I have him; he is always ready so gently and wisely to teach and explain
and never thinks my questions silly, and Morris says he has been and is
his continual inspiration. And we are only two out of the many whom he
stimulates. He says we are his recreation. Dull scholars are his hard
work. Morris is never dull, but I can't do anything with geometry; he
outstripped me long ago. He teaches me and I do the best I can. He has
written on his slate, 'Will you play crambo?' Crambo was known in the
time of Addison, so you must know that it is a very distinguished game.
Just as I am about to say 'I will as soon as this page is finished,'
father yawns and looks up at the clock. Mother remarks: 'It is time
for worship, one of the children will read, father.' So while father goes
to the door to look out to see what kind of a night it is and predict
to-morrow and while mother closes her book with a lingering, loving sigh,
and Morris pushes his books away and opens the Bible, I'll finish my last
page. And, lo, it is finished and you are glad that stupidity and
dullness do sometime come to an abrupt end.
"FRIEND MARJORIE."
* * * * *
"_In the Schoolroom, Jan_. 23, 18--.
"MY BLESSED MOTHER:
"Your last note is in my breast pocket with all the other best things
from you. What would boys do without a breast pocket, I wonder. There is
a feeling of study in the very air, the algebra class are 'up' and doing
finely. The boy in my seat is writing a note to a girl just across from
us, and the next thing he will put it in a book and ask, with an
unconcerned face, 'Mr. Holmes, may I hand my arithmetic to somebody?' And
Mr. Holmes, having been a fifteen-year-old boy himself, will wink at any
previous knowledge of such connivings, and say 'Yes,' as innocently! It
isn't against the rules to do it, for Mr. Holmes, never, for a moment,
supposes such a rule a necessity. But I never do it. Because Marjorie
doesn't come to school. And a pencil is slow for all I want to say to
her. She is my talisman. I am a big, awkward fellow, and she is a zephyr
that is content to blow about me out of sheer good will to all human
kind. But, in school, I write notes to another girl, to my mother. And I
write them when I have nothing to say but that I am well and strong and
happy, content with the present, hopeful for the future, looking forward
to the day when you will see me captain of as fine a ship as ever sailed
the seas. And won't I bring you good things from every country in the
world, just because you are such a blessed mother to
"Your unworthy boy,
"M.K."
* * * * *
"_New York, Jan. 30, 18--._
"MY MARJORIE:
"Your long letter has been read and re-read, and then read aloud to
Linnet. She laughed over it, and brushed her eyes over it; and then it
was laid away in my archives for future reference. It is a perfect
afternoon, the sun is shining, and the pavements are as dry as in May.
Linnet endeavored to coax me out, as it is her holiday afternoon, and
Broadway will be alive with handsome dresses and handsome faces, and
there are some new paintings to be seen. But I was proof against her
coaxing as this unwritten letter pressed on my heart, so she has
contented herself with Helen's younger sister, Nannie, and they will have
a good time together and bring their good time home to me, for Nannie is
to come home to dinner with her. Linnet looked like a veritable linnet in
her brown suit with the crimson plume in her brown hat; I believe the
girl affects grays and brown with a dash of crimson, because they remind
her of a linnet, and she _is_ like a linnet in her low, sweet voice, not
strong, but clear. She will be a lovely, symmetrical woman when she comes
out of the fire purified. How do I know she will ever be put in any
furnace? Because all God's children must suffer at some times, and then
they know they are his children. And she loves Will so vehemently, so
idolatrously, that I fear the sorrow may be sent through him; not in any
withdrawing of his love, he is too thoroughly true for that, not in any
great wickedness he may commit, he is too humble and too reliant upon the
keeping power of God to be allowed to fall into that, but--she may not
have him always, and then, I fear, her heart would really break.
"She reminds me of my own young vehemence and trust. But the taking away
will be the least sorrow of all. Why! How sorrowfully I am writing
to-day: no, how truly I am writing of life to-day: of the life you and
she are entering--are already entered upon. But God is good, God is good,
hold to that, whatever happens. Some day, when you are quite an old woman
and I am really an old woman, I will tell you about my young days.
"Your letter was full of questions; do not expect me to answer them all
at once. First, about reading the Bible. You poor dear child! Do you
think God keeps a book up in Heaven to put down every time you fail to
read the Bible through in a year? Because you have read it three times in
course, so many chapters a weekday, and so many a Sunday, do you think
you must keep on so or God will keep it laid up against you?
"Well, be a law keeper if you must, but keep the whole law, and keep it
perfectly, in spirit and in letter, or you will fail! And if you fail in
one single instance, in spirit or in letter, you fail in all, and must
bear the curse. You must continue in _all things_ written in the law to
do them. Are you ready to try that? Christ could do it, and he did do it,
but can you? And, if not, what? You must choose between keeping the law
and trusting in Christ who has kept it for you. You cannot serve two
masters: the Law and Christ. Now, I know I cannot keep the law and so I
have given up; all I can do is to trust in Christ to save me, in Christ
who is able to obey all God's law for me, and so I trust him and love
him, and obey him with the strength he gives me. If we love him, we will
keep his commandments, he says. 'I can do all things through Christ
strengthening me'--even keep his commandments, which are not grievous. If
you must be a law keeper in your own strength, give up Christ and cling
to the law to save you, or else give up keeping the law for your
salvation and cling to Christ. Keep his commandments because you love
him, and not keep the old law to save your soul by your own obedience.
Read the Bible because you love it, every word. Read till you are full of
some message he gives you, and then shut it up; don't keep on, because
you must read so many chapters a day.
"My plan is--and I tell you because it has been blessed to me--to ask him
to feed me with his truth, feed me _full_, and then I open the Book and
read. One day I was filled full with one clause: '_Because they
fainted_.' I closed it, I could read no more. At another time I read a
whole Epistle before I had all I was hungry for. One evening I read a
part of Romans and was so excited that I could not sleep for some time
that night. Don't you like that better than reading on and on because
you have set yourself to do it, and ending with a feeling of relief
because it is _done_, at last? These human hearts are naughty things and
need more grace continually. Just try my way--not my way but God's way
for me,--and see how full you will be fed with your daily reading.
"I just bethought myself of a page in an old journal; I'll copy it for
you. It has notes of my daily reading. I wish I had kept the references,
but all I have is the thought I gathered. I'll give it to you just as I
have it.
"'April 24, 18--. Preparation is needed to receive the truth.
"'25. Ezekiel saw the glory before he heard the Voice.
"'26. He permits long waiting.
"'27. It is blessed to hear his voice, even if it be to declare
punishment.
"'28. The word of God comes through the lips of men.
"'29. God works with us when we work with him.
"'30. God's work, and not man's word, is the power,
"'May 1. Man fails us, _then_ we trust in God.
"'2. Death is wages, Life is a gift.
"'3. Paul must witness at Jerusalem before going to Rome.
"'4. When God wills, it is not _to be_, it _is_.
"'5. To man is given great power, but it is not his own power.
"'6. Even his great love Christ _commends_ to us.
"'7. To seek and find God all beside must be put away.
"'11. The day of the Lord is darkness to those who do not seek him.
"'12. For all there were so many yet was not the net broken.
"'13. Even after Aaron's sin the Lord made him High Priest.
"'14. Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities--for Christ's sake.
"'15. It is _spirit_ and not letter that God looks at.
"'16. His choices rule all things.
"'17. That which is not forbidden may be inquired about.
"'18. Captivity is turned upon repentance and obedience.
"'19. Rejoicing comes after understanding his words.
"'20. A way of escape is made for sin.
"'21. Faith waits as long as God asks it to wait.
"'22. He strengthens our hearts through waiting to wait longer.
"'23. Anything not contrary to the revealed will of God we may ask in
prayer.'
"These lessons I took to my heart each day. Another might have drawn
other lessons from the same words, but these were what I needed then.
The page is written in pencil, and some words were almost erased. But I
am glad I kept them all this time; I did not know I was keeping them
for you, little girl. I have so fully consecrated myself to God that
sometimes I think he does not let any of me be lost; even my sins and
mistakes I have used to warn others, and through them I have been led to
thank him most fervently that he has not left me to greater mistakes,
greater sins. Some day your heart will almost break with thankfulness.
"And now, childie, about your praying. You say you are _tired out_ when
your prayer is finished. I should think you would be, poor child, if you
desire each petition with all your intense nature. Often one petition
uses all my strength and I can plead no more--in words. You seem to think
that every time you kneel you must pray about every thing that can be
prayed about, the church, the world, all your friends, all your wants,
and everything that everybody wants.
"What do you think of my short prayers? This morning all I could
ejaculate was: 'Lord, this is thy day, every minute of it.' I have had
some blessed minutes. When the sinner prayed, 'Lord, be merciful to me a
sinner,' he did not add, 'and bless my father and mother, brothers and
sisters, and all the sick and sinful and sorrowing, and send missionaries
to all parts of the world, and hasten thy kingdom in every heart.' And
when Peter was sinking he cried: 'Lord, save me, I perish,' and did not
add, 'strengthen my faith for this time and all time, and remember those
who are in the ship looking on, and wondering what will be the end of
this; teach them to profit by my example, and to learn the lesson thou
art intending to teach by this failure of mine.' And when the ship was
almost overwhelmed and the frightened disciples came to him--but why
should I go on? Child, _pour_ out your heart to him, and when, through
physical weariness, mental exhaustion, or spiritual intensity of feeling,
the heart refuses to be longer poured out, _stop_, don't pump and pump
and _pump_ at an exhausted well for water that has been all used up.
We are not heard for much speaking or long praying. Study the prayer he
gave us to pray, study his own prayer. He continued all night in prayer
but he was not hard upon his weak disciples, who through weariness and
sorrow fell asleep while he had strength to keep on praying. Your master
is not a hard master. We pray when we do not utter one word. Let the
Spirit pray in you and don't try to do it all yourself. Don't make
crosses for yourself. Before you begin to pray think of the loving,
lovely Saviour and pitiful Father you are praying to and ask the Spirit
to help you pray, and then pray and be joyful. Pray the first petition
that comes out of your heart, and then the second and the third, and
thank him for everything.
"But here come the girls laughing upstairs and I must listen to the story
of their afternoon. Linnet will tell you about the pictures.
"More than ever your sympathizing friend,
"P. P."
* * * * *
"_Feb_. 2, 18--.
"DEAR HOLLIS:
"Your mother asked me to write to you while I am here, in your home, so
that it may seem like a letter from her. It is evening and I am writing
at the kitchen table with the light of one candle. How did I come to be
here at night? I came over this afternoon to see poor grandma and found
your mother alone with her; grandma had been in bed three days and the
doctor said she was dying of old age. She did not appear to suffer, she
lay very still, recognizing us, but not speaking even when we spoke to
her.
"How I did want to say something to help her, for I was afraid she might
be troubled, she was always so 'afraid' when she thought about joining
the Church. But as I stood alone, looking down at her, I did not dare
speak. I did not like to awaken her if she were comfortably asleep. Then
I thought how wicked I was to withhold a word when she might hear it and
be comforted and her fear taken away, so I stooped over and said close
to her ear, 'Grandma,' and all she answered was, in her old way, 'Most a
hundred;' and then I said, '"The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all
sin, even the sins of most a hundred years;"' and she understood, for she
moaned, 'I've been very wicked;' and all I could do was to say again,
'"The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin."' She made no reply
and we think she did not speak again, for your mother's cousin, Cynthy,
was with her at the last and says she bent over her and found that she
did not breathe, and all the time she was with her she did not once
speak.
"The house is so still, they all move around so softly and speak in
whispers. Your mother thinks you may be in Philadelphia or Baltimore when
this reaches New York, and that you will not hear in time to come to the
funeral. I hope you can come; she does _so_ want to see you. She says
once a year is so seldom to see her youngest boy. I believe I haven't
seen you since the day you brought me the plate so long, so long ago.
I've been away both times since when you were home. I have kept my
promise, I think; I do not think I have missed one letter day in writing
to you. I have come to see your mother as often as I could. Grandma will
not be buried till the fifth; they have decided upon that day hoping you
can get here by that time. Morris was to come for me if I did not get
home before dark and there's the sound of sleigh bells now. Here comes
your mother with her message. She says: 'Tell Hollis to come if he _any
way_ can; I shall look for him.' So I know you will.
"That _is_ Morris, he is stamping the snow off his feet at the door. Why
do you write such short letters to me? Are mine too long? O, Hollis, I
want you to be a Christian; I pray for you every day.
"Your friend,
"MARJORIE"
* * * * *
"Feb 15, 18--.
"MY DARLING LINNET:
"Now I am settled down for a long letter to you, up here in the master's
chamber, where no one will dare interrupt me. I am sitting on the rug
before the fire with my old atlas on my lap; his desk with piles of
foolscap is so near that when my own sheet gives out, and my thoughts
and incidents are still unexhausted, all I have to do is to raise the
cover of his desk, take a fresh sheet and begin again. I want this to be
the kind of a three-volumed letter that you like; I have inspiration
enough--for I am surrounded by books containing the wisdom of all
the past. No story books, and I know you want a story letter. This room
is as cozy as the inside of an egg shell, with only the fire, the clock,
the books and myself. There is nothing but snow, snow, snow, out the
window, and promise of more in the threatening sky. I am all alone
to-day, too, and I may be alone to-night. I rather like the adventure of
staying alone; perhaps something will happen that never happened to any
one before, and I may live to tell the tale to my grandchildren. It is
early in the morning, that is, early to be writing a letter, but I shall
not have much dinner to get for myself and I want to write letters all
day. _That_ is an adventure that never happened to me before. How do you
think it happens that I am alone? Of course Morris and the master have
taken their dinners and gone to school; mother has been in Portland four
days, and father is to go for her to-day and bring her home to-morrow;
Morris is to go skating to-night and to stay in Middlefield with some of
the boys; and I told Mr. Holmes that he might go to the lecture on Turkey
and stay in Middlefield, too, if he would give my note to Josie Grey and
ask her to come down after school and stay with me. He said he would come
home unless she promised to come to stay with me, so I don't suppose I
shall have my adventurous night alone, after all.
"I don't believe father has gone yet, I heard his step down-stairs, I'll
run down to say good-bye again and see if he wants anything, and go down
cellar and get me some apples to munch on to keep me from being lonesome.
Father will take the horses and they will not need to be fed, and I told
Morris I could feed the two cows and the hens myself, so he need not come
home just for that. But father is calling me.
"Afternoon. Is it years and _years_ since I began this letter? My hair
has not turned white and I am not an old woman; the ink and paper look
fresh, too, fresher than the old bit of yellow paper that mother keeps so
preciously, that has written on it the invitation to her mother's wedding
that somebody returned to her. How slowly I am coming to it! But I want
to keep you in suspense. I am up in the master's chamber again, sitting
on the hearth before a snapping fire, and I haven't written one word
since I wrote you that father was calling me.
"He did call me, and I ran down and found that he wanted an extra
shawl for mother; for it might be colder to-morrow, or it might be a
snow-storm. I stood at the window and saw him pass and listened to the
jingling of his bells until they were out of hearing, and then I lighted
a bit of a candle (ah, me, that it was not longer) and went down cellar
for my apples. I opened one barrel and then another until I found the
ones I wanted, the tender green ones that you used to like; I filled my
basket and, just then hearing the back door open and a step in the entry
over my head, I turned quickly and pushed my candlestick over, and, of
course, that wee bit of light sputtered out. I was frightened, for fear a
spark might have fallen among the straw somewhere, and spent some time
feeling around to find the candlestick and to wait to see if a spark
_had_ lighted the straw; and then, before I could cry out, I heard the
footsteps pass the door and give it a pull and turn the key! Father
always does that, but this was not father. I believe it was Captain
Rheid, father left a message for him and expected him to call, and I
suppose, out of habit, as he passed the door he shut it and locked it. I
could not shout in time, he was so quick about it, and then he went out
and shut the outside door hard.
"I think I turned to stone for awhile, or fainted away, but when I came
to myself there I stood, with the candlestick in my hand, all in the
dark. I could not think what to do. I could not find the outside doors,
they are trap doors, you know, and have to be pushed up, and in winter
the steps are taken down, and I don't know where they are put. I had the
candle, it is true, but I had no match. I don't know what I did do. My
first thought was to prowl around and find the steps and push up one of
the doors, and I prowled and prowled and prowled till I was worn out. The
windows--small windows, too,--are filled up with straw or something in
winter, so that it was as dark as a dungeon; it _was_ a dungeon and
I was a prisoner.
"If I hadn't wanted the apples, or if the light hadn't gone out, or if
Captain Rheid hadn't come, or if he hadn't locked the door! Would I have
to stay till Josie came? And if I pounded and screamed wouldn't she be
frightened and run away?
"After prowling around and hitting myself and knocking myself I stood
still again and wondered what to do! I wanted to scream and cry, but that
wouldn't have done any good and I should have felt more alone than ever
afterward. Nobody could come there to hurt me, that was certain, and I
could stamp the rats away, and there were apples and potatoes and turnips
to eat? But suppose it had to last all night! I was too frightened to
waste any tears, and too weak to stand up, by this time, so I found a
seat on the stairs and huddled myself together to keep warm, and prayed
as hard as I ever did in my life.
"I thought about Peter in prison; I thought about everything I could
think of. I could hear the clock strike and that would help me bear it, I
should know when night came and when morning came. The cows would suffer,
too, unless father had thrown down hay enough for them; and the fires
would go out, and what would father and mother think when they came home
to-morrow? Would I frighten them by screaming and pounding? Would I add
to my cold, and have quinsy sore throat again? Would I faint away and
never 'come to'? When I wrote 'adventure' upstairs by the master's fire I
did not mean a dreadful thing like this! Staying alone all night was
nothing compared to this. I had never been through anything compared to
this. I tried to comfort myself by thinking that I might be lost or
locked up in a worse place; it was not so damp or cold as it might have
been, and there was really nothing to be afraid of. I had nothing to do
and I was in the dark. I began to think of all the stories I knew about
people who had been imprisoned and what they had done. I couldn't write
a Pilgrim's Progress, I couldn't even make a few rhymes, it was too
lonesome; I couldn't sing, my voice stopped in my throat. I thought about
somebody who was in a dark, solitary prison, and he had one pin that he
used to throw about and lose and then crawl around and find it in the
dark and then lose it again and crawl around again and find it. I had
prowled around enough for the steps; that amusement had lost its
attraction for me. And then the clock struck. I counted eleven, but had I
missed one stroke? Or counted too many? It was not nine when I lighted
that candle. Well, that gave me something to reason about, and something
new to look forward to. How many things could I do in an hour? How many
could I count? How many Bible verses could I repeat? Suppose I began
with A and repeated all I could think of, and then went on to B. 'Ask,
and ye shall receive.' How I did ask God to let me out in some way, to
bring somebody to help me? To _send_ somebody. Would not Captain Rheid
come back again? Would not Morris change his mind and come home to
dinner? or at night? And would Mr. Holmes certainly go to hear that
lecture? Wasn't there anybody to come? I thought about you and how sorry
you would be, and, I must confess it, I did think that I would have
something to write to you and Hollis about. (Please let him see this
letter; I don't want to write all this over again.)
"So I shivered and huddled myself up in a heap and tried to comfort
myself and amuse myself as best I could. I said all the Bible verses
I could think, and then I went back to my apples and brought the basket
with me to the stairs. I would not eat one potato or turnip until the
apples had given out. You think I can laugh now; so could you, after you
had got out. But the clock didn't strike, and nobody came, and I was sure
it must be nearly morning I was so faint with hunger and so dizzy from
want of sleep. And then it occurred to me to stumble up the stairs and
try to burst the door open! That lock was loose, it turned very easily!
In an instant I was up the stairs and trying the door. And, lo, and
behold, it opened easily, it was not locked at all! I had only imagined I
heard the click of the lock. And I was free, and the sun was shining,
and I was neither hungry nor dizzy.
"I don't know whether I laughed or cried or mingled both in a state of
ecstasy. But I was too much shaken to go on with my letter, I had to find
a story book and a piece of apple pie to quiet my nerves. The fires were
not out and the clock had only struck ten. But when you ask me how long I
stayed in that cellar I shall tell you one hundred years! Now, isn't that
adventure enough for the first volume?