There are three brigades, or three little companies, which I think ought
to be organized among the boys and girls in every Sunday-school in
America. Can’t you form them in your Sunday-school? It is a very simple
matter. It will not cost any money: only a little time and forethought,
and a will to do. One brigade is called the Rainy-Weather Brigade, and
all the little boys and girls who join this company pledge themselves to
go to Sunday-school every Sunday, when they are not sick, even if it is
raining. The second brigade is called the Front Seat Brigade, and all
the members of this company pledge themselves to occupy front seats in
the Sunday school during the opening exercises before they pass to their
classes. The third brigade is called the On-Timers’ Brigade, and the
children in this brigade pledge themselves to be present on time at the
opening hour.
[Illustration: MEMBERS OF THE RAINY-WEATHER BRIGADE.]
You can see at once how helpful these little brigades are in every
Sunday school (where they exist) to the officers and teachers. Some
children will not go to Sunday school when it is raining or when it
threatens to rain; some will not go forward and occupy front seats when
they do go; and there are others who are always tardy. What a blessing
it would be if all the little children would organize these brigades at
once in their schools, and try to get every scholar to join each one of
them.
“HOME, SWEET HOME.”
Go with me, boys and girls, to the gay streets and gilded saloons of the
great city of Paris far across the sea. Here is said to be the centre of
all the world’s follies and pleasures. It is at night.
An American, who has left his home and native land to view the splendors
of the wicked city, is passing along the street. He has beheld with
delight its paintings, its sculpture, and the grand and graceful
proportions of its buildings. In the midst of his keenest happiness,
when he was rejoicing most over the privileges which he possessed,
temptation assailed him. Sin was presented to him in one of its most
bewitching garbs, and he yielded to the voice of the siren. He drank
wildly and deeply of the intoxicating cup, and his draught brought
madness. Reason was overthrown and he rushed out, all his scruples
overcome, careless of what he did or how deeply he became immersed in
the hitherto unknown sea of guilt.
The cool night air settled damp and heavy upon his heated brow. Walking
on and on, not knowing or caring where he went, by-and-by strains of
music from a distance met his ear. Pretty soon, following in the
direction from which the sounds came, he was able to distinguish the
words and air of the piece. The song was well remembered. It was “Home,
Sweet Home.” Clear and sweet the voice of some singer, using his native
tongue, rose and fell on the air; and the poor wild man stopped and
listened to the soft cadences of that beloved melody.
[Illustration: HOME, SWEET HOME.]
Motionless he stood until the last note floated away, and he could hear
nothing but the ceaseless murmur of the great city. Then he turned away
slowly, with no feeling that his manhood was shamed by the tear which
fell as a bright evidence of the power of song, and also as an evidence
that he, the guilty sinner, was not yet absolutely lost beyond recall.
The demon of the wine cup had fled, and reason once more asserted her
right to control. As the soft strains of “Home, Sweet Home” had floated
to his ear, memory brought up before him the picture of his own “sweet
home.” He saw his gentle mother and heard her speak, while honest pride
beamed from her eye; she seemed to speak again of her son, in whose
nobleness and honor she could always trust. His heart smote him as he
thought how little he deserved such confidence. He remembered her last
words of love and counsel, and the tearful farewell of all those dear
ones who gladdened that far-away home with their presence. The tide of
remorse swept over his soul as he thought of what the sorrow of those at
home would have been could they have seen him but an hour before.
Subdued and penitent he retraced his steps, and with his vow never to
taste of the terrible stuff that could so excite him to madness there
was mingled a deep sense of thankfulness for his escape from further
degradation. The influence of home had protected and shielded him,
although the sea rolled between.
How strong such memories are to prevent the commission of crime! How
powerful is the spell of home! How important, then, is it to make home
pleasant and lovable! Many a time a cheerful home and smiling face will
do more to make good men and good women than all the learning and
eloquence that can be used. It has been said that the sweetest words in
our language are “Mother, Home and Heaven”; and one might almost say
that the word “Home” included the others. Who can think of home without
remembering the gentle mother who sanctified it by her presence? And is
not “Home” the dearest name for heaven? Oh, then, may our homes on earth
be as green spots in the desert, to which we can retire when weary of
the cares of life and drink the clear waters of a love which we know to
be sincere and always unfailing.
“Mid pleasures and palaces
Though far we may roam,
Be it ever so humble
There’s no place like Home.”
[Illustration: LITTLE SOLDIER BOYS.]