WAITING AND TRUSTING.
AS Mrs. Crook entered, a welcoming hand was extended to her, and the
sweet voice which she had always liked to hear, though she could
scarcely tell why, said, "I am so glad to see you, dear Mrs. Crook. It
is very good of you to come. You will sit near me, will you not? For I
cannot speak loudly or for long together."
"It is very good of you to let me come," said Mrs. Crook, as she held
the white hand gently between both of her own, for a moment, and then
laid it reverently down on the white counterpane. "I was sorry to hear
of your illness. But," she added, in a hopeful tone, "I trust you will
get better. You do not look ill, and you have quite a beautiful colour
in your cheeks. Maybe the doctors are mistaken."
Mrs. Crook knew that it depressed sick people sometimes to be told that
they were not looking well. She was glad that she could honestly say
the contrary to Miss Lawton.
The sick girl smiled, as she answered, "You know the old saying, 'while
there is life, there is hope.' I have so many to love that for their
sakes I might wish to live, but God has enabled me just to leave myself
in His hands. To live and work for Him would be very sweet. To depart
and be with Christ far better still. I have only to wait and trust. All
will be well."
The sweet low tones of the sick girl's voice fell like music on Mrs.
Crook's ear, and they went to her heart and filled it with a strange
new longing—a deep desire to know what it was which filled the
speaker's whole being with measureless content and peace, that made her
face radiant with love and joy, that enabled her to set such little
store by the best this world could offer.
In broken words, which she could hardly recognise as her own, Mrs.
Crook managed to tell Miss Lawton what she felt, and to add—
"I have always hated to think about death, and counted a long life here
as the thing most of all to be wished for; please tell me how it is you
are not afraid to die?"
The sick girl's face grew brighter still as she listened. The inquiring
words were surely an answer to her prayer that Mrs. Crook's coming
might be helpful to the good of her soul. So, once again, she told how
the old (but ever new) story of God's love for sinners had been brought
home to her own heart, and how she had been enabled to see her own
sinfulness and need of a Saviour, and how she had found one in Jesus.
She spoke of His life, His love, His death, His tender compassion for a
lost and ruined world, His willingness to receive, His many invitations
to each weary and heavy laden soul, His promise, His victory over sin,
Satan, and the grave, of the glory He had laid down for a time, but
which He had taken again, and which every believer should share with
Him in heaven.
"Believing in His love, do you wonder, dear Mrs. Crook, that, while
I feel it sweet to serve and trust Him here, I feel that it will be
sweeter still to have the precious promises all fulfilled, and to be
with Jesus for ever and ever? In the presence of Jesus is fulness of
joy. Once there, sorrow and sighing would flee away, and I should just
be looking forward to meeting again those I loved on earth, and who
loved Jesus. My dear parents, my Sunday scholars, your and my little
Fanny amongst the rest, and you, too, Mrs. Crook."
A groan came from the person thus addressed, and down the face that
mostly had such a hard stern expression, the big tears chased each
other, whilst in a voice broken by sobs she cried—
"I have never loved Jesus; I have loved nobody but myself! It would be
of no use to look for me there."
Again the girl took up the sweet words of invitation, "'Come unto
me;' 'I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance;'
'Whosoever will, let him come,'" with many another message which came
straight from the very lips of Jesus when on earth, and told her
visitor how they had been brought home to her own heart. There was no
preaching as it seemed in her way of speaking. It was only just telling
what the Lord had done for her soul, and she could say, "What God has
done for me, He is ready and willing to do for you; His words are, 'Him
that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.'"
Happy Agnes Lawton, in being able thus to speak of her Saviour's love.
Happy Mrs. Crook, in being at last made willing to listen to the
precious message.
Not that Mrs. Crook felt glad at heart. On the contrary, she was sorely
troubled; but, though she did not yet realise it, she was on the way to
happiness. The Holy Spirit was striving with her and bringing the words
of the young disciple home with power.
Her hard heart was softening beneath this Divine influence. The eyes of
her understanding were being enlightened, and at that moment it could
have been said of Mrs. Crook for the first time in her life, "Behold
she prayeth," though no human ear caught the sound of words, and only
the great Searcher of hearts knew of the yearning cry for pardon which
was going out from hers.
"Agnes, darling. I fear you have talked too long."
The voice was that of Mrs. Lawton, who, fearing for her daughter, now
entered the room.
"I am sure you would not wish your visit to do her harm," she said,
turning to Mrs. Crook.
"Not for all the world," was the answer, though it was with difficulty
the words were uttered. "I don't know how to thank you for letting me
come."
"It has not hurt me, mother," said Miss Lawton. "I am a great deal
happier for having seen Mrs. Crook," and truly the sweet face shone
with a holy joy as she looked at her visitor.
Mrs. Crook took up the little white hand again and held it tenderly, as
she whispered, "Pray for me. God will hear you."
"And you and all who come in the name of Jesus," replied the girl.
Then she put her disengaged arm round Mrs. Crook's neck, and, drawing
her gently towards her, she kissed her, as a loving child might have
done.
"Good-bye, dear Mrs. Crook," she said. "If we do not meet again here,
may we meet in heaven."
Mrs. Crook had longed to kiss the white hand that lay in hers, but she
felt afraid to take such a liberty. She could hardly believe her senses
when Agnes Lawton's arm clasped her neck, and her lips pressed loving
kisses on her cheeks.
How many years had passed since Mrs. Crook last felt the touch of young
lips there, or indeed of any? She had never been a demonstrative woman,
and her childless condition had helped to dry up any little wellspring
of tenderness in her nature, if any such existed. But that unexpected
embrace, that pure caress, stirred her as she had never been moved
before, not only to thankfulness for the lovingkindness it manifested,
but to regretful thoughts, as she looked into the past and knew what
she had lost by those years of hardness and loneliness.
It is not for us to trace, step by step, the change which had its
beginning, as we have already seen, through the simple words of a
little maidservant, and the love for souls which burned in the heart of
a young disciple of Jesus. We will rather pass by these years, and look
at Mrs. Crook after the interval.
Surely that is she who is making a group of little children happy, by
leading them through her pretty garden and telling them the names of
the flowers which she plucks from time to time, and ties up in small
nosegays which they will carry back with them to brighten their dingy
homes.
Of course these are not all the same children who were once driven away
with hard words and threats, for some of those are at work already,
helping to earn their bread. They look much cleaner too, though their
clothes are poor and in some cases, ragged.
But Mrs. Crook has found that she can influence the little ragamuffins
for good, by means of a gift of flowers, for it is understood that
dirty hands and faces do not match with these fair blossoms, and the
small people vie with each other in holding out a clean palm to receive
them.
Mrs. Crook has found these kind words avail more than sharp ones, and
that a great deal of happiness may be diffused at a very small cost,
not that she grudges anything now for such a purpose.
At church, mistress and maid occupy two seats in the same pew, and the
third is always at the service of any stranger who requires one.
Of course, too, since God opened Mrs. Crook's heart, she has been
willing to open her hand and her purse, and all who work for Him find
in her a willing helper. No more hoarding—Mrs. Crook has become a
cheerful giver.
Her little maid resembles the Fanny of three years ago, but can hardly
be the same, unless time has stood still with the girl.
Mrs. Crook's present domestic is the younger sister of her old one, and
Fanny is the happy mistress of a neat little home of her own, and the
wife of a worthy young man, a neighbour's son.
Miss Lawton's life was considerably prolonged, and she had the joy of
knowing that her words had been blessed to Mrs. Crook.
The latter seems full of love and goodwill to all the world. She once
cared only for herself, but since Christ has filled her heart there has
been no place for self, though there is room in it for everybody else.
Truly the heroine of this little story may now well be called,
Comfortable Mrs. Crook.
_____________
It may be added that Agnes Lawton was no ideal character. The original,
a most beautiful girl, was well known to the writer. She died nearly
twenty years ago, but many of her actual words are noted in this little
story.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CAN'T AFFORD TO PLAY.
"WHY, John, can this be you? It is so unusual to see you anywhere
but on the box, that I can hardly believe my eyes. Have you left the
Tramways Company?"
John Carrington took Mrs. Markham's questions in order, and replied,
"Yes, ma'am, it is me sure enough. It is strange to see me walking
about, for I believe most people are so used to notice me a-front of
a tram-car, that they think I sleep on the driving-seat. I have been
driving something or other ever since I grew big enough to take a good
grip of the rains, and that's over fifty years since. I have not left
the Company."
"Then, I suppose, you are having a holiday, John?"
"Queer sort o' holiday," returned John, speaking in a very husky voice,
and from under a thick muffler. "Spent it on my back, in bed. I can't
say but I could have done with a little extra rest, for working hours
are very long. But being in bed is one thing, and resting is another.
I had bronchitis, and when you feel as if you were going to suffocate
almost, and your breath comes whistling out of your throat with a noise
loud enough to serve as a signal to start the horses, you gain very
little comfort by that sort of rest, do you, now?"
"Indeed, you do not, and you ought to be resting at this moment, for
you are still unfit to be out of doors. You should have stayed in on
such a keen frosty day as this, seeing you are not on duty," said Mrs.
Markham.
"Come out to get hardened to it a bit, ma'am. Doctor said it wouldn't
do to go straight from bed to the driving-box."
Mrs. Markham felt troubled at John's words. He was quite the favourite
tram-car driver on that route, and liked by all his passengers. He
was constantly on the lookout for his patrons, and saluted them by
a flourish of the whip, or a touch of his white hat, sometimes even
by a brief remark, when practicable. He anticipated their signals,
telegraphed through the window to know if he were to stop at the usual
place, and managed to do almost double duty as driver and conductor.
A crusty new-comer in the latter capacity would sometimes remark that,
but for collecting fares, there might as well be no guard when John was
on the box, for he didn't seem to know what was his own share of the
work. But John's unfailing good temper and cheery ways were certain to
convert the grumbler into a friend before many days were over.
It seemed to Mrs. Markham such a pity for the man to be out in the keen
air when he was better fitted for bed, and she urged him to go home and
stay indoors a little longer.
John shook his head and replied gravely, "No use talking, ma'am, thank
ye all the same. I can't afford to play. You see, there's my old woman
has been an ailing body for many a year. The doctor has been kind, and
charged as little as he could afford. But a-many things go to making an
invalid comfortable, beside the doctor and the physic. I must go at it
again to-morrow, for certain."
"I thought you tram people had a fund of some kind, so that when laid
by through illness, you would have a weekly allowance," said Mrs.
Markham.
"There is one for the young 'uns. But when I started in the service
there was no such thing, and now there is, I am too old to join."
"That seems hard. Those most likely to need the help are shut out from
it."
"Excuse me, ma'am, but there's no hardship in it. They could not take
on old men members that would come on to the fund very soon after
they began paying, and it would not be fair to the young 'uns. It is
expected that you will pay for a good while before you want anything
back, except through accident or sudden illness. Young and old must
take their chance of such things. The fund is started so that members
may get ready for the rainy day whilst the sky is clear overhead. I
cannot benefit by it myself, but I thank God when I think that, if
these young fellows live to be old and ailing, they will not have to
choose between working when they are not fit for it, or playing and
starving."
John was preparing to pass on his way with a touch of the hat, and
"Good-day to ye, ma'am, and thank ye. A kind word always cheers me up
a bit, and I tell it over again to the old woman," but Mrs. Markham
stopped him to bestow a little sum which would insure him a couple of
days more rest, and left him with kindly wishes for his recovery.
"I can't afford to play."
There is something very touching in the expression when we think of
its meaning, as John Carrington used it. As most of us understand the
word, play means recreation, happy pastime, accompanied by brightness,
enjoyment, and freedom from care for the time.
We hear it spoken, and straightway we see visions of merry youngsters,
gambolling in the fields, or home, and making the air ring with, or the
walls echo, their joyous shouts and laughter.
But the word in the mouth of working folk carries a sadder meaning. As
a rule it refers to the enforced idleness brought about by the lack of
something for the busy hands to do, and, if long continued, means want
of everything else for wives and children at home.
An anxious, careworn woman in real distress will say, "My husband is
on short time. He has worked three days and played three, every week
for the last two months." Or, "He has played since Christmas and we are
into February."
Such an application of the word gives little heartache to those who
hear it for the first time, and who have hitherto regarded play and joy
as twins.
There are tens of thousands of toilers who, like John Carrington, have
home claims which compel them to go the endless round of daily work,
because they cannot afford to lose an hour's pay, though they are unfit
for labour.
Think of this, you who call your time your own. Who have so much of it
at your disposal that you are put to shifts and contrivances to kill
it, or fritter away the hours which drag on too slowly, whilst you wait
for some new pleasure that you have promised yourselves.
Think of it, you who have never experienced a moment's anxiety about a
supply of the bread that perisheth and all its luxurious accompaniments
which you would call the necessaries of life.
Try to imagine what it would be to go on, on, on, ever repeating the
same tasks in the same place, with nothing new to look at even, no
expectation of anything better, no hope of cessation, except through
sickness which means suffering, or lack of work to do, which means lack
of food also. And all this to support a bare existence of ceaseless
toil, and for the barest bread as its reward.
Have you ever thought that a day's rest to such would be like a
foretaste of heaven? A something longed for, but never hoped-for or
looked for, by tens of thousands? A something you might give now and
then without feeling the cost of it, though, having never been placed
in such circumstances, you could not estimate its value. I do not
mean the giving a day in the country. That kind of change is a very
delightful one, a summer blessing which dwellers in dim city alleys
know how to value. But this day of rest that I mean, would be an
all-the-year-round boon, and would perhaps, be most precious in winter
time, because then, the aching eyes and head of the weary seamstress
suffer more, on account of the small allowance of light. Then the
delicate frames shrink most from the pinching cold; and to have, just
for one day, wages without toil, and food without having first to earn
it, the freedom to sit at ease by a warm fireside, without being driven
back to toil by the voice of necessity, would, I say, be heaven upon
earth to many a deserving worker, who can never "afford to play."
I know a lady who gives this happiness now and then, to some of her
poor acquaintances. When she sees one of them beginning to droop, say
over her sewing machine, she says "What will a day's rest cost. Tell
me, and I will pay for it."
Sometimes there is a press of work, and even the paying would not
secure the holiday, but she bides her time, and waits, till the toiler
would be allowed the day off, if she could afford to take it. Then the
money is forthcoming, only the giver bargains that the day shall be
spent happily and restfully, and the task work entirely put aside. She
gives more than the wages, which are often small enough, so that there
may be food and fire without stint, and advises that part of the time
be spent out of doors, weather permitting, except where the person
helped will be benefited by staying in and enjoying warmth and rest
together.
One poor woman said to her, "You made me promise not to work, ma'am,
and, at first, it seemed so strange to be able to do as I liked, that I
felt quite lost.
"Then, I thought, I might do a bit—not enough to tire me—for we want
so many things, and half a day's wage would be something extra. But I
was vexed at myself for even thinking of breaking my promise when you
had been so kind as to set my hands free and make things comfortable
for the day. So I set to work to enjoy myself. I cooked the dinner,
such a good one! And I had a real play with the children, poor things!
They could hardly believe their ears when they saw my face and heard me
laughing, and we all sat down instead of snatching a bite anyhow.
"After dinner, the sun was shining, and we went for a short walk, and
looked in at shop windows, and after that I nodded in the old chair
whilst they played with some more children in the court.
"I went to bed same time as they did, knowing I must begin again in the
morning, but one day's rest did me more good than medicine, and I felt
twice the woman after it that I did before it, thanks to God and you,
ma'am."
If anybody wants to make a poor toiler happy, let her look round for
some worthy, weary body, and give it a day's rest, by bestowing a
conditional day's wages and the little more which shall spread the
board and brighten the hearth. Such an expenditure pays good and
immediate interest, and the night's rest of the giver will be all the
sweeter for the memory of the drop of sweetness which she has been able
to infuse into the cup of one less favoured than herself.
The Master will not forget the work of love, and those are precious
words which tell us, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least
of these, ye have done it unto Me."
[Illustration]
WALKING TOO BIG.
UNCLE Maurice and his little niece, Minnie, had gone through the whole
book together; looked at the pictures, talked over the stories; and now
there was nothing else to be done but to shut it up and put it aside.
There had been many a laugh during the hour spent upon it, and, though
it was a mere baby book, I doubt if the child had enjoyed the time more
than her tall uncle had done.
Minnie gave a little sigh as she put down the volume, and looked
around, as if asking what was to come next. She was a blue-eyed,
curly-haired, five-year-old lassie; her uncle's special pet and
darling, and I am afraid that, knowing how dearly he loved her, she
was a little bit of a tyrant, and ordered him about as if he were the
child, and she a grown-up aunty.
Uncle Maurice obeyed her commands almost too well. We generally say and
think that obedience is a lesson that should be learned whilst we are
very young, but we are often no longer young when we conquer ourselves,
which is really the same thing.
"What shall we do now, Uncle Maurice?" was the child's inquiry.
"Go for a walk," was the prompt answer, "the same as we did yesterday.
We have been sitting a long time, and I want to stretch my legs.
Besides, it is lovely out."
Minnie shook her head, and with a child's bluntness, retorted, "Your
legs are too long already, Uncle Maurice."
"I am sorry for it, dearie; but I cannot help it. It would spoil them
to cut pieces off. They are better for walking with, anyway, so let us
go."
"No. I don't want to walk with you, because you are too big."
There was something ludicrous in the child's way of measuring her tall
uncle with her blue eyes, so wide open, as she let them travel from the
tips of his toes to the top of a head as curly as her own, and then
down again.
Uncle Maurice looked quite perplexed and troubled by his little niece's
words and actions.
"But, Minnie, darling," he said, "you went with me to the park
yesterday, and I thought you were very happy. If I am big, you can
always reach my hand."
"You walk too big," retorted Minnie, retreating before her uncle's
outstretched arm, and taking refuge by her mother's side, as if she
were afraid of being carried off against her will.
"What does the child mean?" he asked, addressing his sister, for the
little one's manner puzzled him.
Mrs. Payne understood her tiny daughter better than even Uncle Maurice
did, for of course mothers can read their children's thoughts and know
all about their wants, better than anybody else in the world.
"I think she means that you took too long strides," she answered. "Even
if you walk slowly, her little feet would be kept on the trot all the
while. It is not Uncle Maurice that Minnie objects to, as a whole, but
to his long legs which walk too big. Is not that it, Minnie?" she asked
of the child.
Minnie nodded approvingly and said "Yes." Mother, as usual, knew all
about it.
"I remember," replied Uncle Maurice, "that the child seemed hot and
flushed, and complained of being tired. I wanted to carry her, but she
resented the proposal. She was too big for that, she told me. Poor
little woman, I am sorry. The walk seemed nothing to me."
"Nor would it have been to Minnie, if you had accommodated your long
step to her short one. It was the 'walking too big,' that did the
mischief. To-day, now, as you looked over the pictures, you were like
two children together. You brought yourself down to her level, laughed
at what pleased her, and looked sorrowful when her young heart was
stirred to pity. There was true sympathy between you, hence the happy
hour you spent together."
"And yesterday, I was always a little ahead, and Minnie toiling on
behind, and never able to keep beside me, unless she had my hand, or
kept at a steady trot."
"The sitting down in the park was nice, Uncle Maurice," interposed
Minnie, who did not wish him to think that yesterday's struggle had no
bright side to it. "I will go again, only you must walk little, because
I am little."
Uncle Maurice promptly agreed, and once more the two started off
together, to return equally happy. Minnie herself proposing numberless
walks in the future.
When the child's curly head was peacefully resting on her pillow, Uncle
Maurice and her mother sat talking together about the household pet and
her winning ways and quaint talk.
"That was a queer expression of hers, 'You walk too big,' was it
not?" said he, laughing again as he recalled it and her face to mind.
"I should not have understood her meaning but for you. Since you
threw light upon it, I have thought of the many ways in which we all
'walk big' without considering the effect of our so doing upon our
neighbours."
"You are finding out far more in little Minnie's saying than I did,
Maurice, and turning it to better account. What unconscious teachers
are our little ones," responded Mrs. Payne.
"Yes; Minnie set me thinking, first of all how, as a boy at school, I
often walked too big, when I might have accommodated my step to that
of a weaker companion, and perhaps helped him on the road. I had great
strength, and was proud to display it, and the height which was beyond
that of other boys of my age. I liked to look down from it on some
little lad whose growth had perhaps been stunted by illness, or the
want of the abundant nourishment which I had never lacked, and so I
made him feel the difference all the more keenly.
"How often have I, and such as I, put out our God-given strength to
mortify our weaker fellows, boasting, perhaps, 'I can hold you down
with one hand, although you are my senior in years,' and so making the
poor fellow writhe both in body and mind.
"How often have I boasted of God's good gifts which were mine, not
because I deserved them better than the rest, but because He had
graciously given me more! Or been proud of the place in class that I
had attained without effort, when one who had worked ten times as hard,
perhaps, was sighing over his failure. I can see that, as a schoolboy,
even when beside my fellows, I walked too big. I boasted where there
was no real merit, and I discouraged others, when, by slackening my
speed, and shortening my step a little, we might have walked side by
side, cheering and being cheered on the path."
"There are so many ways of doing this walking too big," replied Mrs.
Payne. "In entertaining our friends, for instance. From a children's
party up to one at which we prepare to receive our most honoured guest,
and those amongst our acquaintances who stand highest in the social
scale, we all try to walk big, do we not? Quite lately, our friend,
Mrs. Longworth, gave a juvenile party. She is a large-hearted woman,
and a loving mother. Every child interests her, and she would like, if
she could, to add to its happiness. Moreover, she has a well-filled
purse, and can afford to entertain her friends right royally, old or
young. And she does.
"I will venture to say that it was purely out of this large-heartedness
of hers, and not with a thought of outshining her neighbours, that she
gave her youthful guests a spread fit for a prince to sit down to.
"The rooms were beautifully decorated, and the supper-table was laden
with all sorts of dainties, probably more than the children had ever
seen together before, or dreamed of being permitted to partake of at
will. Professional amusers were engaged, lest the little people should
not be able to amuse themselves and each other. In short, all was done
that kindness could suggest, and money provide.
"I am not in a position to say whether any of the guests suffered in
body after such unwonted indulgence, but I do know that the moral
effect of the entertainment was not altogether satisfactory.
"Some of the children were made envious, some discontented by this
effort to give them pleasure.
"'Why cannot we have as nice things at our party as Mrs. Longworth gave
us?' inquired one.
"'Because,' said his mother, 'we are not so rich.'
"'Then don't let us have a party,' was the next remark; 'I should hate
for the boys to come here and say, "How different it is from Mrs.
Longworth's!"'
"And yet, until then, there had been happy gatherings of bright
children under the roof where the speaker lived, and the unwonted
luxuries seen on the richer lady's table had neither been missed nor
wanted.
"The mother of another young guest ventured to invite her children's
friends to a simpler feast, in accordance with an annual custom, though
she, too, rather dreaded an allusion to Mrs. Longworth's grand doings,
and it came at last.
"'Are you enjoying the party?' said one of the youngsters, who was
looking as happy as possible, to another who was standing aloof, as if
Blind Man's Buff were a degradation after conjurors and marionnettes.
"'Fairly,' was the cool reply. 'But I don't call this a party, it is
only going out to tea, you know.'"
Uncle Maurice laughed as his sister finished her account of the grand
spread and its results.
Dear, kind Mrs. Longworth was, all unconsciously, walking too big, both
for her child guests and their parents. When she racked her brain to
give them pleasure, and neither spared trouble nor purse, she little
imagined that she could possibly do harm by the very lavish nature of
her kindness.
I had a similar experience after a grown-up party where the
entertainment was magnificent, not at all beyond the givers' means, but
such as few of their guests could return in kind. A lady amongst these,
when saying farewell to her hostess, thanked her for the delightful
evening she had spent.
"But," she added frankly, "I shall never dare to ask you to my house
again, because we live so plainly in comparison, and cannot entertain
in similar style."
"Then I shall come without being asked," was the prompt reply. "I
should be grieved indeed if the good gifts which God has bestowed upon
us were to be the means of robbing us of others which we value far more
highly still—the society of our old and true friends."
In this case again, the givers of the entertainment had not thought of
displaying their own wealth and resources, but of honouring and giving
pleasure to their guests. Nevertheless, they too had unthinkingly
"walked too big," for most of them, and made them feel small by
comparison.
"Ah, Maurice, we walk too big in so many ways. In dress, in social
surroundings, even sometimes in our Christian profession and work. For
instance, if I am going to pay calls, I am tempted to consider what
dress is the handsomest and most becoming, instead of combining with
this idea a thought for those I am about to visit; but two old friends
of mine joined in teaching me a lesson.
"One of them is a dear old gentlewoman who has come down in the world,
but who, in her prosperous days, was very fond of rich attire. She
cannot now indulge her taste for it; but she likes to see pretty things
as well as ever. So to her I go in all my bravery. She discusses the
style of my gown, appraises my bonnet, perhaps asks the loan of some
garment as a pattern, and is sure to thank me with a hearty kiss, for
having come in my newest and prettiest things to her little bit of a
place which two people almost fill.
"'But there is room for me to turn you round in, my dear,' she says;
'and light enough to see you by, for, thank God, the window is large
and the sun is sure to shine on me, if it shines anywhere.'
"I come away feeling that all my garments are worth double the price
they cost, and I feel glad for my old friend that poverty has not
changed her bright nature, and that she is large-hearted enough to
enjoy the mere sight of whatever is beautiful or pleasant to look upon,
without envying the possessors. No fear of 'dressing too big' and
thereby paining her.
"I have to deal differently with another old friend, who is similarly
placed, owing to an unexpected reverse of fortune.
"I always walk either too big or too little to please her, and I
invariably enter her presence in fear and trembling. I would not
wilfully pain her for the world, and I have tried to make her
understand this, but I am always wrong. If I go very plainly dressed,
she will scan my garments, and, after the first greetings, remark: 'I
suppose you are not on your way to call on Lady Hope?'
"'No,' I reply cheerfully; 'I set out early in order to have a long
pleasant chat with you, if I were fortunate enough to find you at home
and at liberty;' hoping to please by showing that I did not look in
merely on the way to a luxurious home. I failed utterly.
"'I need not have asked the question,' she answers. 'A glance at your
dress might have told me that you would not call at Hopefield in that
gown, Marian, but anything is good enough for my poor little hut of a
place. It was different when you and I were at school together, for
then, Sir John Hope's father was working for weekly wages, and mine was
member for the county. As to my being at home and at liberty, there is
little fear of my being out. People who have come down in the world are
not overdone either with callers or engagements.'
"I listen in silence and not unsympathetically, for I know it must
be hard for my old friend to compare the past with the present; but
all the while she is speaking, I cannot help contrasting her with
that other clear friend who has suffered similar reverses, but finds
brightness in everything, and is ever looking out for causes of
thankfulness. I try to tell her, perhaps, how well I remember those
old days, and how gratefully I think of the hospitality I received
under her father's roof. I even venture to reproach her for refusing
my invitations, when she knows no guest would be more honoured here
than herself. Then she tells me, with tears, that she cannot bear to
meet people who are mere nobodies, but who would look down upon her on
account of her poverty.'
"What an unpleasant old lady!" said Uncle Maurice. "Have you tried the
effect of going in all your grandeur, or of a little wholesome neglect
in the matter of invitations?"
"I have tried both and with equal success," replied Mrs. Payne. "When
I went in my best bib and tucker, I heard remarks made about the taste
which induced people to flaunt their finery before the eyes of those
whose birth and social position entitled them to similar luxuries, but
whose purse would only provide bare necessaries. I was once so annoyed
at her ungracious reception of my invitations, that I resolved to give
no more, but the result was too terrible."
"Is it worth while to concern yourself about pleasing a person of such
an unhappy temperament?" asked Uncle Maurice. "I feel with you that if
by slackening our pace, or shortening our steps we can strengthen the
weak, encourage the timid, or stimulate the fainthearted to renewed
effort, we ought to make the attempt, but in cases like the former—"
"It is perhaps still more incumbent upon us, and that because they
are so unhappy. I have no doubt that during her solitary hours, my
discontented friend would be more miserable still but for my efforts to
please her, and I am quite sure that I am the happier for having tried
to do it, whether successful or not," said Mrs. Payne.
"True, Marian, and it seems to me that there is hardly any act
in our social, even our religious life, about which we might not
advantageously ask ourselves, 'Am I walking too big?' Sometimes, the
timid Christian is afraid to offer his services, though he is longing
to do something for God's glory and the souls of his fellow-creatures,
because he thinks that others are dedicating five talents while he
has only one. By comparison, his powers are so contemptible. Or, he
does not like to give shillings where his neighbour gives pounds. He
sees him stride on boldly, both in his work and gifts, and he shrinks
into himself and fears to step out at all, because he cannot keep pace
with him. Ah! I have often thought that in addition to the magnificent
generosity of the poor widow who gave her two mites, there was also
magnificent courage in the mode of their bestowal.
"Surely, if ever there was a place when people were trying to walk
big and look big, it was when the rich were casting in their coins by
handfuls, and with an ostentatious clatter into the treasury of God's
house in old Jerusalem! Yet she of her penury gave more than they all,
though it was the least the law permitted, and was all her living.
"She dared to step beside them, and her Lord saw and valued her
offering at true worth."
Uncle Maurice spoke from his heart, and his sister sympathised with his
enthusiasm.
"Yes, dear Maurice," she said, "we have to be careful neither to walk
too big, for the sake of our neighbours, nor too little, for our own
sakes and for God's cause. But, simply remembering that He judges and
rewards every man according to his works, to walk, as the disciples of
Him who left us an example that we should follow His steps, in a manner
worthy of the vocation to which we are called."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
WINKLES.
"PLEASE, missis, have you got a pin?"
The question was addressed to me, in a childish voice, which had,
however, a merry ring with it. I had paused for a moment to gather
up my skirts a little, so as to keep them clear from the mud on the
pavement. As it chanced, the stop took place in front of a shop where
oysters, cockles, mussels, and periwinkles were displayed in tempting
profusion.
I looked to see whence the voice came, and found that the owner of
it was a little fellow, whose head was so overshadowed by an old,
wide-brimmed straw hat that he seemed to be standing under a small
umbrella. I had quite to look beneath this shade to discern a pale face
and a pair of merry black-eyes, fringed with long lashes. He might be a
small-sized five-year-old, for he was only in pinafores. Beside him was
another youngster, evidently under the protection of little Black-Eyes,
who waited with a look of intense anxiety for my answer.
"Supposing I have got a pin," said I, "what then?"
"Oh, please, would you give it us?"
"What for? Why do you want a pin?" I asked.
"Winkles!" was the prompt reply, with a glance towards the open window
of the fish shop.
I understood the position. Black-Eyes and his friend wanted the pin in
order to extract the little sea-snails from their shells with it.
But I could see they had no winkles in actual possession, so whilst
extracting a spare pin from the edge of my cloak, I said, "I can give
you a good strong pin, but where are the winkles?"
"In there," indicating the pile with his thumb. "We've had some. Only
two or three though, yet—"
The thought flashed across my mind, "Why, the little rogues have been
stealing. They watch their opportunity and snatch at odd ones that drop
on to the slab within their reach." I put on a severe look, and said,
"But you ought not to take even one winkle that is not your own."
"Oh, missis, we didn't!" returned Black-Eyes, with a troubled face.
"When the woman measures 'em she 'most always spills one or two, and
they roll out 'o window, and we pick 'em up. She don't want 'em back.
She says so."
The child looked so straight at me out of those wonderful eyes, and
gave such a prompt response, that I felt quite ashamed of myself for
having suspected him. Poor little chap! He had stood there on the
chance of picking up a stray winkle, and even when the first fell
into his possession, groped for on the greasy-feeling pavement, he
had bravely checked the impulse to make it his own, and had asked
the shop-keeper if she wanted it back. From instant observation,
I concluded that the question had gone to her heart, for one or
two winkles rolled off into the street just then, in what seemed a
preventible way, as she served a juvenile customer.
I wondered how the youngsters had got at their winkles at first, or
whether the pin had been too weak and had become hopelessly crooked.
"Here is a good strong pin for you," I said, handing the article,
which was received by Black-Eyes with rapturous thanks, and an attempt
at a bow, which had the effect of jerking off the big hat on to the
pavement, whence it was speedily recovered.
"How about the winkles?" said I. "I suppose a penny would buy you quite
a lot."
"Oh, wouldn't it?" returned Black-Eyes, and then stood as if absorbed
in contemplating a vision of bliss that he could never hope to realise.
"Here, take this penny and buy some then," said I. "I'm sorry, I have
not another pin for you. Good-bye, children."
"Oh, thank you, missis. Say 'Thank you, and take your cap off;'" this
to his wee companion. Then, "You shall have the pin first, Johnny, or
maybe the shop lady will give us another."
Black-Eyes put his arm lovingly round the less child's neck, and led
him into the fish shop in a state of delight which it was worth a good
many pennies only to witness. And I could not help lingering to see the
children with the materials for what would be to them a feast.
Beside, when one thought over this little scene, there were a good many
lessons to be learned from it. Little as the elder child was, he was
guarding a brother or companion weaker, younger, more helpless still.
There was the patience with which he waited for a windfall, and the
sturdy honesty which made him unwilling to use it until he was quite
sure it would be right to do so. There were good manners and gratitude
for a small kindness, which the natural longing for a banquet of
winkles would not let him forget.
There was not only this example to the less child, but the lesson in
civility which made Black-Eyes wait for his companion's thanks to be
added to his own. And there was the delightful unselfishness that
resolved to give the younger the first turn in using the pin, and the
love which threw the guiding arm round his neck.
How easy it would have been for Black-Eyes to appropriate the penny, or
absorb the lion's share of the little coming treat,—to dole Johnny out
a winkle now and then, and to reserve to himself the use of the pin,
so that the other could never have the felicity of extracting his own
dainty morsel.
But, in turning my back upon this little picture, I felt satisfied
that, if anything, the younger would have most and best of what had
to be shared, and that his interests were safe in the hands of his
companion. I left the well-lighted thoroughfare and turned into a dim
side street, but, as I passed on, I seemed still to see the faces of my
little friends, and often since I have recalled, with pleasure, that
scene to my memory.
I witnessed another picture not far from the spot where Black-Eyes and
I became acquainted. I saw it in the broad daylight, and the actors
were two boys, each about a year apart, and as much older than the
former two. This is a world of contrasts, and these street pictures
proved it.
One little fellow—his face streaming with tears and all besmeared
through his frantic efforts to wipe them away with one hand, whilst,
with the other, he tugged at a bit of a handkerchief entangled amid the
varying contents of a small boy's pocket, was running after his elder
companion. What with crying, running, and sobbing out at intervals:
"Willie. Do stop. Do stop!"
The child became exhausted, and coming to a stand-still, he leaned
against the wall and wept bitterly.
He had no real trouble, but it was evident that he had a tender
loving disposition, a clinging nature that yearned for kindness and
companionship. The two children had come out together, and the elder,
a hard-faced malicious-looking boy, but sturdy and self-reliant as one
could see, was tormenting the other by racing off ahead, hiding round
corners, dodging in and out, and keeping him at a continual strain, in
order that he might not lose sight of him altogether.
Perhaps it was very weak and foolish of the child to cry as if his
young heart would break about a mere nothing. Far better to have
strolled leisurely on, and told the other to go on his way. But it
is just the tender loving natures that can bear anything better than
unkindness, and it is such natures that are tortured and played upon,
by those who find pleasure in witnessing the pain they have caused.
A glance at the mocking evil face of the elder lad, sufficed to discern
foreshadowings of a tyrannical manhood in years to come.
When I parted from Black-Eyes, I had thought to myself at what a
trifling cost happiness had been purchased for him and his friend.
Just a penny expended, and two young hearts were gladdened and a happy
memory left to me of two bright faces. "Now," I thought, "I will try
the worth of a penny in drying tears."
So I had a talk with the weeping little man, and did my best to cheer
him, with such effect that the handkerchief having been extracted from
his pocket, he soon effaced the traces of tears and smears from his
rosy cheeks. An occasional sob testified to recent trouble, but a very
genuine smile appeared when I produced the penny and bade him put it
in his pocket and take it home. Down it went under his knickerbocker
museum of treasures, and he kept his hand in too, as he lifted his rosy
face to kiss his thanks.
Next came what made the contrast between the elder boy and Black-Eyes.
Our petty tyrant who had watched the transfer of the coin from round
the corner, began to sidle up to the little one, with pretended
friendship. That penny had made all the difference, and the selfish
rogue was plotting either to share it, or get the whole from his
neighbour.
I turned back, though I could ill spare the time, and sent Master
Willie to the right about, then cautioned the little one against
his wiles. I did not want to make a tender confiding child into a
suspicious one, so I had to give him quite a small lecture, and make
him promise faithfully not to give the penny, or any portion of what he
might buy with it, to Willie. He might share it with another friend if
he liked, for little boys should be generous, only this boy ought not
to be rewarded for naughtiness, I said.
I really believe the tender heart had forgiven its tormentor already,
and that the penny was losing much of its value because it was not to
be shared with Willie, for the child's eyes followed him with a sort
of yearning look. Maybe on some past occasion, the bigger boy had put
forth his strength on behalf of the little one, and the remembrance of
a single benefit could never be forgotten.
The two reminded me of a boy and his dog. The lad may plague the beast
as much as he chooses, but if the creature loves him, he only rushes to
his side with vociferous welcome, to be teased again and again.
Generally speaking, the young master, though a petty tyrant himself,
protects his dog from other boy tyrants, and the animal knows it, and
looks up to him accordingly.
There might be some such bond between Willie and the sorrowful wee man
whose tears I had succeeded in drying.
I had to leave him; but as I went my way, I drew fancy pictures of the
homes and mothers of these my street acquaintances.
I pictured Black-Eyes, for instance, in a poor home with a hard-working
widowed mother. His clothes bespoke poverty, for I was quite sure they
had known other wearers—notably the wide hat—before they were worn by
him. Their cleanliness, and that of both the children, told of a mother
who did her best for the bodies of her little ones. They were kept warm
and tidy to look at.
Then the way in which Black-Eyes protected Johnny seemed to say, that,
mere baby as he was, he had often to take charge of the other baby a
size less still, probably the mother went out to work—compelled to do
it in order to win bread, and left these two to keep house with many an
injunction, and a prayer to God to guard them from harm. Perhaps she
had read the words, "Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve
them alive," and taken them to herself and found comfort in them, as
she went about her daily task.
I am sure she had taught her little ones to be truthful and honest, for
they would not appropriate a stray winkle without the leave of her to
whom it lawfully belonged.
The conduct of Black-Eyes seemed to brighten, by the thought of it, the
dim little side street into which I passed when I bade him good-bye,
and a prayer went up from my heart to God, that He would bless the
children and guide their young feet into the narrow path that leads to
everlasting life.
I could not feel the same about Willie's home, for his conduct was
tyrannical, selfish and mean. He enjoyed the sight of suffering, and
unless he were checked and guided aright, would develop into a cruel
and selfish man. Surely he needed to be prayed for most of all my
street friends, and I remembered him too. One finds so many to pray for
in passing to-and-fro in the world. And are we not all members of the
great human family that sprang from the same Creator? Should we not all
pray that we may become true children of the same heavenly Father?
As to the troubled little heart, he has a good mother, I am sure, and
is loved and cosseted at home. He gets no stinted measure of affection.
One could discern a mother's hand and love in every article of his
clothing, even to the small pocket-handkerchief which took so much
tugging out when most needed.
I know there are wise people who would object to the bestowal of odd
pennies on little street children, and I own that it would not do to
scatter even these broadcast. But when—well I will not argue, but
suggest that, if in going along the streets, we can in any little way
give a glimpse of happiness or a gleam of sunshine to a child, it is
good for ourselves that we do not let slip the opportunity.
Pardon & Sons, Printers, London, E. C.
[Illustration]