushed noisily out.
“Every word forgotten already,” thought Mr. Vance, watching Tom and
Jack go whistling down the street.
“What does make our Will so uneasy?” his mother said that night, as the
former sat down to read, first on the doorstep, then in the garden, in
the parlor, and lastly in his own room.
_She_ couldn’t hear the cricket, the bees, even the clock, saying
over and over, “Shut out of heaven _forever_! Shut out of heaven
_forever_,—_forever_,—_forever_.”
VI.
FARMER VANCE’S “LEADING.”