up your mind to succeed. You must resolve that you will conquer. If
you should occasionally be overcome, yield not to despair, but with
renewed courage try again.
"On yourself and God relying,
Try, keep trying."
[Illustration]
SELFISH ELLA.
Ella Russell is a little girl with soft, flaxen hair, bright eyes, and
a complexion fair and clear. She is neat and orderly in her habits,
and is very gentle and mild in her manners. Her musical laugh
sometimes rings through the house like a sweet melody. It is so
contagious that you would laugh yourself to hear it.
Ella is obedient, and needs as little care as any child I ever knew.
Her father is living, but she has no mother, and Ella lives with a
Mrs. Lindsley, who has three daughters, two of them older and one
younger than Ella. She is much attached to this lady, and feels
perfectly at home in her house.
Ella's mother was in feeble health several years before her death.
Ella was her constant companion, and nothing gave her more pleasure
than to wait upon her and do all in her power to relieve her
sufferings and make her more comfortable. Mrs. Russell said her
daughter was an excellent nurse, although she was not more than seven
or eight years old. It shows how much even small children can do for
the comfort of their invalid friends, if they really try. It is very
gratifying to a mother to have a child so careful and thoughtful, and
Ella and her mother loved each other more and more every day. Mrs.
Russell's disease was consumption, and she could not be restored to
health. Poor Ella, how lonely she felt when her mother died! She was
young to know so much sorrow.
Ella's home is not far from the city. Her father often goes there, and
frequently sends her some delicacy which he knows she would relish--a
box of early strawberries, or a basket of plums or peaches, or
whatever fruit may be in season. Mr. Russell is exceedingly generous,
and he expects his little daughter to divide the fruit with the family
where she has found so excellent a home.
Ella, good child as she is in most respects, has one sad fault. She is
selfish. When she receives any rarity she would prefer to eat it
herself, just as the chickens do when they have found a nice tit-bit.
It is really a trial to her that she cannot eat a whole basket of
peaches before they would spoil! Indeed, one day, after receiving such
a present, she said to a person in the family, "I wish my father would
not send so many. I like it better when I have only a small basket,
and can keep it in my own room."
At one time Mr. Russell sent a basket of peaches to Mrs. Lindsley.
Ella was not at home. She had gone out to make a call on some of her
friends. She heard this basket had been sent, and hastened back as
soon as she could. "I hope they haven't eaten up all my peaches!" was
her first exclamation. She was quite indignant to find the basket had
been opened.
Mrs. Lindsley gave her all she considered it safe for her to eat; but
Ella was not happy. She felt as if they all ought to be hers, and she
really cried about it. A day or two after Ella saw her father, and he
told her the peaches were designed for the family. Ella was somewhat
mortified, and afterward told Mrs. Lindsley what her father said about
the basket of fruit.
It seems very strange that Ella should be so selfish, for her father
is not at all so, and I know it must grieve him to have a child of his
so forgetful of the enjoyment of others. This selfishness does not
make her happy. It occasions her much trouble, and it always will.
I know a little boy, six years old, who is very fond of fruit, and who
is much delighted when his father brings him an apple; yet I have seen
him, when he had but one, divide it between his brothers and sisters,
and reserve no part of it for himself. He seemed entirely happy in
doing so.
One day he heard his mother say, "I have not even a penny in my
purse." He went up-stairs to his money-box, and brought down a handful
of pennies, and gave them to her. His mother kissed his plump,
brown cheek, and thanked him for his gift.
[Illustration: His mother kissed his plump, brown cheek.]
Which should you prefer to be like--selfish Ella, or this generous
little boy?
The selfish person is always willing to receive favours, but to the
generous "it is more blessed to give than to receive."
[Illustration]
"OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN."
"Father is coming, father is coming!" shout a merry group of children,
as Mr. Wilmot appears around a little knoll, on his return from his
business.
"Let us run and meet him,"--and away they scamper over the lawn to see
which will get to him first. They are laughing gaily, and their feet
trip lightly, as hatless and bonnetless they hasten to him. Mary's
brown curls are streaming in the wind, and it is a beautiful sight to
look upon these children, so full of life and joy and love.
Mr. Wilmot greets them with a smile, and stoops to kiss each of them,
as they put up their arms to give him a loving welcome to his home.
One of them takes his basket, and another his cane, and then the
unoccupied hands are claimed by the tiny ones who love to walk by his
side.
Why do these children hasten so eagerly to meet their father? It is
just because he is their father. He has provided them with a home, and
with food and clothing, and has given them many pleasant things to
enjoy. He loves them, and his love and approbation are very precious
to them. They obey his wishes, and strive to please him, and this is
one source of the happiness which fills their hearts.
I think most of you, dear children, have kind parents, to whom you are
warmly attached, and that you do not hear the name of father without
emotions of pleasure. Some of you have no earthly father, but you all
have one in another and better world.
Most of you, in your infancy, have learned to repeat the Lord's
Prayer. How beautiful and expressive are the words with which it
commences, "Our Father who art in heaven." God, then, is your father,
and you may go to him as his children. You may tell him all your
wants, all your sorrows, and all your joys. You may pour out your
heart to him with perfect freedom. You need not fear to do this as you
would to a stranger, for he is your Father, and knows all about you.
He knows every time you suffer, and he sees every thought of your
heart. God loves you more than any earthly friends can, and he has
enabled them to bestow upon you all the comforts which surround you.
When you kneel down to pray, will you not remember that it is to a
father you are speaking, and will you not love him as truly and warmly
as you do the dear father who takes you on his knee, and speaks so
kindly and affectionately to you. Your father in heaven has given you
this earthly parent, and you should surely love him for all he has
done for you.
Do not let the precious words, "Our Father who art in heaven," be
unmeaning ones to you; but strive to realize the great goodness and
condescension of God in permitting you to call him by so sweet a name,
and give him the only thing you can in return,--your young and
grateful hearts.
[Illustration]
HATTIE AND HERBERT.
"Was there ever so good a mother as you are?" said Hattie Atherton,
throwing her arms around her mother's neck, and kissing her with great
affection.
"Oh yes!" answered little Herbert, in a solemn tone, "there is one a
great deal better."
"Why, Herbert! what do you mean?" exclaimed Hattie, who knew Herbert
loved his mother as dearly as she did.
"I mean God. He is better than mother."
"But God is a Father. He is our Father in heaven," continued Hattie.
Herbert was quite satisfied with Hattie's correction, and was then
ready to agree with her, that his mother was the best mother in the
world.
Herbert was a very little boy, but he had been taught that God was
more worthy of love than even his father or mother could be. He was
too young to understand much about the being of God, and when he
called him a mother a great deal better than his own mother, it was an
expression of his love and reverence.
Do you, dear children, when you realize something about the love
which your mother feels for you, and which enables her cheerfully to
do so much for your comfort, remember that God loves you even more
than she does, and that He is far more deserving your strongest
affections?
"He that loveth father or mother more than me," the Saviour said, "is
not worthy of me." God should occupy the first place in your heart,
and next to Him you should love your parents.
Happy is that child who is so willing to be governed by her mother's
wishes that she is at all times ready to exclaim, "Was there ever so
good a mother as my mother!"
[Illustration]
THE TWO WILLS.
When a man of wealth dies, there is always much interest felt in
regard to the disposition he has made of his property by will.
Sometimes large bequests are made to benevolent societies, and the
donor is generally considered a very generous man. Many bless his
memory, and his name is cherished with grateful respect. It is right
that it should be so. God loves the cheerful giver.
I have just read the last "will and testament" of a little boy nine
years old, who lived in Ohio. Not very long ago he was taken ill with
fever. The disease was violent, and he suffered much. At length it
became evident that he must die.
A few hours before his death, he looked up to his mother and said:
"Do you remember my gold dollar?"
"Yes, my son; but we had better not think of that now."
"But mother," said George, "I want you to give it to the missionaries,
and my shillings too, and all the pennies. Give it all to the
missionaries."
George died, and I trust has gone to heaven. His desire to do good was
no doubt acceptable and pleasing to God. He could not receive here
the reward God has promised to those who give to the poor, but in
another world his heavenly Father can most richly recompense him. The
sum contributed by the dying child was not large, but it was all he
had.
In the same town lived a little girl, whose father was a clergyman.
One after another of his dear ones were taken from him. A precious
babe of seventeen months, a sweet prattler of three years, and another
of five, were called to leave this world and grow up with the angels
in heaven. Then this child of eleven must go too--the fourth out of
that family circle within one short month! She had been a follower of
the Saviour for three years, and had thought much of the condition of
the heathen, who have no knowledge of the way of salvation through
Christ. She hoped, if she lived, to become a missionary herself, and
teach them about the true God and his son Jesus Christ.
She was ill nearly three weeks, but she was not unhappy. She did not
fear to die. The Saviour, whom she loved, was near her, to walk with
her through the valley of the shadow of death, and his rod and
staff--they comforted her. She knew that her beloved parents would
soon join her in the heavenly world, when they all together should
enjoy the immediate presence of their Lord. She looked forward
cheerfully and joyfully, to the glorious immortality upon which she
was so soon to enter. When dying, she exclaimed, "It is all dark here,
but I shall soon be where it is light. I shall be with my heavenly
Father, and the blessed Saviour, and all the good people."
One of this child's last requests was, that her dollar--the only money
she possessed--should be sent to a missionary society to buy
Testaments for heathen children.
These children's offerings, small though they are, are yet precious
gifts cast into the treasury of our Lord. Their influence will never
cease. Many souls may be converted through the truth these "two mites"
may be the means of teaching.
[Illustration]
"BLESS GOD FOR THIS DOLL."
When Mary Wilson was about five years old, her aunt Ann came from a
distant place to make her mother a visit. She was fond of children,
and often talked and played with her little niece, and assisted her in
making dresses for her doll. This gratified Mary, and made her love
her more and more, as we always love those who are kind to us.
Mary's doll was not pretty, but she liked it very much, and took good
care of it. She always undressed it at night, before she went to bed,
and put on a nice white night-gown her mother had made for it; and in
the morning she would dress it again for the day. She named it Louisa,
but her younger brother always called it Quesa, and, after a time, all
the family spoke of it by that name.
Mary often wished she could wash Quesa's face, as her own was washed;
but she had tried it once, and found it would not answer, for the
colour came off its cheeks, and it looked more than ever as if it
needed a good rubbing with a sponge.
Sometimes, when passing the shop-windows, and seeing the new dolls so
temptingly displayed, Mary would ask if she might stop and look at
them, and would, perhaps, say, "I should like that doll." Mrs. Wilson
would gladly have purchased one of them for her, but she was obliged
to be economical, and could not gratify all her wishes. Mary had early
to learn many lessons of self-denial, and I must do her the justice to
say she was always satisfied with her mother's decision.
Mary would occasionally go to walk with her aunt Ann, who observed
with what delight she looked at the porcelain dolls, so bright and
fresh, and she thought she could not make her a more acceptable
present than one of them.
One day, when Mary was not with her, she bought a doll with rosy lips
and cheeks, blue eyes, and short curling hair, and dressed it in
clothes which could be taken off and put on easily, as all little
girls like to have them. It was indeed very pretty, and its face could
be washed without injury as often as Mary pleased to do it.
Mary knew nothing about the present she was to receive, till all this
was done; and then her aunt, going into the nursery, put it in her
arms as she was sitting in her low chair playing with Quesa. Mary
looked at the new doll, and then at her aunt, and then at the doll
again, as if to say, "What does all this mean?" Aunt Ann answered the
look by saying, "The doll is for you, Mary."
It was just what she had long wanted, and her heart was full of
happiness and gratitude. After holding it a moment, she laid it
carefully in her chair, and kneeling down, put her little hands
together and closing her eyes, said, "Bless God for this doll." Mary
had been taught that God was the giver of every good gift, and she
felt, that although aunt Ann gave her the doll, her heavenly Father
had put it into her heart to do so, and she wanted to thank him for
making her so happy.
Perhaps you think that God is too great a being to care about your
little wants, and that he does not put the thought into any body's
heart to buy dolls for children, as Mary Wilson did. Nothing which
concerns the happiness of the creatures he has made, is too small for
his attention. Nothing escapes his notice. "The very hairs of your
head are all numbered." So small a bird as a sparrow, the Bible tells
us, cannot fall to the ground without his knowledge. If he cares for
the birds, he certainly does for children, and wishes them all to be
good and happy.
God has given you all many gifts, for which you ought to thank him. If
I should look into your play-rooms, how many things I should see which
add to your enjoyment! In one there is a pasteboard house, with
windows and doors, and partitions to divide it into rooms. It is
furnished with tables and chairs, and the dolls can sit in them. In
another, are blocks with which to build houses, castles, and railways,
or any thing the fancy of the young architect may dictate; and here
is Noah's ark, in miniature, containing himself and family, and many
animals. Countless other toys are distributed among my young friends,
which make their bright eyes sparkle, and wreathe their lips with
smiles.
Other treasures, more valuable than these, are not wanting. How many
books I see! and as I open them, one after another, at the fly-leaf, I
read your own names and the names of those friends and relatives who
have given them to you.
Have you ever thanked your heavenly Father, as Mary Wilson did, for
these pleasant things which make you so happy, and for all the
blessings he confers upon you?
Your parents provide you with food and clothes, and many other
comforts which you need; but it is God who enables them to do so, and
who fills their hearts with such love for you as to make it a pleasure
to watch over and care for you. You should be grateful to them for all
their kindness, but you should never forget that to your Father in
heaven you owe your gratitude for such loving friends.
God himself has taught you to ask him, day by day, for your daily
bread. That prayer shows who provides for your wants, and whom you
should thank for the pleasant things you enjoy.
There is one gift of exceeding great value which the Lord has bestowed
upon us--greater than all others--but I will tell you about it another
time.
BESSIE HARTWELL.
Children who are called obedient children are often not so prompt in
their obedience as they should be. Instead of doing directly as they
are bidden, they stop to ask "Why?" and seem to wish some other reason
for compliance with a command than the word of a parent. It is often
proper to tell children why they should do or should not do certain
things; but children should be careful to remember that they must
obey, whether they know the reason of the requirement or not.
Bessie Hartwell is about eleven years old. She is generally a good
child, but, like all others whom I have known, she has some faults.
Although she always intends to obey, she does not always obey
instantly. I will tell you a sad accident which befell her in
consequence of this tardiness, and you will see it would have been
much better for her if she had learned to be prompt.
She was travelling with an aunt on a steamboat. She was very happy,
for she was going to visit her grandfather and grandmother, and she
knew she should enjoy herself on the fine farm, scampering about over
the fields, raking the new-mown hay, and riding on the top of the
load.
Bessie always liked to go to the country. Her home was in the city,
where she had only a small yard, not much larger than her
grandmother's capacious kitchen, to play in, and that was surrounded
by a high, close fence, so that she could see only the tiny patch of
grass beneath and the beautiful blue sky above.
Children in the country do not know how to prize their freedom. If
they could be penned up in the city for a few months, as Bessie was
for the greater part of the year, they would learn to appreciate it,
and they would look upon every tree and every blade of grass as a
friend. The chirping of the crickets, the singing of the frogs, and
the warbling of the birds would be thrice welcome music to them. No
wonder Bessie was so happy when she thought of the wide lawn studded
with trees, the orchard rich in apples and pears, the hills down which
she and her sisters could run, and up whose steep sides they must
scramble when the horn sounds for dinner. The country is rich in its
treasures of happiness, and they are bestowed freely and profusely
upon every one "who in the love of nature holds communion with her
visible forms."
It was in the gray twilight of the morning that the steamboat arrived
at the wharf. When they went home, Bessie was awakened, and was soon
ready, with her travelling-bag on her arm, to leave the boat. Her aunt
took her by the hand, to lead her across the gangway. They had but
just stepped upon it, when she started forward to reach her uncle,
who, with an infant in his arms, had just preceded her. Her aunt
called to her to stop. She paid no attention, but passed rapidly on. A
car, laden with baggage, was drawn across the gangway. It frightened
her. She stepped quickly aside, and fell into the water.
Oh! the agony of that moment! Her uncle and aunt could not aid her. He
besought the people near him to take the infant from his arms, that he
might leap into the water to attempt the rescue of the child; but they
would not do it. They held him back, that he might not expose himself
to the danger of immediate death; for he could not swim, and of course
he could not render the assistance which was needed. He and her aunt
were both obliged to stand and look on, in unutterable anguish, while
strangers attempted to save her.
Bessie fell in such a way that she did not sink under the water. Her
clothes spread out, and buoyed her up like a life-preserver. A man let
himself down as soon as possible; but the rope was not long enough for
him to reach Bessie. He could only touch her with his foot. She took
hold of it, and he slowly raised her till he grasped her bonnet. In
this way they were both pulled up, and Bessie once more stood by the
side of her aunt. How freely they all breathed once more, when the
terrible suspense was ended, and she was safe!
Bessie seemed scarcely aware of the danger she had been in. She had
been perfectly calm, and did not lose her presence of mind; and it was
owing to this, probably, that she was so easily rescued. She tried to
save her travelling-bag, but, as she told her aunt, she could not hold
it any longer than she did.
It was wonderful that Bessie was not drowned. If she had not been
supported by her clothes, she would have sunk beneath the water, and
when she arose would very probably have come up under the boat, so
that it would have been impossible to save her.
If Bessie had been in the habit of obeying so soon as she was spoken
to, she would not have met with this fearful accident, and her uncle
and aunt would have been spared the mental suffering they endured. I
should think she never again would forget to obey at the first word
from those who have the care of her.
I hope, dear children, you will profit as much by Bessie's accident as
I trust she will; and that you will aim not only to be obedient, but
promptly obedient. You may not suffer the same mishap that she did,
even if you allow yourself to form the same habit; but it may lead you
into as great danger, and even greater, for it may peril the purity
and peace of your soul, and that is of far more consequence than the
safety of your body.
[Illustration]
"MARY'S GREAT TREASURE"
More than twenty years ago, there was a little blue-eyed, curly-haired
child playing about one of the pleasant homes in the West. She was
happy and kind, and every one loved her. She was only six years old,
yet she had a great treasure in her possession--greater than many of
the kings and queens of the earth can claim.
What do you suppose this treasure was? Was it a valuable diamond? Was
it an immense amount of silver and gold? Something better than
diamonds or silver and gold, was in this little girl's
keeping--something which will be safe when these have all perished.
I will tell you what this treasure was, because I want you to be as
rich as Mary, and, through the great goodness of God, you may all have
just such a precious gift. It was a NEW HEART--a heart that loved her
heavenly Father, that loved to pray to him and ask him to keep her
from sin.
Mary often talked with her companions about Jesus, and before she was
ten years old several of them had been brought to love and obey him,
and had, like Mary, a new heart. How happy they were together! How
much the Saviour loved them!
Mary is now dead, and has gone to heaven. Do you suppose she is sorry
she so early went to Christ and asked him for a new heart?
How pleasant it must have been to her to be able to say, as she looked
back over her past life, that she could not remember the time when she
did not love the Saviour; and she surely does not now regret, that
when she was a little child--less than most of you who are reading
about her--she went to Jesus and asked him for a heart to love him.
Our heavenly Father will give you a new heart, if you really wish to
have it and feel your great need of it. Jesus died that you might be
saved from sin, and he loves _little_ children. Will you not go to
him, as did Mary, and ask him for a new heart? If you are sorry for
your sins, tell him so; and if you are not, ask him to help you to
feel how wicked sin is, that you may have the "great treasure."
[Illustration]
"SUSAN WILL BE HAPPIER IF I GO WITH HER."
Mary Wilson is a little girl only nine years old. She loves her mother
very dearly, and she is always happy to be with her.
Mrs. Wilson lives in the country, not far from a pretty village, to
which she occasionally goes to make a few purchases or call on a
friend. She sometimes takes Mary with her, who always enjoys such a
walk. She trips along by her mother's side, sometimes taking her hand,
and sometimes stooping down to gather a wild-flower which blossoms by
the roadside; and then perhaps she runs on and watches the brook that
trickles down the hill, on its way to the river. Her smiling face and
sparkling eyes show she is happy.
One day when she was all ready, with her white sack and blue
sun-bonnet on, to accompany her mother along the bank of the river to
the village, Susan Grafton called for her to go with her in another
direction, on an errand for Mrs. Grafton. Mary was greatly tried. She
wished very much to go with her mother, but Susan did not like to go
alone. What to do she did not know. Tears were in her eyes, as she
told her mother her trouble and asked her what she should do. Mrs.
Wilson left the decision entirely to Mary. After a short struggle she
smiled through her tears, and said, "I should rather go with you,
mother, but Susan will be happier if I go with her. I think I had
better go with her."
Mrs. Wilson kissed the quivering lip of her daughter, and told her she
had done right in thinking of Susan's happiness. Her heart ascended in
prayer to God for his blessing on her dear child, that she might ever
be unselfish and self-sacrificing.
Would not most children be happier than they now are, if, like Mary,
they tried to make others happy, and were willing to deny themselves
for the sake of their companions?
Although Mary was so much grieved to lose her walk with her mother,
she was far happier that afternoon than she would have been without an
approving conscience.
Will you not pray, dear children, for a kind, unselfish heart?
[Illustration]
THE NEWS-BOYS' BANK.
PART I.
"How much money have you in the bank?" I heard a gentleman inquire of
a boy. "A dollar and a half," he replied. I looked up, and saw before
me a slender, bright-looking lad, about fourteen years old. The
pantaloons he wore had evidently belonged to a full-grown man, and
were rolled up at the bottom to make them short enough for the present
wearer. His coat had been cut short in the skirts, and the sleeves
hung loosely about his hands. His shirt was not particularly clean,
neither was it very dirty. His face, however, had been nicely washed,
so that there was nothing repulsive about the fellow. The gentleman
talked with him a few moments. I was quite interested in the
conversation and learned from it that he was one of the news-boys of
New York.
[Illustration: First interview with the news-boy.]
Patrick--for by this name I shall call the boy--sleeps at the
lodging-house for news-boys, and is there learning to read. I
concluded that I would go there, and see for myself what had been done
for the improvement and salvation of these energetic, active boys. I
found the building to which I had been directed, but could not readily
find the entrance which led to the room I was seeking. I inquired of
some poorly-dressed children where it was. A boy about ten years old
guided me. He asked if I wanted a boy. I was sorry to say "No," for he
looked so bright and active that it seemed a pity not to give him some
employment.
I ascended one flight of stairs, and another, and still another and
another, before I came to the right door. I knocked, and was admitted
by a gentleman who has the oversight of these boys. The room which I
entered was nicely painted and whitewashed. There were many seats with
desks as in a a schoolroom, and there were books and slates on them.
Maps and pictures hung on the walls, and there was a library for those
who could read.
The room was neat and tidy, and quite inviting in its appearance. At
the farther end of it was an office for the caretaker, and a
bathing-room, where water can be used without stint or measure. The
boys enjoy the free use of the water, though probably many of them
never bathed in their lives, before they came to the lodging-house. If
"cleanliness is next to godliness," much has been already
accomplished.
The school or sitting-room opens into the dormitory. This is a large
and well-ventilated apartment, and, being in the sixth story,
overlooks most of the buildings in the vicinity. There were
accommodations for fifty boys, and the room is large enough for
eighty. Each boy has a separate bed. They are arranged in two tiers,
as in a steamboat. The beds were all neatly made, and looked quite
comfortable. Many of these boys have never slept in a bed except in
this room. The remarks which they make to each other, when comparing
their beds, with their clean sheets and pillow-cases, with the boxes,
areas, and crannies where they have been accustomed to sleep, are very
amusing.
I am happy to know that there has been a constant improvement among
the boys. They grow more orderly, and are more easily restrained, and
some of them give promise of making useful men. They are not allowed
to use profane language, to fight, nor to smoke in the rooms, and
generally manifest much kindness of feeling toward each other.
There was a table in the room, which interested me greatly. It was of
black-walnut. In the top there were one hundred and ten different
holes, large enough to admit a half-dollar. Each of them was numbered.
This was the bank in which Patrick had deposited his money. There were
one hundred and ten little divisions in the drawer, corresponding with
one hundred and ten openings in the top. The boys each have a certain
number for their own use, and if they choose, can safely secure their
day's earnings for a time of need. The superintendent keeps the key
of the drawer.
Several weeks ago, the boys voted not to take their money from the
bank till November, that they might then have the means of purchasing
warm clothes for the winter. I had quite a curiosity to look into the
bank, to see how much the boys had saved. In some of the divisions
there were only a few pennies, while in others there were several
dollars.
I never looked upon any bank with so much pleasure, as I did upon this
simple one of the news-boys. It was teaching them a lesson of economy
and forethought, which I trust they will never forget. When they enjoy
their comfortable coats and warm pantaloons in the cold weather of
winter, they cannot avoid remembering, that it was by taking care of
the pennies, that they were enabled so nicely to clothe themselves.
The news-boys have never been taught the true value of money. They
have not hesitated to gamble it away, or to spend it for segars and
tobacco, and other unnecessary and hurtful things. They have been
exceedingly improvident and have had no idea of laying up any thing
for the future.
One evening, as the boys were gathered in their sitting-room, one of
them was leaning on the bank. He held up a quarter of a dollar between
his thumb and finger, and, looking at his companions, said, "You know
Simpson, the pawnbroker?" "Yes." "He is a friend in need, but _here_
is a friend indeed!" and the bright silver dropped, jingling, into his
bank.
Those news-boys all of them possess more than ordinary intelligence
and energy of character. "Every one of them," as a gentleman said, "is
worth saving." They are sure to make _men_, and to exert an influence
in the world.
After my return from my visit to their rooms, I told some children
about the necessities of these news-boys, and how much they need
better clothing. A little girl, whom I know, has determined to make a
shirt for one of them. I am sure it will be acceptable; for,
frequently, when they first go to the lodging-house, they are so
filthy that something must be given them to make them decent. Perhaps
other children may like to do something to benefit those needy ones,
who have no father nor mother to take care of them and provide for
their wants.
PART II.
When the bank was opened, the first of November it was found to
contain seventy-nine dollars and eleven cents! This sum of money had
been saved in seven weeks, by twenty-four boys. They were quite
astonished at their own success. They learned the lesson by personal
experience, that if they took care of the pennies, the shillings would
take care of themselves. Some of them had saved enough to buy a new
suit of clothes, others enough for pantaloons, and others for a cap or
shoes. They were advised not to spend their money hastily; but a few
were too impatient to wait, and the same evening they received it they
went out to make their purchases. Others laid by their money till
morning.
The news-boys found it was so much better for them to put their money
in the bank, than to spend it in gaming, or for cigars, or in other
useless ways, that they voted to close it again, not to be opened till
December. During the month of November, nineteen boys saved
sixty-three dollars and forty-seven cents. One of them had put in
thirteen dollars. He did not spend it all for himself, but gave a part
of it to his mother to pay her rent.
The boys were delighted with their wealth. "No hard times here!" they
cried. "Money isn't tight with us. There is plenty of it."
One of the boys purchased an entire suit of clothes; and when he made
his appearance among the others, in his nice blue jacket, with bright
buttons, his pantaloons to match, and his blue navy-cap, he was
greeted with cheers. One and another examined his wardrobe, and all
enjoyed his success. "Who are you? Who'd think this was Charley ----? Is
this a news-boy? Who'd believe this was a news-boy?" and various other
exclamations escaped from them. "Charley has done well this time."
Yes, Charley did well, and he will not soon forget the lesson he
learned that month. He knows more of the true use of money than ever
before.
The first of December the boys voted to keep the bank closed till the
third of January. They decided not to have it opened on the first,
because there are so many temptations to spend money that they feared,
if they had it in their pockets, they should part with it foolishly.
One of the news-boys has been recently run over by a stage. I inquired
about him, and learned that he is the very boy whom I met in a
friend's office, and my interest in whom led me first to visit the
lodging-house. This is the third time he has narrowly escaped death.
The omnibus passed directly over his body. When he was taken up, his
companions thought him dying. He was conveyed immediately to the
hospital.
The boys at the lodging-house were saddened by Patrick's troubles.
They expected he would die. They recounted his excellencies of
character. His cheerfulness and ready wit were not forgotten. Patrick
is not a boy of many words, but when he speaks, it is to the purpose.
The boys called at the hospital to see him. The door-keeper said he
never knew a boy who had so many cousins!
The next day Patrick was better. It was found that he was not so much
injured as was at first supposed. There was great rejoicing in the
evening at the lodging-house. A heavy load had been lifted from their
hearts. Patrick would soon be among them again. They were cheerful and
full of life and spirits. "Patrick must be half made of India-rubber!"
they exclaimed, gleefully.
This sympathy with each other is one of the most beautiful traits of
their character, and shows a nature that may be nobly developed. They
cannot but learn much that is good in the hours spent in their
reading-room, as they listen to the instruction of those interested in
their welfare. Many of them have already found good situations, and
give promise of becoming useful men. They appreciate kindness and
civility. "Mr. ---- spoke to me in the street, when he was walking
with another gentleman and _he shook hands with me too_," said one of
them triumphantly, as if he had risen in the scale of being, and was
more worthy of respect, in consequence of the respect with which he
had been treated. Few can estimate the power of sympathy.
"Speak gently, kindly, to the poor;
Let no harsh term be heard;
They have enough they must endure,
Without an unkind word."
"I have never forgotten your words of kindness, when I was poor and
almost discouraged," wrote one lady to another, and no more will any
child of want forget the utterance of a warm, generous heart.
I should have told you, that besides the money the boys put in the
bank, they earn enough to pay for their lodging, six cents a night,
and to purchase their food, and, sometimes, various articles of
clothing. They are obliged to be very active, and to be up early in
the morning. They may be found in all parts of the city, crying their
papers with loud, piercing voices, and running at full speed from
street to street, stopping only to sell papers to any who may buy.
It would be well if they had some occupation which would expose them
less to bad company and unsteady habits; but a news-boy can be honest,
virtuous, and temperate, as well as any other boy,--if he will take
the right way to be.
[Illustration]
IDA'S DRESS.
At one time, when Mrs. Dudley was spending a few days in the city, she
went with a friend to call upon a poor woman whom she heard was in
great need. This woman had sent a daughter, about eight years old, to
school for one day, and then found that she could not spare her; she
felt obliged to keep her at home to take care of the baby.
Mrs. Carter--for by this name I shall call her--occupied a house back
from the street. The ladies ascended the steps leading to the first
floor, and inquired if she lived there. "She is in the basement," was
the answer. They descended into the area. It was neatly swept, and in
perfect order. "It must be a genteel woman who lives here," remarked
Mrs. Benton. They knocked. A voice bade them come in. They opened the
door and entered. Mrs. Carter was sewing by a table. By her side stood
Georgianna, her oldest child, plainly and neatly dressed. At the other
end of the table was a little girl about four years old, whose name I
forget, and in the rocking-chair before the stove was a dark-haired
babe, quietly sleeping.
The room was neat and tidy. There was a little fire in the stove, but
not enough to thoroughly warm the room.
The ladies inquired of Mrs. Carter in regard to her circumstances.
They learned that her husband left her last spring, and had gone she
knew not where. He was a carpenter by trade, and could earn two
dollars a day. She had always done what she could with her needle, and
had earned a few dollars a month by binding shoes or doing other
sewing. They had lived very comfortably, renting good apartments for
eight dollars a month, and knew nothing of want or suffering.
Mrs. Carter was obliged to give up her pleasant rooms, to remove to
the basement. She has laboured industriously, whenever she can procure
work, to pay her rent, three dollars a month, and to provide food for
her children. She has known what it is to be both cold and hungry. She
has bought coal by the bushel, and has sometimes been without fire in
the dead of winter. Her family have lived principally upon bread and
water, and the little ones have cried for food when she had none to
give them.
Little Ida is too young to know her mother's sorrow. She is a babe of
only a few weeks old, and she sleeps as sweetly in that great
rocking-chair as any babe ever slept in a cradle. She is warmly
wrapped in a blanket, and does not suffer, although she has scarce a
change of dresses.
When Mrs. Dudley returned to her happy home, she told her children
about this family, and particularly about the poor babe, who so
increased her mother's cares and labours, yet repaying it all by the
wealth of maternal love her coming had developed. It was pleasing to
see Georgianna lay her face so softly on the infant's, and so gently
rock her when her slumbers were disturbed.
Mrs. Dudley's children listened to her story with great interest, and
wished to do something for the family. Mary repaired some garments
which her mother gave her, and when this was done, she went to her
drawer and took out a small piece of calico, which had been given to
her to make her doll a dress. She asked her mother if there was enough
to make Ida a dress. Mrs. Dudley examined it, and told her there was.
So she cut it out for her daughter, and showed her how to make it.
This work occupied her several days, for Mary goes to school, and has
not much time for sewing. The dress looked very pretty when it was
completed. She had embroidered the tiny sleeves with a neat scollop,
and had taken great pains to make it strong and neatly.
The next time Mrs. Dudley went to the city, she took several small
parcels for Mrs. Carter, who was much pleased with them. None
gratified her more than the dress for the baby.
It will always be a pleasant recollection to Mary that she made the
heart of this suffering woman happy by sending a dress to her infant.
She learned the pleasure of giving, and of exerting herself to do good
to others.
If Mrs. Dudley had had the dress made by a seamstress, it would have
been equally useful to Mrs. Carter; but Mary would have lost the
reward which she now enjoys in the consciousness of relieving the
sufferings of the destitute. I hope Mary will always be benevolent,
and never grow "weary in well-doing."
[Illustration]
WHAT MADE WILLIE HAPPY.
Willie was looking at the slippers which his mother had wrought for
him, and admiring the freshness of the colours. They were a Christmas
present to him, and had afforded him much pleasure.
"You were very happy the evening they were given to you," said his
mother.
"But no happier than I was last evening," he replied.
I will tell you what made him so happy on the evening to which he
alluded. At Christmas, two little books had been added to his library,
and another had been lent him by one of his companions. When he had
read these books, he was very desirous to get still another. He began
to inquire how he could earn money enough to buy it, for he thought he
should like to purchase it himself. He could think of nothing which
could be done in the house, by which he could replenish his purse; so
his mother told him, if he would control his temper for a week, she
would get the book for him. If he did get out of patience, and
immediately checked himself, he was to receive it.
Every evening Willie came to his mother, and told her how he had
succeeded through the day. She observed him very carefully, and she
knew that he really tried to conquer himself. She encouraged him in
his efforts, and Willie was very happy--happy because he was
succeeding in correcting what was wrong--and happy in the anticipation
of the reward promised him.
The last day of the week came, and passed away. Willie's father
returned from the city. He brought with him a parcel done up in soft
white paper, and tied with a small red and white twine. His mother
opened it, and there was the book for which she had sent. She wrote
Willie's name in it, with the day of the month, and then wrote "A
Reward of Merit." She thought those few words would remind him of the
way in which he earned the book, and would encourage him to persevere
in overcoming any bad or sinful habit.
All these things together made Willie quite as happy as on "Merry
Christmas." It always makes people happy to endeavour to subdue what
is wrong in themselves,--such efforts being their own reward. The
consciousness of the approval of our heavenly Father must always
occasion the truest pleasure.
DO YOU INTEND TO BE A GENTLEMAN?
(A QUESTION FOR BOYS.)
As I sat at the table a few evenings since, a gentleman called. He was
invited to take a seat with us. As he had already supped, he declined.
This person is a man of talent and education, but as I turned to look
at him, in the course of conversation, I observed a habit which so
disgusted me, that it was with an effort I could finish my tea.
This circumstance impressed on my mind the importance of forming
correct habits in boyhood. "The child is father of the man,"
Wordsworth says in one of his poems. The habits and character you form
now will, in all probability, be the habits and character you will
retain when you are a man. I suppose the individual to whom I have
alluded was entirely unconscious of doing any thing disagreeable. If
not, perhaps he did not consider it of much consequence. He may have
grown up with the opinion that little things are of small importance.
Now, that this is not always so, you may easily see if you drop a
spark of fire in a pile of shavings: the whole will be immediately in
flames, and will do as much injury as if it had been kindled by a
large coal.
Our happiness depends quite as much on little things as on great.
Small trials are as difficult to bear as any. People often lose their
patience when a dress is torn, or a pitcher broken, who would be quiet
and calm if some serious misfortune had befallen them.
I hope, boys, you intend to be gentlemen. I do not mean fops and
dandies, but true gentlemen. You have perhaps seen the remark made,
that "dress does not make the man, but after he is made, he looks
better dressed up." Neither do gentlemanly habits and manners make the
man, but they certainly improve him after he is made, and render him
agreeable and prepossessing.
A farmer, or a cabinet-maker, or a blacksmith, are no less gentlemen
because they are engaged in these useful and honourable employments,
than are judges, or merchants, or ministers. To be a gentleman is to
be a man of gentle manners; and who would not desire to be
distinguished for such a trait?
If you intend to be gentlemen, you must begin now, by always
conducting, under all circumstances, just as well as you know how.
Some of you, I suppose, have better advantages of society, and more
careful instruction at home, than others; but no boy of intelligence
need fail to be a gentleman if he tries.
A true gentleman is always courteous. He answers respectfully when
spoken to--no matter by whom. Do you remember the anecdote of General
Washington, who raised his hat and bowed politely to a coloured man he
met, who had previously saluted him with the usual civility of the
race? A friend with him expressed surprise. "Do you think," said he,
"I would be less polite than a negro?" I hope, when you are tempted to
be uncivil to those whom you consider beneath you, you will not forget
the good example of the Father of his Country. I suppose the secret of
Washington's politeness and greatness was, as his mother proudly said
of him, that "George was always a good boy!"
He was a gentleman--such a gentleman as I should be glad to believe
every boy who reads this book will one day be. If you would be polite
to all, you must cultivate kind feelings towards all. A gentleman is
not a rough man. He may have great energy and power of character, as
had Washington, but still he is a _gentle_-man.
GENEROUS NELLY; OR, THE WILLING MIND.
Nelly Wallace is about six years old. She has a pleasant, attractive
face. Her long hair curls in ringlets over her neck. She is one of the
neatest and most gentle children I ever saw, and gives her mother but
little trouble. Indeed, she is so orderly, and active, that she is
quite an assistance to her. She sings like a lark, and is patient as a
lamb. She is very generous, too.
Her father is obliged to live on a small salary.
Nelly is a favourite with her father's friends, and often receives a
present from them.
One day, she heard her mother say to her father that they needed some
particular article very much, but he told her he had not money enough
to purchase it. She quietly left the room, and went up stairs.
Presently she returned, and placed a five-dollar gold-piece, which had
been given to her, in her mother's hand. "Please use my money,
mother," she said; "I should rather you would use it for what you
need, than keep it to buy something for myself."
At another time, her father was obliged to take a journey on business.
Nelly brought forth her purse, and offered its contents to him to
defray his expenses. Dear child! she knew nothing about the cost of
travelling, nor the value of money. She thought her three-cent pieces
would be all he would need.
[Illustration: Nelly brought forth her purse.]
Paul, when exhorting the Corinthian church to liberality, says, "If
there be first a willing mind, it is accepted according to that a man
hath, and not according to that he hath not." Nelly had a willing
mind, and her father was as much gratified by her thoughtful
consideration as he would have been if she had been able to furnish
him all that he needed. So our heavenly Father is pleased with his
children when they do what they can to provide for the wants of the
needy; and the smallest gift, offered in love, is not forgotten by
him.
You recollect that our Saviour, when he saw the rich men casting their
gifts into the treasury and the poor woman casting in her two mites,
said that she had cast in more than they all. They had given of their
abundance; it had cost them no self-denial--but she, of her penury,
had cast in all the living that she had. God looks not only on the
outward act, but at the heart. He sees the motives which actuate us.
He saw Nelly's heart, and he approved her generosity. He gave her an
approving conscience, which made her very happy--far happier than she
could have been if she had been selfish, and thought only of her own
enjoyment.
LOVEST THOU ME?
Jesus, after his resurrection from the dead, appeared at various times
to his disciples. Once, when Peter, John, and a few others were
fishing in the Sea of Tiberias, he stood on the shore, and inquired of
them, "Have ye any meat?" They answered, "No." Then he directed them
to cast their net on the right side of the ship, and they should find
fish. They did so, and caught one hundred and fifty-three. The
disciples then knew it was Jesus who had spoken to them. After they
had secured the fish by drawing the net to the shore, Jesus invited
them to dine with him.
The disciples had observed, so soon as they came to land, a fire of
coals, and "fish laid thereon, and bread." This was the refreshment
our Lord had prepared for them, and he, himself, gave them the simple
repast.
After they had dined, our Saviour said to Peter three times, "Simon,
son of Jonas, lovest thou me?" The first and the second time Peter
answered, "Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee." Peter was
grieved because Jesus said unto him the third time, "Lovest thou me?"
and he replied, "Thou knowest all things; thou knowest that I love
thee."
How did Peter know that he loved Jesus? It was not because he always
did right, for a short time before he had denied his Lord, and had
more than once said that he did not know him! Yet, notwithstanding
this, when he was now asked, "Lovest thou me?" he could unhesitatingly
answer, "Thou knowest that I love thee."
If you should be asked, "Do you love your parents?" you would
immediately answer, "Yes." You know you love them. How do you know it?
It might not be so easy for you to answer this question as the other,
but at the same time you are conscious that you do love them. You feel
that they are your best friends. They provide for all your wants. They
furnish you with food and clothes and the means of education. They
take care of you when you are well and when you are ill. You feel
grateful to them for what they do for you, and you enjoy being with
them, and talking with them. You like to please them, and it makes you
sad when you have grieved them. Children who love their parents very
dearly sometimes do what they do not approve; but they are always
sorry for it, as Peter was when he went out and wept bitterly.
If you should be asked, "Do you love your heavenly Father?" could you
as readily answer, "Yes?" Do you like to hear about him and his
wonderful works? Is the story of Jesus' love for lost man one that
interests you? Is it pleasant to you to think of living forever with
the Lord when you leave this world?
If you love your Father in heaven, you do not love to do what is
wrong. If you are overcome by temptation, and sin against him, you are
sorry, as you are when you sin against your earthly parents.
Children, and grown people too, sometimes seem to think that religion
is to be kept by itself, separate and distinct from our daily duties,
and that it consists in praying, going to church, hearing sermons, and
wearing a sober face. It is true the Christian often feels sober, but
there is no one who may be so cheerful as he, for there is none that
can be so truly happy. True piety extends to all the acts of our
lives, and influences them all. It does not forbid our doing any thing
that it is right for us to do. A Christian child enjoys play quite as
well as any other child.
If Jesus should say to you to-day, as he did to Peter, "Lovest thou
me?" could you answer, "Yes, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee?" It
is just as easy for you to know whether you love him as it is for you
to know whether you love your father and mother. I trust there are
many children who do love the Saviour, and who wish to live to be good
and to do good.
MY LITTLE BAG.
On my table lies a little bag. It has no beauty to render it valuable.
It is not made of silk or velvet. The material is plain muslin, and
that by no means of the finest texture. It is not very neatly made.
The stitches are irregular. Sometimes they are piled one above
another, and again they are scattered far apart. The hemming shows
that no skilful seamstress held the needle. And yet this bag has
afforded me much pleasure. Every stitch was made by the hand of love,
and with a desire to gratify me and add to my happiness. It was a work
of toil, for the fingers were unused to such labour. Patient industry
and persevering effort were required to accomplish it. Self-denial,
too, was practised, for play was forsaken on its account.
It was a gift to me from a dear child; a token of his purest and
warmest affection; and that has made this coarse muslin more precious
than the richest material could be, which had no such extraneous
value.
What a blessing is love! How it enriches us! Without it we must ever
be poor. "God is love," and he has taught us to love one another.
"Love is the fulfilling of the law." We must love our neighbour as
ourselves.
"Little deeds of kindness,
Little words of love,
Make our earth an Eden,
Like the heaven above."
No offering of true love is valueless, however small or imperfect it
may be. My little bag is rich in pleasant associations, and I never
look upon it but with a full heart.
God does not accept what we do for him because of any peculiar
excellence in our devotion, but because it is the result of our love
to him.
[Illustration]
DO YOU LIKE YOUR SEAT?
On the day after one Fourth of July, I was obliged to go into the
city. The cars were crowded with those who were returning, after
spending our national anniversary in the country. How much they must
have enjoyed that day of release from city labour, and dust, and close
streets bounded by high brick houses! How beautiful to them the green
fields, the shady trees, and the soft-flowing river! How they gazed on
the hills luxuriating in verdure, and the valleys rich with their
treasures of wealth and beauty!
"God made the country," and all his works are perfect. I pity those
who are pent up in a large prison-city with nothing but a dwarf-maple
before their windows which at all resembles the country, and who have
to look up, up, up, before they can get a glimpse of the blue sky, and
the fleecy clouds which sail majestically along, ever varying from one
form of beauty to another. Thank God, my young friends, that he has
given you a country home, and never leave it, unless stern necessity
compels you to make your abode in the hot, crowded, feverish city.
The cars, on the morning of the fifth, were, as I have told you,
crowded, and it was difficult to find unoccupied seats. A gentleman
and his wife entered a car, near the door of which were two seats with
only one person in each. The first was occupied by a boy about
fifteen. The gentleman politely asked him if he would sit with another
gentleman, that he and the lady who was with him might not be
separated. The first impulse of the boy was a civil one, and he
started to rise; but the second thought was ungentlemanly, ungenerous,
and extremely selfish. "I like my seat very well," he muttered, and
drew back to the window and looked out. Perhaps even then he began to
feel ashamed of such rudeness.
The gentleman behind him immediately arose, and offered his seat. It
was accepted with a bow, and a "thank you, sir." The lady was
immediately behind the boy, and, as she seated herself, she said to
him, in a low, kind voice, "I fear you will never be a gentleman." He
made no reply, nor did he move his face from the window, but his very
ears blushed. He was evidently ashamed. During the whole ride he kept
nearly the same position, not being willing to meet the eyes of his
fellow-passengers, for he must have observed their disapprobation of
his ill-manners; and before the cars were entirely within the depôt,
he went out upon the platform to escape from observation.
I hope the boy will never be rude in this way again, for he evidently
was made unhappy by it. There is only one reason why I fear he will
not profit by the well-merited rebuke he received, and that is,
because I saw one of his cheeks puffed out with a quid of tobacco! I
confess I do not expect so much improvement from a boy who indulges in
such a filthy habit, as from one who does not.
A gentlemanly boy must always be happier than one who is rough and
selfish. The boy in the car did not enjoy his ride, although, as he
said, he liked his seat very well. His impoliteness made it unpleasant
and the remembrance of it will never afford him gratification. I hope
none of you, who read about him, will be guilty of a similar error.
Always try to be accommodating to those about you. If you are asked to
do a favour, do it as if it gave you pleasure. You will never have
occasion to regret it. Be civil to those in your father's employment.
Their love and respect is of value to you. There are very few sunk so
low as not to appreciate true politeness. Above all others, be polite
to your parents, and your brothers and sisters. Do not indulge in
harsh words.
Perhaps the boy of whose history I have given you a single incident
never read Peter's instruction to the early Christians, in his epistle
to them, and did not know that the apostle considered politeness of
sufficient importance to be worthy of the attention of those to whom
he wrote. "Be courteous," is his direction to them, and I cannot give
you better advice on the same subject.
[Illustration]
THE LITTLE BEGGAR.
As I was walking up street, a few days since, I met two little girls
who looked very much alike, and were nearly of the same age. They wore
gingham sun-bonnets, which came far over their good-natured faces.
Their calico dresses were neatly made. Their blue woollen stockings
looked warm and comfortable, but their shoes were old and much worn.
As I passed, the elder held out her hand in a way which I could not
mistake, but I thought I would ask her what she wanted. She replied,
"A penny to get mother some sugar for her tea." I talked with the
children a few minutes about their mother, and inquired if she sent
them out to beg. They said she was obliged to do it, for their father
was dead, and she was not able to work.
[Illustration: The elder held out her hand.]
The children had such good, honest faces, and gave such evidence, in
their general appearance, of more care than most of this class of
children usually receive, that I thought I would go home with them,
that I might better judge of the correctness of their story, and of
the necessities of their mother. So I said to them--
"Where does your mother live?"
They named the street.
"Will you take me there?"
"Yes, ma'am. We must go this way;" and they turned off in the
direction of their home.
"What is your name?" I inquired of the elder child.
"Mary Ann ----."
"And what is your's?"
"Ellen ----," answered the younger.
"Have you any brothers and sisters?"
"We have one sister and one brother. Her name is Joanna, and his is
Michael. A man took Michael away the fifth of July--the day after the
Fourth--and we haven't seen him since. Mother thinks we shall never
see him again."
They told me that their father was a stone-picker, and while he lived,
they did very well, and went to school; but since he died, their
mother had been ill, and had bled at the lungs, and was not strong
enough to work.
I was pleased to see the children take each other by the hand, and
walk along quite lovingly by my side. They appeared kind and polite to
each other, and seemed to think that in me they had found a friend.
They talked very fast, and told me many things about themselves and
their way of life.
"We save our money to pay the rent."
"How much does your mother pay?"
"Three dollars."
"Three dollars a month!" I said, thinking how much it was for a poor
woman, who had herself and three children to feed and clothe.
"I don't know whether it is a month, or a week, or how long; I only
know it is three dollars.
"Once we were turned out in the snow. Oh! how cold my feet were!" The
remembrance of her sufferings seemed almost to make her shiver.
"What did you do?"
"A woman took us in her house."
"It is a long walk for you," said Mary Ann, as we crossed one of the
broad avenues, "and we live in the top of the house."
When we reached the house where the children lived, Mary Ann and Ellen
ran up before me so fast that I lost sight of them. The hall was so
dark that I could not see the stairs, but I could hear their feet
pattering quickly on, and I followed as best I could. The last flight
of stairs I could see distinctly, for the sky-light was just over
them. They were brown with age, but they were evidently often swept
and washed. I entered a room in which I saw the children. The woman
there they introduced as their mother. She did not receive me with
much cordiality. I suppose she wondered why I had come there. Her room
was small and scantily furnished. It was heated by a small furnace.
The great gray cat was dozing in the corner.
I seated myself on a clean wooden chair, and began to talk with the
mother about her children. She told me of her only son, "as fine a boy
as ever stood on two feet," and her anxiety in regard to him. I
attempted to encourage her to hope that so soon as navigation closed,
he would return to her, for he had been employed on a coal-boat; but
she refused to be comforted. She wished to find a place for Joanna in
the city.
Mary Ann, who is nine years old, said she should like to go to the
country. She thought she could wash dishes, set the table, and sweep,
and I thought so too, for she seemed to me one of the smartest little
girls I ever saw. She would have been quite willing to accompany me to
the country, if her mother had consented, and I could have taken her.
The children's mother came to this country when she was quite young,
and lived for several years as a servant in different families. She
showed me several papers which she carefully preserved in a basket.
One was a certificate from a physician--another from the person who
had employed her husband. As she opened her trunk I observed its
contents were nicely folded and arranged, as if she had a love of
order. She told me she was able to do nothing but sew and could not
procure much of that.
After the children came in, they combed their hair, and braided it,
and washed their hands and faces.
I inquired if the children could read. Ellen got her "Easy Lessons,"
and came and stood by my side while she read in it. Mary Ann read very
well in her geography, and Joanna in some "Reading Lessons" which she
had used at school. I asked them if they could write.
"I can," replied Mary Ann. "I can write my name, or I could your's if
I knew it."
I gave each of the children a piece of silver. They immediately handed
it, with a bright smile, to their mother. I told them I would call
again and see them some time, but I could not do it often. When I bade
them good-by, they all followed me to the door, and looked so pleased
and happy that I felt amply repaid for my long walk. I had gone but a
few steps, when Mary Ann came bounding along, and asked, "When will
you come to see us again?" I took her hand, and we walked together to
the next street.
There are many children as destitute as these little girls, and many,
very many, who have not even a feeble mother to care for them. Many
poor children are sent out to gather the coal from the streets, or
bits of wood where new buildings are being erected, and their bread
they beg from door to door.
In some of our cities benevolent people have opened schools for these
miserable children, where they are taught to sew and read, and to
observe to some extent the decencies and proprieties of life. In some,
a dinner is given to its pupils, and, where it is possible, a home for
the homeless in the country.
Children often save a part of their money for missionary or other
benevolent purposes. I cannot conceive a more suitable object for
their benefactions than other children who are poor and destitute. "It
is more blessed to give than to receive," the Bible tells us.
I hope you do not forget to thank God for the comforts and happiness
of home, which you enjoy; and I hope, also, that you will not forget
that we have the poor with us always, and must do them all the good in
our power.
"Have pity on them, for their life
Is full of grief and care;
You do not know one half the woes
The very poor must bear;
You do not see the silent tears
By many a mother shed,
As childhood offers up the prayer,
'Give us our daily bread.'"
LITTLE CHARLEY.
Charley was a sweet little babe. It was a pleasure to kiss his plump
cheek, and pat his fat and dimpled arms. He was a dear babe, and we
all loved him, and our blessed Saviour loved him even more than we
did.
Before Charley was two years old, he became ill. All that physicians
could do was done for him, but he daily grew more and more feeble. The
bright blue eyes lost their brilliancy, and became faded and dim. The
plump and rosy cheek became hollow and pale. The fat and rounded limbs
grew thin and weak, and we all felt that little Charley would soon be
taken from us.
The same sweet smile lingered about his mouth, although pain and
suffering had saddened that baby-face. He no longer tottered about the
floor, but was confined constantly to his bed. Not there even was he
to remain more than a few short weeks. The angel of death came, and
bore him to the Saviour's bosom. His friends looked at the beautiful
casket, and felt that the spirit which had inhabited it, and made it
precious, was no more there. They committed it tearfully to the grave,
and, lonely and sorrowing, returned to their desolate home. The crib
was vacant--the tiny shoe had no owner--the rattle lay neglected.
There was no need of the noiseless step lest the sleeper should be
awakened. Little Charley slept in death.
How sad and broken those loving hearts! Those parents were Christian
parents, and they sorrowed not as those without hope. Jesus, their
Saviour, had wept, and they knew their tears were not forbidden. One
of the cords which bound them to earth was snapped asunder. They had
one child in heaven, there to be a pure and sinless spirit in the
immediate presence of his Father--God. There was comfort in the
thought that Charley's tiny bark had safely passed over the sea of
life, and was securely anchored in the haven of eternal rest.
Charley had a brother, Willie, two years older than himself. Little
could he know of death--but he knew he had no baby-brother now, and
his mother told him Charley was in heaven.
"I hope, mother," said he, "the apostles will not get him."
"Why, my child?"
"Because they did not want little children to go to Jesus," was his
artless reply.
This little boy has recently removed, with his parents, to the city.
He does not like it as he did the green grass and shaded fields of the
country. He feels lonely without the companionship of the trees and
the birds, and he wishes that "God would take him right up to heaven
to play with Charley."
How is it with you, my dear child? Are you ready to be taken "right up
to heaven?" Do you love your Saviour? Do you obey your parents? Are
you truthful and conscientious? Do you study your Bible to learn all
you can about God, and what he would have you be and do? Do you pray
to him daily for His blessing, and ask Him to keep you from sin? Do
you seek His forgiveness for all you have done that is wrong?
So live, that when the angel of death comes for you, he may carry you
where Charley is, into the blessed home prepared for all who love God.
_When_ He will come, you cannot know. Be always ready, and then He
will not find you unprepared.
[Illustration]
DARLING WILLIE.
Willie was an active little boy, just large enough to be dressed in
frock and pantaloons. He was very affectionate, and everybody who knew
him loved him.
When he left the green fields in the country, to come with his parents
to the city, he did not feel so happy as in his pleasant home by the
river side, where the wild birds sung to him, and where he could watch
the branches of the old elm swaying in the breeze.
It was autumn when he came to town, and there were no flowers in the
yard attached to his city home. The grass was brown and frost-bitten,
and soon the white snow came and covered it. The stone walks were
swept, and when it was not too cold, Willie could ride around the
little square, seated on his velocipede. In his mother's parlour, he
could make houses with his blocks, or stables for his tin horses, and
often he went out to walk or drive with his mother, who always enjoyed
taking him with her.
The winter passed away, and every month the strong cords of love were
binding him still more closely to the hearts of his friends. Spring
came--the fresh grass sprung up, and the dandelions opened their
blossoms in Willie's playground. How he loved to look at them! Those
blades of grass, and the yellow flowers, filled his heart with
gladness. His eyes sparkled, and he could scarcely stand still as he
talked about them.
Willie was, one day, sitting with his grandmother by the open window.
The sun had just sunk below the horizon, and the clouds were
gorgeously tinted with his parting rays. Some of them were of a rich
golden hue, and others were dyed with rosy light. It was an
exceedingly beautiful sunset, and Willie, who loved all nature, gazed
for some time in silent admiration. Then, looking up to his
grandmother's face, and pointing to the west,
"See, grandmother," said he, "what a beautiful home Charley has!"
[Illustration: Willie was one day sitting with his grandmother by the
open window.]
Charley was Willie's little brother, whom the angels had taken from
earth, and carried to live with Jesus.
He thought Charley must have felt lonely when he first went to heaven;
but, as he would say, "now he has got acquainted, he is very happy."
Sometimes Willie would ask his mother, "Would you be lonesome without
me, mother?" It was always a pleasant thought to him that he might
early die and go to Jesus.
Willie liked to look at the blue sky. Perhaps it was because he
thought it was Charley's home. He watched every evening for the moon,
with her silvery light, and for the twinkling stars.
At one time, a cousin of his called to see him. He brought a basket
with him. Raising the cover, he said--
"Willie, come, look in my basket."
Willie came as requested.
"Oh! I know what it is! It is a rabbit for me!"
So it was. George opened the basket, and out jumped a white rabbit,
with pink eyes. It was a beautiful animal. Willie capered with
delight. He had a live plaything, and it pleased him more than the
velocipede, or his blocks, or any of his toys.
Willie said he loved his cousin George for bringing him the rabbit,
and his cousin Walter for sending it to him. They were happy because
they had made him so happy.
Not long after this rabbit was added to Willie's amusements, very sad
tidings came to the home of George and Walter. It was said that Willie
was dead. It seemed scarcely possible--for it was only a few days
since he had sent a message of love to them.
Some member of the family immediately went to town, and called on
Willie's father. It was indeed true that Willie was not there! He had
gone to be with the angels. God had heard his prayer. Heaven was a
better, safer, happier place for him than even his pleasant home, with
his fond parents, and he was taken "right up there," as he wished, to
be with Charley.
Saturday evening Willie went to his bed in apparent health. Sabbath
morning he complained of not feeling entirely well, and on Wednesday
he laid aside his garment of mortality, and put on the beautiful robes
made white in the blood of the Lamb, in the spirit-world. He was a
lovely child when he dwelt with us here below; how very lovely he must
be in the bright world to which he has gone!
His mother often weeps when she thinks of him, and she misses him more
than any one but a mother can. There is no one to play with his
blocks, or his tin horses, or his pretty rabbit. Yet Willie is very
happy, and his mother has no wish to recall him to earth, lonely and
desolate as is their once cheerful home.
Willie will shed no more tears. He will never feel sad or lonely. He
will suffer neither pain, nor hunger, nor weariness. But we, who love
him, may weep, as did Jesus when Lazarus lay in the grave; and we
shall never forget the sweet child, so full of life and love, who was
given us for a little while, and then taken home to glory.
Dear children, who read about Willie, are you prepared to follow him
and Charley, where they are gone to dwell with that Saviour who, when
he was on earth, took little children in his arms, and blessed them,
and said, "_of such is the kingdom of heaven_?"
[Illustration]
WIDOW CAHOON AND HER GRANDSON.
"I wish to make a call in ---- street," said a lady to me, as we
together were visiting some of the poor of the city. "There is a Mrs.
Smith living there, a poor old woman nearly eighty years old. She is
infirm and partially blind. She has a little grandson, and she has no
means with which to take care of him. We hope to persuade her to give
him to us, and let us find a good home, by adoption, for him."
It was a warm winter's morning. Snow had fallen the day before, but it
was rapidly disappearing. The foot sank in the melting mass at every
step. The crossings were muddy, and it required some skill to pick our
way along dry-shod.
We turned into the street, and sought for the number which had been
given us. We found it on the door of a low, shed-like building, old
and out of repair.
"Does Mrs. Smith live here?" we inquired.
"No, ma'am."
"Is there an old lady, who is almost blind, and who has a little
grandson, in the house?"--we further asked, thinking Mrs. Smith might
not be known by name.
"No, ma'am. There is no such person here."
"Does she live in the neighbourhood?"
"She may be in No. ----."
We made inquiries at several doors, dodging in quickly to avoid the
great drops which came pattering down on the pavement from the
gutterless eaves, but we could learn nothing of the object of our
search.
At length we came to a grocery, and, stepping in by the mackerel
barrels which stood at the door, we repeated our inquiry--
"Can you tell us where Mrs. Smith lives? She is an old lady, almost
blind, and has a little grandson."
"Oh, yes! I know her well. She is a deserving, needy woman."
The man followed us to the street to point out the house where she
lived. As he was telling us, a woman passed by. He spoke to her,
saying,
"You know where Mrs. Smith lives--the old lady who is almost blind,
and who has a little grandson?"
"Yes."
"Will you show these ladies the place?"
"Yes."
She walked on with us till she came to a large tenement building, and
then directed us to a room in the upper story. We thanked her, and
entered the narrow hall, and passed up the still narrower staircase.
We knocked at the door, and were bidden to enter. The old lady was not
there. We inquired for her again, and learned that she had just gone
out. The woman said she would send for her. A boy, ten or twelve years
old, went to find her. While he was gone, we talked with his
mother,--a round-faced, good-natured, intelligent Irish woman. We
asked her where Mrs. Smith lived, and she said she was most of the
time with her. Poor woman! she had only a living-room and a bed-room
for herself and four children, yet she was willing to share them with
another as poor and more helpless than herself.
She was a widow, too, and had no one to depend upon. Her husband died
last spring. During the summer she had provided for her family by
washing and cleaning, but this winter she finds it almost impossible
to get work. One of the children is a babe, who was lying on a rough,
unpainted board-cradle, rudely put together by some unaccustomed hand.
This infant had been taken care of during the summer by his brother,
not more than ten or twelve years old, while his mother was absent at
work. There was a little girl, about eight years old, who attends the
Industrial School. She was quite unwell, and had not been able to go
out for several days. She sat in the great rocking-chair, looking sad
and disconsolate, as most sick children do. She was comfortably
clothed. Her dress she had received at the school, and had sewed on it
herself doing all her little fingers could do to make it. Her hair was
neatly combed. She was feverish and very thirsty. Sometimes she went
to the pail herself for a cup of water, and sometimes her brother
would get it for her. He seemed kind, gentle, and sympathizing--a good
example for some more favoured boys.
Pretty soon the door opened, and an aged woman, bent with years and
breathing hard and painfully, entered the room. A boy, with a
complexion fair and transparent, through which the blue veins showed
themselves, immediately followed her. She greeted us kindly, and took
a chair by my side, bending towards us that she might hear more
easily, for she was almost deaf. She told us that since her daughter's
death she had been entirely dependent on charity.
After talking with her a short time, Mrs. B----, the lady accompanying
me, gave her little grandson a penny to buy some candy. She did so,
because she wished to talk with his grandmother about him, and thought
he had, perhaps, better not be in the room. So soon as he left, she
asked the old lady if she had made up her mind to part with the
child. She had been spoken to a fortnight previously in regard to it
by another lady, and seemed then unwilling that he should leave her.
She said she had come to the conclusion that she must give him up, for
she was too old and feeble to take care of him, and she was constantly
anxious about him. She could not do for him all that he needed, and
she knew it would be much better for him to be adopted in some kind
family, where he could be brought up as a son. She spoke of him most
tenderly and affectionately. He was her earthly all. She had taken
care of him from his infancy. She came from Ireland for that very
purpose. His father had died before he was old enough to remember him,
and his mother had supported him by her own industry.
The grandmother's name was not Smith, as we called her. It was, as she
said, widow Cahoon. The daughter's name was Smith, and the
sunny-haired boy was David. Last May, Mrs. Smith died of cholera,
leaving her aged mother homeless, and her beautiful boy an orphan.
When David returned with a great piece of molasses-candy, he did not
keep it all himself. He divided it among the other children without
being told to do so. This showed that he was a generous child, and
loved to make others happy. When he had eaten his portion, his
grandmother washed his face, neck, and hands, and put on his best
clothes, which his mother had made for him before her death. He
looked very tidy and comfortable in his brown overcoat and his new
boots--a New-Year's present.
The grandmother tied up a pair of shoes and a few socks in a little
bundle. When she handed it to David, he burst into tears. He felt that
he was really going from his dearest friend. She wept aloud for a few
minutes, but when she saw how much it affected him, she wiped away her
tears, and attempted to cheer him. He summoned his resolution and
became once more calm.
Mrs. B---- took him by the hand, and led him down stairs. As he left
the room, I gave mine to his grandmother, who uplifted it in both
her's, as if pleading, in silent agony, for strength to bear this new
trial. I shall never forget the expression of that wrinkled, up-turned
face. Dear old grandmother! Who will comfort her now? David will not
forget her, but he cannot put his arms around her neck, nor cheer her
with the sunlight of his bright face. She is alone--none of her
kindred near. The lady who took charge of David will do what she can
for her, but her heart must yearn for the dear boy that poverty and
age compelled her to give to the fostering care of strangers.
When David reached the street, the tears were tracing their way over
his round, plump cheek, but soon a smile played around his mouth. Mrs.
B---- took him into a toy-shop, and purchased for him a tin horse
suspended in a wheel, which he could roll about the room. He selected
this himself, and it was delightful to see with how much pleasure he
looked at it, as he carried it in his hand.
We concluded to make no more calls that day, but to take David
directly to Mrs. B----'s. When his coat and cap were taken off, he
began to roll the horse across the floor. Sometimes he would come and
stand by my side, and examine it closely. I said to him--
"Have you ever been in the country?"
"Oh, yes. I was there a month, when we buried mother."
"Where were you?"
"We were with Elek, grandma's son."
"Why doesn't your grandmother live with him?"
"He isn't kind to her."
"Was his wife kind?"
"No; she said she wouldn't live with him if grandma did."
"What did you see in the country?"
"I saw the fields, and the trees, and horses, and cows."
"Did Elek have a cow?"
"Yes; and she went away every day, and at night she came home, and
they milked her."
"Did you see any birds?"
"I saw birds no bigger than that," said he, putting his hand over his
horse so as to hide more than half of it, "and they sang all the time.
And there were some chickens, that laid eggs, and then Elek's wife
sold the eggs to the baker to pay for bread."
"And had you apples or peaches?"
"I used to throw small stones at the apples, and knock them off. The
peaches I could reach with my hand. I had just as many as I wanted."
The little orphan's month in the country had been a sunny spot in his
memory, clouded only by the unkindness of Elek towards the grandmother
he loved so much.
How strange it is that children can ever forget how much they owe
their parents! When the widow Cahoon was young, she had watched over
his infancy. She had carried him in her arms, unmindful of her own
weariness, and had done all for him that his helplessness required.
But now she is old; her eyes are dim; her hearing is impaired; her
hands are tremulous, and she is unable to provide for herself. Yet
Elek's heart is hard. He has forgotten all her love, and will not even
give her a home. He cannot prosper.
I well remember, when a child, what a fearful impression a passage
from the "words of Agur" made on my mind: "The eye that mocketh at his
father, and despiseth to obey his mother, the ravens of the valley
shall pick it out, and the young eagles shall eat it." "Honour thy
father and mother, (which is the first commandment with promise,")
Paul writes to the Ephesian children, "that it may be well with thee,
and thou mayest live long on the earth."
I should fear to hear Elek's future history. It must be dark and
sorrowful. His poor old mother uttered a groan, when, as she was
talking about David's mother, I asked if she had any other children.
"He isn't kind to her," explained its meaning.
"Sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child."
I left David with Mrs. B----, who will find him a home in some family
where they wish to adopt a little son. "He will make friends for
himself,"--she said, confidently, and I felt so also, for his sweet,
intelligent face is too attractive and winning not to find its way to
some loving heart.
When Mrs. B---- talked with him about his mother, he wept. She soon
comforted him, and told him that God would provide for him. He seems
to possess a sensitive nature, with, at the same time, the power of
self-control.
Who of you would like this orphan for an adopted brother? He is only
five years old. I have written to a kind lady of my acquaintance, who
has adopted two little girls, to inquire if she does not wish to add
David to her household treasures. There are many such homeless
children in New York, and it is an act of Christian charity to adopt
and educate them, and one which is rich in blessings to every heart
that is open to receive the fatherless and motherless.
Mrs. B---- would like to have adopted David herself but she has so
much to do for so many orphan children, that she concluded she had not
the time to devote to him. She sent him to a place known as the Home
of the Friendless. This is a large brick house, built on purpose to
shelter those who have no home of their own. There are always many
children there, who are kindly taken care of till homes can be
obtained for them. Those who are large enough attend school.
I was so much interested in David that I often called to see him. The
first call was made one day just before dinner. I looked about for my
little friend, and found him in the wash-room. He was standing by a
great towel, and wiping his fair, plump face as nicely as he could. I
kissed his clean, rosy cheek, and inquired if he remembered me. He
smiled, and said, "Yes, ma'am." He appeared quite happy and contented.
His teacher told me that he was a remarkably good boy.
Several applications were made for David by those who heard his story,
and found room in their hearts and houses for the fatherless and
motherless boy. His grandmother, knowing that she was too aged and
feeble to take care of him, gave him to the Home. It was a great trial
to do so, but she loved him too well not to seek his best interests.
She was willing to live alone, uncheered by the presence and affection
of her darling grandchild, if she could only feel that he would be
kindly treated and educated by Christian people.
A lady in Illinois wrote that she had a dear little son in heaven, and
wanted David to come to her to supply his place in the home circle,
where he would find those whom he might call "father, mother, and
grandmother." A clergyman in Connecticut proposed to adopt him, and
was coming to New York the first of May to take him home, if it should
be thought best.
While David was at the Home for the Friendless, his grandmother
occupied a room not far from Mrs. B----'s. It was on the lower floor,
so that she was no longer exhausted by going up so many flights of
stairs. Several ladies united, and each sent her a dinner one day in
the week, and saw that she was provided with breakfast and tea. They
furnished her with comfortable clothing, for which she manifested much
gratitude.
It was always pleasant to call upon "Widow Cahoon," and hear her talk
about herself and her previous charge. She told us about his parents
and grandparents. His father's father was a Methodist clergyman, and
his grandmother, Smith, was a most devout woman. She loved to talk of
their excellencies of character, and the good they had accomplished. I
never heard her without being reminded of God's faithfulness in
showing mercy unto thousands of them that love him and keep his
commandments.
One day, when I was at Mrs. B----'s, "Widow Cahoon" was ushered into
her private room--a back parlour on the second story. She was much out
of breath, and it required some time for her to recover herself
sufficiently to talk. At length she spoke of her children, some of
whom she hoped were living. Two sons and a daughter had come to
America long before she did, and had gone to Pennsylvania. She had not
heard from them for twelve years. She had often prayed that she might
see them before she died, and she hoped still that she should. She had
been the mother of eleven children, and here she was entirely
alone,--no relative near her to care for her in her age and
helplessness. She was very desirous Mrs. B---- should write to
Pennsylvania to make inquiries about her children. It seemed almost a
hopeless effort, but, to gratify her, Mrs. B---- wrote to the
postmaster of the town where her sons were last heard from. In about a
week an answer came from the postmaster saying that he was well
acquainted with James, and had seen him a short time previously. He
spoke highly of him, as an industrious and respectable man, and one
who would be happy to provide for his mother. In regard to her other
son, he said he did not know him personally. His reputation was good,
and his circumstances were such that he could assist in the care of
his mother. From James the "Widow Cahoon" afterwards learned that her
daughter had married and moved farther west, but she had not been
heard from for ten years. When Mrs. B---- read the letter to her, she
was much overcome, and the tears chased each other down her furrowed
cheeks. "Glory be to God!" she exclaimed. "He has lifted a load off my
heart. I shall see my sons before I die. Bless the Lord that I ever
saw the like of you! I have been trying seven years to get that letter
written!"
I had the pleasure of carrying to her a letter from James, and reading
it to her myself. As I entered the room she was sitting by the little
stove in a large rocking-chair, looking as comfortable as one could
wish. She seemed very happy, and told me about the prospect of seeing
her sons. "They will send for me, and I shall go to them," was a
cheering and delightful thought. She said she was expecting every day
a letter from James. When I told her I had brought it, her face
lighted up, and she uttered expressions of thankfulness, evidently
from a full and overflowing heart. She spoke of David, and of being
once more with him, if "the boys should send for him." She wished to
do what was best for the child, and was still willing he should be
adopted, if it was thought desirable. She expressed the utmost
confidence in Mrs. B----, and was willing to leave it all to her
judgment. This was the last time I ever saw the "Widow Cahoon," and we
shall probably never meet again. She had no earthly treasure to confer
upon me, but she gave me her blessing, and, I doubt not, will remember
me in her prayers so long as she remains upon earth; and when the
spirit-world is our home, I shall expect her face, unwrinkled by
sorrow or age, to beam upon me a heavenly welcome. It was but little I
did for this poor widow, and yet that little has been rich in
blessings to me, and may be to mine, for whom she fervently prayed.
James, in his second letter, sent a check to his mother to pay her
fare from New York to Pennsylvania with a request that David might
accompany her. He will provide for them both in future.
So soon as arrangements could be made, the now happy widow and her
little grandson started, under the protection of a friend, for her new
home in the country where, I suppose, they now are. What a pleasure it
must be to James to have his mother once more with him, and to be
able to do something for her who has done so much for him! Little
David will again see the birds and the chickens, and be surrounded by
kind and loving friends. The ladies of the Home will occasionally
inquire about him, and if he needs their care they will provide for
him, as his grandmother made them his legal protectors. If I ever hear
more about David which I think will interest you, I shall write you
again in regard to him.
[Illustration: Finis]