three months in the year the sun is never seen; and for nearly nine
months the land is covered all over with snow. We have plenty of nice
fruit in summer, and many good things all the year round; but the poor
Greenlanders live mostly on seal's flesh, blubber, and oil.
Poor, poor Greenlanders, they live so miserably; and, what is much
worse, many of them know nothing whatever of Jesus and his love! But
God loves them; for He loved the world, and gave "his only begotten
Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have
everlasting life," so that, if a Greenlander hears of Jesus, he too may
be saved.
Now, some good men pitied the poor heathen in Greenland, and thought
they would like to go and tell them of Jesus, how he was born in
Bethlehem, how good and kind He was to every one, how He gave sight to
the blind, healed the sick, raised the dead, how He died on the Cross
for sinners, how He went to the grave and then to Heaven, how He will
come again.
Well, they went to Greenland and labored there for eight long, weary
years. At last they got tired laboring so long without any apparent
success, and thought upon returning to their homes. They had suffered a
great deal from cold and hunger, and the people only laughed at them,
and mocked them. But these dear missionaries had made a great mistake,
for instead of telling the people as they meant to do of Jesus and his
great love in dying and rising again from the dead, telling the sweet,
sweet story of the Cross, they found them so very ignorant that the
missionaries thought to begin with proving that God lives, and that He
made all things. Now, this was a great mistake, for we are sinners, and
we need to know—not that God is the Creator, but that "God is love,"
and that Jesus died.
One day a party of heathen Greenlanders came to the missionary village.
They were led by a cruel and wicked Greenlander named Kajarnak, and
entered the hut where the missionary was writing. He was finishing his
final correction of the Four Gospels, and was at the moment engaged
on that part of John's Gospel relating to the sufferings and death of
Christ. Kajarnak was surprised at seeing the missionary writing, and at
once asked him what he was doing.
"Writing."
"Writing!" said Kajarnak. "What is writing?"
The missionary tried to explain it to him, and then said, "I will read
you what I have been writing."
He read the account of Christ's agony in the garden, and then upon the
Cross, with the story of his being crowned, scourged, and spit upon. As
he read, Kajarnak became interested.
"And why," he asked, "did they treat the man so? What had he done?"
"Oh!" said the missionary. "This man did nothing amiss, but Kajarnak
did. Kajarnak filled the land with wickedness; and Kajarnak deserved to
go to hell for it. But this man suffered all this to bear Kajarnak's
punishment, that Kajarnak might not go to hell."
And then the missionary went on to tell about God's love, man's sin,
and Christ's work for sinners, till the big tears were seen to roll
down the poor heathen's cheeks, and unable any longer to restrain his
feelings, he cried—
"Oh! Tell it all over again, for I, too, would like to be saved."
He was told it all over again—it was such a sweet story. Kajarnak
believed the good news. His heart was drawn to Christ. He loved him.
Kajarnak was saved.
Are you saved, dear young reader? You have often heard and often read
of Jesus and of his sufferings. Perhaps, too, you have often wept as
you thought of the cruel men scourging Jesus and spitting on his face.
But though you cry very much, it won't save you. The blood of Jesus
puts sin away, and nothing else will do it.
Will you now love Jesus? Poor Kajarnak, from "Greenland's icy
mountains," with a heart colder than the ice, and darker than the
darkest night, yet came to Jesus, believed in God's love, and was saved.
How I long that all my dear young readers too would seek the same
Saviour, and love the Jesus that loved Kajarnak, the Greenlander.
SOME YOUNG HEROES.
IN a certain school, a knot of boys had their heads together disputing
about something. You could never guess what it was if you tried. It
would all have seemed strange to you: the schoolroom, the teacher, and
the scholars—their odd dress and odder speech. It was in far-off Asia,
and the scholars were not orderly as ours. The boys talked when they
pleased, and made so much din that one could scarcely hear themselves
think.
Missionaries had come to this city and opened schools and churches to
teach the people that they must worship God alone, and that Jesus died
to save them.
When the natives found that their boys were beginning to stray into
Protestant schools, they said, "We must start schools of our own," and
so they started one. But it was too late; some of the boys had already
learned to love Jesus, sing sweet hymns, and read the Bible.
The teacher in this school was a very bitter enemy of the new religion,
so he listened sharply that day when he heard a discussion going on
among the boys. It was not in our language, but it was something like
this.
One boy said it was not right to worship pictures of saints, nor to
kiss them, and burn candles before them.
Another one said: "It 'is' right; it's the only true religion."
Others joined in with the first boy, and said it was wrong, and that we
must worship none but God.
Then the dispute grew warmer, and there were cries of "Heretic!
Heretic! Mean old heretic! Mean old Protestant!" and so on.
The teacher had made up his mind that this thing must be stopped; that
the boys must not go any more where they would hear such bad doctrine,
so he said in a loud, strong voice:
"Boys, stand up!"
They all stood up.
"Now let all the Protestants step out."
He did not suppose that any one would dare to confess to him that he
was a Protestant, but those little Christians must have remembered the
solemn words of the Saviour, how he said:
"If any men will confess me on the earth I also will confess him before
my father which is in heaven."
There was a moment's pause, then seven little fellows stepped out. The
teacher was amazed.
[Illustration: ONE OF THE SCHOLARS.]
"What!" he said. "Don't you believe in worshiping the pictures of
saints?"
"No, sir, we don't; mad please, sir," said the bravest of them all, "if
Jesus wanted us to worship pictures of the saints, wouldn't he have
left us his own picture to worship?"
This was an unanswerable argument, but the tyrant teacher did not let
them know how they had cornered him.
He said, "Boys, how shall these heretics be punished?"
And the boys decided they must be "spit upon."
So the whole school formed a procession and marched around those seven,
spitting upon them as they went.
"Now sing!" the teacher said, and all the school except the seven
struck up one of their patriotic songs.
"Sing, I tell you!" he said to the seven.
"We will, if you will sing the songs of Jesus," was the grand answer of
the martyrs.
"Sing it yourselves!" said the teacher.
And, wonderful to tell, this sweet song came to the ears of the
astonished teacher:
"Must Jesus bear the cross alone,
And all the world go free?
No, there's a cross for every one,
And there's a cross for me."
THE SECRET OF IT.
ONE October afternoon Frank Stevens was gathering apples in his
father's orchard. Great piles of golden pippins and rosy Baldwins lay
under the trees, waiting to be sorted and packed in the barrels that
were standing near. His brother Kent, many years older than himself,
was helping. It so happened that their work lay for a time near the
main road where people came and went. Leaning against the fence was Mr.
Marvin, who had stopped for a little neighborly chat.
Down the hill, trotting leisurely along, came a black pony. On his back
was Harry Porter, one of Frank's schoolmates. He, too, drew up by the
fence, and as he called, "Halloo, Frank!" cast a longing eye at the red
apples.
After chatting a few minutes, he trotted off again, an apple in his
hand, and two in each pocket.
"That's a splendid boy!" said Mr. Kent Stevens.
"Yes; there's the making of a fine man in him," answered Mr. Marvin;
"he's uncommonly bright, I noticed him at the examination last spring;
clear as a bell he was, working hard examples and talking off the
explanation as glibly as the professor himself. I reckon it would have
puzzled some of us committee to have done it."
Frank listened in silence as the talk went on while he sorted the fair
apples from the knurly. He had a gloomy, cross look on his face, as
though his thoughts were not pleasant ones, and he did not work in his
usual brisk way.
When Mr. Marvin went away, his thoughts came out.
"No wonder," he said, "that Harry Porter is always praised up so. He
has some chance in the world. His father is rich; he has a new book
every time he turns around; his father never goes away but he brings
him one; then he goes travelling. He has been out West and been to
Boston and New York. He has been on the top of Pike's Peak, and he has
seen Bunker Hill monument and the obelisk. Why shouldn't he know more
than any of the rest of us? He has lots of time besides, to study, and
have fun, too. Out of school he needn't do anything but trot about on
that pony. What's the use of a fellow like me trying to make anything
of himself?"
It was not such a very long time ago that Kent Stevens had been a boy
himself, even if he was now a young lawyer in the city. He came every
summer to the old home for a play spell, he called it, and then he
proved that he had not forgotten how to rake hay and pick apples. He
had not forgotten, either, how a boy feels, so he was excellent company
for Frank. He placed the last apple in a closely packed barrel, then he
turned and looked curiously at his brother.
"Why, Frank! What has got into you to-day?" he said. "You don't seem
one bit like our bright cheery boy. Do you think you are one of the
fellows who has no chance? Let us sit down in this sunny spot and rest
ourselves, and count up some of your chances.—A good home, a splendid
father and mother—to say nothing of a very wise brother—a few good
books, a weekly newspaper, a church and Sabbath-school, an excellent,
day-school, good eyes and ears and stomach, a pair of legs that can run
like a squirrel, two strong arms, and a very good mind, and here you
talk of not having 'chances!'
"How do yours look when you cast your eye at little Tim Morey with a
drunken father and a shanty for a home, or at Johnny Wilson, who is
almost blind, or poor Will Smith who must go for the rest of his life
on crutches and suffer much pain? Or compare your lot with the boys who
work in the factory, who must go to their work at seven in the morning
and stay until seven in the evening, day after day, year after year.
What about their chances? Don't you know, dear boy, that as a rule, it
is not boys with rich fathers who turn out to be the greatest men?
"Look at me," he said, straightening himself up and marching about with
mock pompousness. "Haven't I put the sweat of my brow and my muscle
into this old farm? Didn't I get out of my bed at cock-crowing and go
after the cows in wet grass up to my knees?
"Haven't I milked and ploughed and planted corn and hoed it and husked
it? And yet, I got through and had no more hard work than was good for
me, I believe now, though I used to grumble sometimes just as you are
doing now.
"I tell you, my boy, it is not in having this or that, or going here
and there, that makes a success, but it is improving, to the very
utmost, the advantages one has, though they be not the best.
"There is another secret too. One must be in dead earnest; must have an
aim and stick to it in spite of anything, and the greatest secret of
all is, that aim must not be alone to be a rich man or a learned man,
but it must be this—'to make the very most of one's self for Christ's
sake.' And you can't begin too young; the younger the better.
"I heard something about two men the other day, that is just in point
here—but perhaps you are tired of my preaching and want to go in."
"Oh no, tell it," said Frank. "You know I would rather have you preach
to me than anybody else."
"Well, a good many years ago two boys lived in the same town and went
to the same school. They both had pretty good advantages and were
naturally bright and clear-headed. All the difference between them
was, that from the time they were very little fellows, John was always
laying plans to have a 'good time.'
"Will loved fun as well as he did, but in both fun and work, his chief
aim was to be right and true.
"As they grew up to be young men, Will held fast to the choice he had
made when a little boy.
"The Lord Jesus Christ was his master.
"John had an entirely different master; he shirked his lessons, and
wasted his time and money in what he called 'fun.'
"When school days were over, one of them had a fine start in his
education, but poor John was almost a dunce, it was surprising how
little he knew thoroughly.
"When Will went into business, he made a resolution in the very
beginning to give a certain part of his money to the Lord's work,
whether he made much or little. He was prospered, and he grew to be
a rich, strong man, foremost in every good work; everybody loved and
honored him. He was a grand temperance worker, and he gave great sums
to the poor and helped educate many young men for the ministry. The
more he gave away the richer he grew, but he kept giving, and for some
time before his death it is said that he gave away a thousand dollars a
day!
"Will was William E. Dodge who died a few weeks ago in the city. You
remember the papers were filled with accounts of him. Nobody could say
a word against him, and the whole city was in mourning.
"It is strange that as the boys came into the world about the same
time, they left it within a few days of each other. But oh! so
differently. There were no weeping friends at John's funeral. Nobody
said over his coffin, 'Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord.' Not
one cried, 'How shall his place be filled.'
"John had become a miserable sot. Nearly all his old friends had
lost sight of him. He lived without God, and so he died without
him, miserable and alone, and he was carried to his grave from the
almshouse—just a rough pine box in a cart—and that was the last of
John, for this life.
"Don't you see, Frank, that under God's blessing, every boy has it in
his own power to choose whether his life shall be lived and ended like
John's or like William E. Dodge's?"
"It was a good sermon, Kent," Frank said soberly, as they walked up to
the house. "It helps me; I'll not forget."
THE TRUE WAY TO BE HAPPY.
HOW often Grace and Nellie had heard these words.
"I'm sick to death of them," said Nellie. "I am going to try to have
the most fun I can to-morrow, and I'll risk but what I'll be happy
enough."
"And I am going to try grandma's way of having fun to-morrow. Just for
a change, I am going to do everything 'exactly right.' She seems so
sure that that way is the best. Do you suppose there are any good plays
or jolly times for little girls who always do every thing 'perfectly
right?'"
"Why, no, Gracie! You know that if you are going to be very good
to-morrow, you ought to sew on papa's handkerchief, so as to finish it
for his birthday present. I can't finish mine, for I've planned to go
sailing on Tom's raft on the duck pond. I shall take all my dolls, land
on the little island, and pull of my shoes and stockings, and play I
am Robinson Crusoe, and the ducks will be the savages, and when they
come swimming towards me, I shall hide in the bushes, or else jump on
the raft and push out to sea. You had better come too, and be my man
Friday."
"But, Nellie, you know mamma said for us not to play on the duck pond,
for we always wet our feet."
"Yes; but I shall wear rubbers this time, and it was last week she said
that; she did not say we should not play there to-morrow."
"Well! You must play there alone, for I am going to try grandma's way
of being happy for one whole day, and if I don't like it, next day I
will play on the duck pond."
These two little girls were twin sisters, eight years old. They were
pretty, bright, and full of fun, and now they were going to have a
week's vacation; a whole week without study, and they had planned plays
enough to last most little girls three weeks.
But last night grandma had told them a long and interesting story about
a boy who always did just as he pleased in every thing. He was selfish
and disobedient, but he was never happy. At last he was so unhappy and
miserable, that he made up his mind to give up his naughty ways and to
be a good boy, and behold, everything was changed.
"So you see, my dears, as I have often told you, in order to be happy,
you must be good."
[Illustration: NELLIE LEFT AT HOME.]
"I am sick of that sort of stories," said Nellie.
"I am going to try for one day to see if I can be happy by being good,"
said Gracie thoughtfully.
The next morning dawned bright and warm.
"Such a lovely day for my play," said Nellie, as she tucked a big piece
of cake in her pocket, and with her arms full of dollies, went dancing
off across the fields to the pond.
"That child can't be going to the pond, after all I said the other
day," said mamma, glancing anxiously after Nellie.
"Oh no!" said grandma. "She is probably going to play in the grove by
the side of it."
"And so my little Grace is going to finish her present for papa's
birthday," said mamma with a pleased look at the little girl, who was
stitching away in the window.
"I feel a little bit happy now," thought Gracie, as she saw her
mother's smiling face. But it was a long hour, and the little fingers
felt very lame before the handkerchief was done, but at last the last
stitch was taken, and it was carefully folded and a card marked, "Papa
from Gracie," pinned on it, all ready to put by his plate to-morrow
morning at breakfast.
"Children, do you want to go with me to spend the day at aunt Mary's?"
calls papa, from the doorway. "Just put on your hats; the horse is
harnessed, and I am waiting. Where is Nellie?"
At that moment Nellie came in at the door, wet and dirty, with the
blood dropping from a cut on her forehead, and crying bitterly.
"Oh, my poor little girl, where have you been?" said mamma, as she
wiped the blood from her face.
"I was Robinson Crusoe," sobbed Nellie, "and the cake was my
provisions, and when the savages saw my cake they came swimming and
flying all on to my raft; then I tried to push them off, and I tumbled
right into the water and mud, and they got my cake; and my dollies are
drowned."
"So you went to the duck pond to play; you knew better than that," said
mamma sternly.
"If she has disobeyed you, she must stay at home," said papa. "Come,
Gracie!"
In a moment they were driving along the beautiful shady road that led
to aunt Mary's. At first, Gracie felt too sorry for Nellie to be very
happy. But her father, noticing her sad face, told her that if Nellie
was a good girl, he would take her next week, and then he told so many
funny stories about himself when he was a little boy, that it was not
long before she was laughing merrily.
What a welcome they had at aunt Mary's.
"We knew you were coming to-day," said Katie, who was Gracie's cousin,
"and we are freezing ice-cream down cellar."
Then they took their dolls and played happily together all day long.
When Gracie was riding home she told her father that she had never had
such a happy day before in her life.
"Oh, such a lovely time as I have had!" she exclaimed, as she bounded
into the house.
Grandma was rocking Nellie in her arms, and was just finishing her
evening story.
"And so you see, my dear, that just as soon as Jacob made up his mind
to be a good boy, all his troubles ended. Everybody loved him, and he
was very happy and good."
"I like your kind of stories to-night, grandma," said Nellie softly, in
the old lady's ear, "and I am going to be good to be happy all the rest
of the week."
"Say all the rest of your life, my dear," whispered back grandma.
THE KING OF THE WHITE LILY.
YOU'VE never seen a palace? Why, my dears, you have seen a great many.
Sit round me here, and I will tell you about one, the ruins of which
you saw this morning. In some respects it was quite remarkable; not
much like the one Queen Victoria lives in.
This palace had six walls, and only one room. There were three inner
walls, and three outer ones, and wherever two inner walls met, an outer
wall covered the place. The people who dwelt in the palace called the
walls the "Perianth." Each of the inner walls were called a "petal,"
and each of the outer ones a "sepal." They were covered outside and
inside with snowy white silk, filled with the most delicious perfume.
There were no windows, for each wall tapered to a point at, the upper
end, and drooped over the outside of the palace, leaving it, open to
the light and the pure air.
A house of so delicate a fabric could not rest on the ground without
being soiled by the dust and dirt of the earth, so it was held far
aloft on a slender, green column. It did not stand upright like Queen
Victoria's palace, but it leaned over toward the ground, so that when
the rain came down, none should remain in the palace and drown the
people. They would have fallen out, too, had they not been made as fast
to the floor as were the walls of the palace.
That seems dreadful to you little people who take such delight in
running about on your little feet. But they were very well contented to
remain where they were and only look out upon the world, for they would
have died had they left their beautiful home.
The throne covered nearly all the floor of the palace; and the king
stood on the centre of it. His head reached far above the walls, for he
was very tall, and very straight and slender. He wore a robe of pale
green, and on his head was an emerald insignia, more like a helmet than
a crown. It was divided into three parts. One part drooped over and
rested against the back of his head, one part against the right side,
and one against the left.
There stood around the throne six tall men dressed in white, bearing
salvers of gold-dust on their heads. They called the salvers "anthers,"
and the gold-dust "pollen," but it was not like the gold-dust you saw
at the jeweler's.
I want you to notice how the number three figured in nearly everything.
It was a sacred number with them. There were three inner walls, and
three outer ones. Six (two threes) tall men, and the king's crown was
divided into three parts.
A strange thing about the tall men was that one could not be
distinguished from another, so near alike were they, and they were each
named "Stamen." Although they were very tall, they were not so tall as
their king. They were very faithful servants, looking always up to him
to know his commands.
When the wind blew a little, they bowed down before King Pistil, and
the salvers swung back and forth, causing tiny clouds of gold-dust to
rise and fall upon him. Then he was glad, and bowed to them, that they
might see that he was pleased with them. For he only required them to
sprinkle a little gold-dust upon him, then he made it into pieces of
money and packed them away into three large boxes under his throne.
But sometimes this frail palace was at the mercy of the great winds. It
swayed to and fro before them, tossing the tall men about so they could
not prevent some of the gold-dust falling on the walls.
Then King Pistil trembled with grief at seeing the gold-dust being
wasted, and the tall men leaned toward him trying to comfort him.
Then the rain came, and fell into the palace, and washed it clean, and
bathed the king and his servants; and when the sun shone again, they
sparkled all over with diamonds.
But some strange people passing by stopped to admire them, and to
inhale their sweet fragrance; and one of the palaces with all its
inmates was carried away by them. Then there was mourning, for they
knew it was certain death to any of them if their palace was taken from
the column on which it rested.
King Pistil's money increased until the boxes could hold no more; and
the throne began to creak as though it would fall apart. The walls of
the palace were falling away too. The tall men looked old and feeble;
and the king felt himself growing weak and infirm, and he knew that
he soon must die. So he unlocked his money boxes, that after he was
gone, they might open, and the money be scattered far and near, and
other palaces spring up, and other kings live, as he had lived, giving
pleasure to all who came near.
Very soon after, the king and his servants died, the boxes burst open
showing them well filled with money. Some of it fell on the ground
under the palace, that another might spring up there in memory of King
Pistil; and some of it was carried a long distance by the wind before
it was dropped on the ground.