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THE
PANSY
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BY "PANSY"
MRS. G. R. ALDEN.
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=D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY, Publishers, Franklin and Hawley Sts., Boston.=
_Volume 13, Number 31._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_June 5, 1886._
THE PANSY.
[Illustration: "THE LITTLE GIRL MOVING THE DASHER."]
SIX O'CLOCK IN THE EVENING.
LORD, EVERMORE GIVE US THIS BREAD.
THOU ART THE CHRIST, THE SON OF THE LIVING GOD.
YOUR FATHER ABRAHAM REJOICED TO SEE MY DAY: AND HE SAW
IT AND WAS GLAD.
"WHY, you've found another verse about bread!" said Grandma, then her
eyes grew thoughtful.
"Association is a queer thing, children; association of ideas, I
mean." (Some people might think that Grandma Burton used large words
in talking to her grandchildren; but the fact was, she did not try
very hard to make her words little. Not that she selected long ones;
her language was always simple; but words which they would be likely
to hear among cultured people, or to see in their books, she aimed to
use in talking with them. If they did not understand a word, they were
always at liberty to ask its meaning. The consequence was, they were
quite intelligent children, and the phrase, "association of ideas," did
not trouble the older ones in the least. As for little Sarah she did
not bother her brains about it, yet awhile.)
"Now you wouldn't suppose," continued Grandma, "that there was anything
in that verse to make me think of a large, old-fashioned farm-house
kitchen, with a wooden bowl on the table, and a wooden spoon hanging
over it, and old-fashioned dishes arranged on the shelf above it, and
a woman in a straight dress, and neck handkerchief, bending over the
bread-bowl, and a little girl with a high-necked apron on, standing
before an old-fashioned churn, moving the dasher up and down, yet I see
all those things as plainly as though it was yesterday morning, instead
of sixty odd years ago."
"What makes it, Grandma? What happened?" And Marion settled little
Sarah more comfortably on the hassock, and straightened herself, ready
to listen.
"Why, it is this association of ideas I was speaking of; my memory of
that verse about bread is mixed in with all those scenes. I was the
little girl moving the dasher. You see it was this way:
"Mother was very sick that spring, and father had to take her to the
city to be under the care of a great doctor, and he had to stay with
her; so we children were scattered. I went to spend a week with aunt
Pat Worcester."
"What a horrid name for a woman!" said Rollo.
"Oh! it was a nice name. _Patriot_, the whole name was, but almost
everybody called her aunt Pat. She was a splendid woman. People all
respected her. She was my father's aunt and he had lived with her
a good deal when he was a boy and loved her very much; he liked to
have me stay with her. That winter, or spring, it was, she had a
nephew living with her; a great red-headed boy named Jeremiah, only
we always said Jerry. I didn't like him very well. He was a smart,
bright boy, and might have been pleasant, only he was always teasing
children younger than himself, telling them things which were not true,
threatening to drown them, you know, or bury them alive, or something
of that sort; things that he had no more notion of doing than he had
of flying; but they were too young to know it, poor things, and he had
that kind of evil nature which seemed to be pleased with making others
uncomfortable. He didn't trouble me much, because I kept close to aunt
Pat; but once in awhile he would wink his great eyes at me, and tell me
he was going to swallow me, some day, when aunt Pat wasn't looking."
Grandma's children all laughed at this, and Marion questioned: "Why,
Grandma, you surely didn't believe _that_, did you?"
"No, child; not exactly, of course; and yet I couldn't help feeling
kind of creepy all over, when I was in danger of being left alone with
him, and I thought of his great mouth. It is my opinion that little
folks suffer from these things more than older ones have any idea. I
should despise a boy who would descend to so mean a trick as trying to
tease one younger than himself."
Harold looked out of the window, steadily, his cheeks a trifle red. The
question was, did Grandma know, or did she _not_ know, that he told
little Bobby White the other day he was going to tie him to the top of
the great big flag staff at the corner, and leave him swinging there
for a flag, because his dress was red, and his collar was white, and
his eyes were blue. But Grandma didn't look at Harold.
"Aunt Pat was moulding bread in the great wooden bowl, and I was
moving the dasher up and down very slowly, and watching her all the
while. I wanted to learn how to make bread, and I asked a great many
questions; but, after all, the thought most in my mind, and which I
said nothing about, after a fashion which children often have, was
this very story about Jesus feeding the five thousand people with five
loaves of bread. Only the day before, which had been Sunday, aunt Pat
had read this whole story to Jerry and me, and talked it over. She was
an excellent hand to tell Bible stories, she made them seem so real.
She explained the size of the loaves, and all about it. When I saw the
great big ones she was moulding, I thought they would have fed a great
many more than the little lad's; and from that I went on, thinking out
the story, and the way those people followed Jesus the next day, and
asked for the bread which would keep them from getting hungry again,
without understanding at all what they were asking for. Aunt Pat said
they prayed just as plenty of people did nowadays; asked great big
things without thinking of them, or wanting them very much. Just then
Jerry came in, blowing his fingers, and pretending to be very cold;
it _was_ a rather sharp spring morning, and he had been out at the
woodpile. He said he wasn't so cold, though, as he was hungry. Aunt
Pat laughed, and said she wondered if there was ever a boy made wasn't
hungry all the time; then she looked at the clock, and found it was
about the time when she always gave Jerry a lunch; for he had been up
and at work since five in the morning. Oh! he had his breakfast, of
course, a little after five, but aunt Pat always gave him a piece in
the middle of the forenoon. By this time she had her loaves all nicely
moulded, and she went to the closet and cut him a thick slice of the
most excellent bread, and spread it with butter that smelled like June
roses. Jerry took great bites of it with a satisfied air, smacking his
lips to show how good it was; it must have brought some thought of the
very story I was thinking about, for suddenly he spoke out: 'Evermore
give us this bread! I say so too!' Then aunt Pat's eyes flashed.
'Jeremiah,' she said, and her voice was very stern, 'you are named
after too good a man to be guilty of making fun of Scripture in any
such way. Repeating a prayer, too, and not meaning it any more than
the heathen do, when they mumble words to their little stone gods. I'm
ashamed of you!'
"Jerry looked a little abashed, and muttered that he didn't mean any
harm; but I remember to this day, just how wrought up aunt Patriot was
about it; she told Jerry that boys who commenced by turning sacred
words to fit their own notions, often ended by being profane, wicked
men. And that's just the way Jeremiah Carter ended. I haven't thought
of him for many a day. But he grew up to be a bad man."
"After all," said Rollo, after a few moments of silence, "you don't
think, Grandma, that quoting that Bible verse made a bad man of him?"
"N-o," said Grandma, speaking slowly, giving her head a little doubtful
shake the while, "I wouldn't like to say that. Boys do trifle with
serious words, sometimes, and get over it, and make good men. I should
be sorry _enough_ if I thought they didn't. But then, Jeremiah Carter
was exactly that kind of a boy. He had no reverence for the Bible, nor
for words of prayer; he was tempted to make fun of everything; and he
got so used to it, that after awhile, nothing of that kind shocked him;
he became one of these men who pretend not to believe the Bible; and
sometimes I have thought that if he had not learned to make light of
it when he was a boy, it would not have come so handy when he grew up.
Anyhow it always makes me think of Jeremiah Carter when I hear anybody
doing it; and he isn't a pleasant body to think of, I can tell you. He
died a good many years ago, and they said his last word was a profane
one."
The grandchildren made no other comments, and Rollo presently began to
whistle. He knew one thing; and that was, it was a great temptation to
him to quote a Bible verse now and then, for his own use. Not anything
so wicked as Jeremiah did, but in a way that his grandmother, he knew,
would call "light and trifling." He wasn't sure whether anybody else
had noticed this habit and he made up his mind while he whistled, that
they should never again have a chance to notice it in him.
PANSY.
THOMAS AND CLARA.
THAT boy and girl in the picture were real persons. They were Thomas
and Clara; were born in a certain town in Steuben County, N. Y., ten
years apart--though they seem to be almost of the same age--and always
knew each other.
[Illustration: THOMAS AND CLARA.]
Clara was a very thoughtful girl, and anxious to know all about
everything--often trying to do things beyond her power. She was also
fond of her needle, and at an early age could use it with remarkable
skill and rapidity.
You need not be surprised to learn that her father used tobacco. Most
men do. They begin in boyhood. Many boys think it fine to be men, and
that one of the quickest ways to be men is to smoke or chew. So they
become deathly sick learning to use tobacco. It is strange. It costs
a great sum of money in one's life--enough to buy a home. It makes
the breath offensive. It is a very filthy habit and selfish as it is
filthy, for though the tobacco user is a great nuisance to many people,
especially to ladies, yet he does not seem to care how much others
dislike his smoke or breath. He goes right on puffing his cigar or
nasty old pipe-fumes into the nostrils and eyes of all who come near.
Now Clara's father was no exception. Sometimes he would come into the
kitchen or dining-room--the parlor even--and fill the air with tobacco
odor.
Clara's mother would get out of patience at times and say it was a
nasty habit and that men had no more right to smoke and chew than women.
And she was right!
Clara loved her father. In her eyes no man was quite as grand as he
except the minister. But on this tobacco question she took strong
grounds with her mother, her pastor and Sabbath-school teacher, who all
thought the same way.
Hearing her mother express her mind so often against this "filthy weed"
she learned the many arguments against its use and resolved that she
would do everything in her power to prevent her friends from raising or
having anything to do with it.
One thing she knew--she never, no, _never_ would marry a man who used
tobacco.
Thomas was so much older than herself she was afraid to speak to him
as her heart often moved her, about certain habits she feared he was
learning.
So the years went by. The great war of the Rebellion came on. Young
boys were joining the army. Word came that Thomas had enlisted and with
many other young persons was on his way to the front where men of the
North and South were shooting each other down by the thousand.
Those were awful days. Not so much because many died on the battlefield
and suffered in loathsome prisons, but because of the bad habits many
of the young soldiers acquired by being among wicked associates.
Thomas passed through some dreadful experiences. He does not like to
speak of them now, telling them only when he is urged.
He was in battle after battle and saw many of his comrades shot down by
his side. He was also in prison.
But the war came to an end. He returned and brought with him many
things, among them a great love for tobacco.
You need not wonder. Nearly all the soldiers loved tobacco; the
majority, I fear, played cards and drank whiskey, and took God's name
in vain.
Thomas escaped everything except tobacco, although he had seen so much
of the other things.
As the soldiers were brave for their country, so many at home became
bold for Jesus. Clara came out on the Lord's side, though many of her
mates laughed at her for it.
But she stood firm and when she had a good chance she spoke true words
for her Master.
Between her home and another near by was a telephone. Her cousin and
Thomas would converse over it. Sometimes Clara would "try her hand" at
talking over the wire. This, however, Thomas did not know. He supposed
Clara's cousin, Halsey, was always at the other end of the telephone,
answering or asking questions.
One day as the conversation was going on, Thomas said:
"Well, I must stop now and take a smoke."
"Don't do it," came a quick response. It was from Clara, but Thomas did
not know it.
"Why not?" inquired Thomas.
"It is nasty," flashed back the quick answer.
"When may I smoke?" came another question.
"Not till I give you permission," Clara replied.
These were her last words through the telephone to Thomas. She never
gave him permission, as she died soon after.
Thomas never used tobacco after that. I heard him tell the story in the
meeting Clara used to attend.
L.
POEM FOR RECITATION.
ONLY A HEART'S-EASE.
Sought the king his garden
When the air was ringing
With the joyous music
That the birds were singing.
When the sun threw westward
Long bright beams of gold,
And the dew was sparkling
On the wold.
Found his plants all drooping
Sullenly and sadly;
Buds and blossoms hung their heads,
Born to bloom so gladly.
When the king demanded
Why in sorrow bent,
There was but one answer--
Discontent.
For the graceful willow
By the fountain weeping,
And the lovely jasmine,
All her perfume keeping,
Answered when he questioned--
Each with envy spoke--
"Ah, because I cannot
Be an oak."
E'en the elm-tree answered,
Sadly and complaining,
"Ah, because I am not
Bloom and fruitage gaining."
And the vine, down drooping,
Lamentation made
Just because it could not
Cast a shade.
Rose would be a dahlia,
Ferns the flowers would copy,
Daisy grow a sunflower,
Heliotrope, a poppy.
Only little Heart's-ease
Looked all glad and bright,
And the king said, wond'ring
At the sight,
"Wherefore, little Heart's-ease,
Art _thou_ not repining?"
And the Heart's-ease answered,
All her gold heart shining,
"Why, when me you planted
'Mong your garden store,
You wanted just a heart's-ease,
Nothing more."
Do you know the lesson
That the fable's giving?
'Tis the very secret
Of all happy living.
In whatever station
God for you deems best,
Yours to grow and brighten,
His the rest.
M. R. P.
"ONLY A CHILD'S PRATTLE."
IT was one of those summer mornings when the earth seems all aglow
with sunshine. The Granger House faced the east, and the doors and
windows were opened to let in the light and brightness of the morning.
It was a handsome house, somewhat old-fashioned, but handsome still
and elegantly furnished. It should have been a happy home, but there
was a shadow resting upon it; as yet it was not a deep, dark shadow,
indeed it was scarcely perceptible to any save to one troubled heart.
Mr. Granger did not see it, he did not know that a horrible fear was
sometimes clutching at the heart of his almost idolized wife. He did
not suspect his own peril and did not see as she did, the demon lurking
in those bottles and decanters on the sideboard.
That morning, little Alice, the one petted darling of the house, was
playing upon the lawn, with no other companion than her favorite doll,
almost as large as Alice herself.
She had wandered about the grounds, the mother watching the golden head
and thinking that sunshine itself was not brighter, until suddenly the
child's attention was attracted by what was to her an altogether new
sight. A young man was passing. Just in front of the house he staggered
and would have fallen had it not been for the assistance of a companion
a little less helpless than himself. I need not describe the scene.
Unfortunately, to the most of us it is not an unusual sight. We have
seen too often the unsteady and uncertain step of a drunkard, we have
too often heard the silly laughter and listened to the imbecile chatter
of those who have drowned their manhood in a glass of liquor.
But to Alice Granger, a child of five years, it was a new and strange
sight and one which she could not comprehend. Her doll lay unheeded
upon the ground while with an earnest, curious expression upon her face
she watched the two travellers out of sight. Then she ran to the house.
"Mamma," she said, "there were two funny-acting men went past just now.
They went on both sides of the street and did not act as if they knew
how to walk. They were just as silly as could be."
"Yes, dear; I saw them."
"Mamma, what made them act so?" inquired the child.
Mrs. Granger was inclined to evade the question. She was sorry that her
darling had witnessed the disgusting spectacle. She would have spared
her the knowledge of this form of sin awhile longer, but it could not
now be helped, and as Alice persisted she said at length,
"My dear child, those young men had been drinking too much wine."
"Too much wine! But, mamma, wine does not make folks act like that!"
"Yes, it does."
"But papa drinks wine," and the little round face wore a look of
perplexity.
As Mrs. Granger did not reply, Alice said again,
"Say, mamma, papa drinks wine. Does it make him walk like that and talk
so that nobody can understand him? Say, mamma!"
What could the mother say? How should she teach her darling to hate the
wine cup and at the same time preserve the child's respect and love for
her father?
"My darling," she said at length, "wine is a dangerous thing. I will
teach you all about it. And papa thinks that a little does not hurt
anybody; but perhaps when you know more about it, you and I can coax
him not to drink any."
That day at dinner Alice astonished her father by exclaiming suddenly,
"Papa, I wish you wouldn't drink any more wine!"
Mr. Granger looked up in surprise, but he laughed and asked,
"Why not?"
The little face was very sober and the voice very earnest as Alice
replied, "Because it makes men act so dis-gust-ing-ly!" The last word
was brought out slowly, as if it were too large for her.
"What do you know about it?" The question was addressed to Alice his
daughter, but Mr. Granger looked at his wife.
"Alice had her first temperance lesson to-day," replied Mrs. Granger,
"and it has made an impression."
"Seems to me you are beginning early to teach her your peculiar views,"
said the gentleman, half-laughing, half-sneering. At least, it was as
near a sneer as the gentleman in Mr. Granger would allow.
"It so happens that I was not the teacher," responded his wife; "it was
an object lesson. She saw young Morgan and his friend pass."
"And, papa, they acted just awful! I wouldn't have you act that way for
anything."
"Don't be afraid. Fred Morgan drinks a great deal and I only drink a
little. That's the difference."
Alice was still quite a time. Then, as her father drained his glass,
she asked suddenly,
"Papa, how much is a great deal of wine?"
"How much? O, I don't know," replied Mr. Granger carelessly.
"I wish you _did know_." And now the voice was very anxious.
"Why do you wish that?"
"Why, don't you see you might make a mistake and drink too much. But
if I can find out _I'll_ keep watch and tell you, so you need not be
afraid of being like Fred Morgan."
Mr. Granger rose from the table laughing, and betook himself to the
library; but the last words of his little golden-haired daughter had
struck home to his heart. He, Thomas Granger, like Fred Morgan! Why,
Fred was a reeling drunkard. He, Thomas Granger, needing to be watched
by his little daughter, lest he make a mistake and take too much wine!
Could there be truth in the suggestion? Was he in danger? Of course
not. It was a child's foolish prattle. But foolish or not, the thought
staid with him, and, sneer as he might, it would not be put down.
Was this the wise Heavenly Father's way of answering that sad-hearted
wife's prayer that her husband might be brought to see his danger?
There was no wine served at dinner the next day. The glittering
decanters, and the bottles with the age mark of which Mr. Granger had
been so proud, and the cutglass wine glasses had all disappeared. No
need now for Alice to watch!
Her father had left forever the dangerous path, and had resolved never
again to lift the wineglass to his lips.
FAYE HUNTINGTON.
[Illustration: LITTLE ALICE AND HER FAVORITE DOLL.]
_Volume 13, Number 32._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_June 12, 1886._
THE PANSY.
[Illustration: LITTLE SATE IN THE CHOIR.]
REACHING OUT.
(_A further Account of Nettie Decker and her Friends._)
BY PANSY.
CHAPTER VIII.
IT was a beautiful Sabbath afternoon; just warm enough to make people
feel still and pleasant. The soft summer sunshine lay smiling on all
the world, and the soft summer breeze rustled the leaves of the trees,
and stole gently in at open windows. In the front room of the Deckers,
the family was gathered, all save Mr. Decker. He could be heard in his
bedroom stepping about occasionally, and great was his wife's fear
lest he was preparing to go down town and put himself in the place of
temptation at his old lounging place. Sunday could not be said to be a
day of rest to Mrs. Decker. It had been the day of her greatest trials,
so far. Norm was in his clean shirt and collar, which had been done up
again by Nettie's careful hands and which shone beautifully. He was
also in his shirt sleeves; that the mother was glad to see; _he_ was
not going out just yet, anyway. Mrs. Decker had honored the day with a
clean calico dress, and had shyly and with an almost shamefaced air,
pinned into it a little cambric ruffle which Nettie had presented her,
with the remark that it was just like the one Mrs. Burt wore, and that
Jerry said she looked like Mrs. Burt a little, only he thought she was
the best-looking of the two. Mrs. Decker had laughed, and then sighed;
and said it made dreadful little difference to her how she looked. But
the sigh meant that the days were not so very far distant when Mr.
Decker used to tell her she was a handsome woman; and she used to smile
over it, and call him a foolish man without any taste; but nevertheless
used to like it very much, and make herself look as well as she could
for his sake.
She hadn't done it lately, but whose fault was that, she should like to
know? However, she pinned the ruffle in, and whether Mr. Decker noticed
it or not, she certainly looked wonderfully better. Norm noticed it,
but of course he would not have said so for the world. Nettie in her
blue and white gingham which had been washed and ironed since the
flower party, and which had faded a little and shrunken a little, still
looked neat and trim, and had the little girls one on either side of
her, telling them a story in low tones; not so low but that the words
floated over to the window where Norm was pretending not to listen:
"And so," said the voice, "Daniel let himself be put into a den of
dreadful fierce lions, rather than give up praying."
"Did they frow him in?" this question from little Sate, horror in every
letter of the words.
"Yes, they did; and shut the door tight."
"I wouldn't have been," said fierce Susie; "I would have bitten, and
scratched and kicked just awful!"
"Why didn't Daniel shut up the window just as _tight_, and not let
anybody know it when he said his prayers?"
Oh little Sate! how many older and wiser ones than you have tried to
slip around conscience corners in some such way.
"I don't know all the reasons," said Nettie, after a thoughtful pause,
"but I suppose one was, because he wouldn't act in a way to make people
believe he had given up praying. He wanted to show them that he meant
to pray, whether they forbade it or not."
"Go on," said Susie, sharply, "I want to know how he felt when the
lions bit him."
"They didn't bite him; God wouldn't let them touch him. They crouched
down and kept as _still_, all night; and in the morning when the king
came to look, there was Daniel, safe!"
"Oh my!" said Sate, drawing a long, quivering sigh of relief; "wasn't
that just splendid!"
"How do you know it is true?" said skeptical Susie, looking as though
she was prepared not to believe anything.
"I know it because God said it, Susie; he put it in the Bible."
"I didn't ever hear Him say it," said Susie with a frown. A laugh
from Norm at that moment gave Nettie her first knowledge of him as a
listener. Her cheeks grew red, and she would have liked to slip away
into a more quiet corner but Sate was in haste to hear just what the
king said, and what Daniel said, and all about it, and the story went
on steadily, Daniel's character for true bravery shining out all the
more strongly, perhaps, because Nettie suspected herself of being
a coward, and not liking Norm to laugh at her Bible stories. As for
Norm, he knew he was a coward; he knew he had done in his life dozens
of things to make his mother cry; not because he was so anxious to do
them, nor because he feared a den of lions if he refused, but simply
because some of the fellows would laugh at him if he did.
That Sabbath day had been a memorable one to the Decker family in some
respects; at least to part of it. Nettie had taken the little girls
with her to Sabbath-school, and then to church. Mrs. Smith had given
her a cordial invitation to sit in their seat, but it was not a very
large seat, and when Job and his wife, and Sarah Ann and Jerry were all
there, as they were apt to be, there was just room for Nettie without
the little girls; so she went with them to the seat directly under the
choir gallery where very few sat. It was comfortable enough; she could
see the minister distinctly, and though she had to stretch out her neck
to see the choir, she could hear their sweet voices; and surely that
was enough. All went smoothly until the sermon was concluded. Sate sat
quite still, and if she did not listen to the sermon, listened to her
own thoughts and troubled no one.
But when the anthem began, Sate roused herself. That wonderful voice
which seemed to fill every corner of the church! She knew the voice; it
belonged to her dear teacher. She stretched out her little neck, and
could catch a glimpse of her, standing alone, the rest of the choir
sitting back, out of sight. And what was that she was saying, over and
over? "Come unto Me, unto Me, unto Me"--the words were repeated in the
softest of cadences--"all ye who are weary and heavy laden and I will
give you rest." Sate did not understand those words, certainly her
little feet were not weary, but there was a sweetness about the word
"rest" as it floated out on the still air, which made her seem to want
to go, she knew not whither. Then came the refrain: "Come unto Me, unto
Me," swelling and rolling until it filled all the aisles, and dying
away at last in the tenderest of pleading sounds. Sate's heart beat
fast, and the color came and went on her baby face in a way which would
have startled Nettie had she not been too intent on her own exquisite
delight in the music, to remember the motionless little girl at her
left.
"Take my yoke upon you, and learn of Me, learn of Me," called the sweet
voice, and Sate, understanding the last of it felt that she wanted
to learn, and of that One above all others. "For I am meek and lowly
of heart"--she did not know what the words meant, but she was drawn,
drawn. Then, listening, breathless, half resolved, came again that
wondrous pleading, "Come unto Me, unto Me, unto Me." Softly the little
feet slid down to the carpeted floor, softly they stepped on the green
and gray mosses which gave back no sound; softly they moved down the
aisle as though they carried a spirit with them, and when Nettie,
hearing no sound, yet turned suddenly as people will, to look after her
charge, little Sate was gone! Where? Nettie did not know, could not
conjecture. No sight of her in the aisle, not under the seat, not in
the great church anywhere. The door was open into the hall, and poor
little tired Sate must have slipped away into the sunshine outside.
Well, no harm could come to her there; she would surely wait for them,
or, failing in that, the road home was direct enough, and nothing to
trouble her; but how strange in little Sate to do it! If it had been
Susie, resolute, independent Susie always sufficient to herself and a
little more ready to do as she pleased than any other way! But Susie
sat up prim and dignified on Nettie's right; not very conscious of
the music, and willing enough to have the service over, but conscious
that she had on her new shoes, and a white dress, and a white bonnet,
and looked very well indeed. Meantime, little Sate was not out in the
sunshine. She had not thought of sunshine; she had been called; it was
not possible for her sweet little heart to get away from the feeling
that Some one was calling her, and that she wanted to go. What better
was there to do than follow the voice? So she followed it, out into the
hall, up the gallery stairs, still softly--the new shoes made no sound
on the carpet--through the door which stood ajar, quite to the singer's
side, there slipped this quiet little woman who had left her white
bonnet by Nettie, and stood with her golden head rippling with the
sunlight which fell upon it. There was a rustle in the choir gallery,
a soft stir over the church, the sort of sound which people make when
they are moved by some deep feeling which they hardly understand; there
was a smile on some faces, but it was the kind of smile which might
be given to a baby angel if it had strayed away from heaven to look
at something bright down here. The tenor singer would have drawn away
the small form from the soloist, but she put forth a protecting hand
and circled the child, and sang on, her voice taking sweeter tone, if
possible, and dying away in such tenderness as made the smiles on some
faces turn to tears, and made the echo linger with them of that last
tremulous "Come unto Me."
But little Sate, when she reached the choir gallery, saw something
which startled her out of her sweet resolute calm. Away on the side, up
there, where few people were, sat her own father; and rolling down his
cheeks were tears. Sate had never seen her father cry before. What was
the matter? Had she been naughty, and was it making him feel bad? She
stole a startled glance at the face of her teacher, whose arm was still
around her and had drawn her toward the seat into which she dropped,
when the song was over. No, _her_ face was quiet and sweet; not
grieved, as Sate was sure it would be, if she had been naughty. Neither
did the people look cross at her; many of them had bowed their heads in
prayer, but some were sitting erect, looking at her and smiling; surely
she had made no noise. Why should her father cry? She looked at him;
he had shaded his face with his hand. Was he crying still? Little Sate
thought it over, all in a moment of time, then suddenly she slipped
away from the encircling arm, moved softly across the intervening
space, into the side gallery, and was at her father's side, with her
small hand on his sleeve. He stooped and took her in his arms, and the
tears were still in his eyes; but he kissed her, and _kissed_ her, as
little Sate had never been kissed before; she nestled in his arms and
felt safe and comforted.
The prayer was over, the benediction given, and the worshipers moved
down the aisles. Sate rode comfortably in her father's arms, down
stairs, out into the hall, outside, in the sunshine, waiting for Nettie
and for her white sunbonnet. Presently Nettie came, hurried, flushed,
despite her judgment, anxious as to where the bonnet-less little
girl could have vanished. "Why, Sate," she began, but the rest of the
sentence died in astonished silence on her lips, for Sate held her
father's hand and looked content.
They walked home together, the father and his youngest baby, saying
nothing, for Sate was one of those wise-eyed little children who
have spells of sweet silence come over them, and Nettie, with Susie,
walked behind, the elder sister speculating: "Where did little Sate
find father? Did he pick her up on the street somewhere, and would he
be angry, and not let Nettie take her to church any more? Or did he,
passing, spy her in the churchyard and come in for her?"
Nettie did not know, and Sate did not tell; principally because she
did not understand that there was anything to tell. So while the
people in their homes talked and laughed about the small white waif
who had slipped into the choir, the people in this home were entirely
silent about it, and the mother did not know that anything strange
had happened. It is true, Susie began to inquire reprovingly, but was
hushed by Nettie's warning whisper; certainly Nettie was gaining a
wonderful control over the self-sufficient Susie. The child respected
her almost enough to follow her lead unquestioningly, which was a great
deal for Susie to do.
So they sat together that sweet Sabbath afternoon, Nettie telling her
Bible stories, and wondering how she should plan. What did Norm intend
to do a little later in the day? What was there she could do to keep
him from lounging down street? Why was her father staying so long in
the choked-up bedroom? What was the matter with her father these days,
and how long was anything going to last? Why did she feel, someway,
as though she stood on the very edge of something which startled and
almost frightened her? Was it because she was afraid her father would
not let her take Sate and Susie to church any more?
With all these thoughts floating through her mind, it was rather
hard to keep herself closely confined to Daniel and his experiences.
Suddenly the bedroom door opened and her father came out. Everybody
glanced up, though perhaps nobody could have told why. There was
a peculiar look on his face. Mrs. Decker noticed it and did not
understand it, and felt her heart beat in great thuds against the back
of her chair. Little Sate noticed it, and went over to him and slipped
her hand inside his. He sat down in the state chair which Nettie and
her mother had both contrived to have left vacant, and took Sate in his
arms. This, of itself, was unusual, but after that, there was silence,
Sate nestling safely in the protective arms and seeming satisfied with
all the world. Nettie felt her face flush, and her bosom heave as if
the tears were coming, but she could not have told why she wanted
to cry. Norm seemed oppressed with the stillness, and broke it by
whistling softly; also he had a small stick and was whittling; it was
the only thing lie could think of to do just now. It was too early to
go out; the boys would not be through with their boarding-house dinners
yet. Suddenly Mr. Decker broke in on the almost silence. "Hannah,"
he said, then he cleared his voice, and was still again, "and you
children," he added, after a moment, "I've got something to tell you
if I knew how. Something that I guess you will be glad to hear. I've
turned over a new leaf at last. I've turned it, off and on, in my mind
a good many times lately, though I don't know as any of you knew it.
I've been thinking about this thing, well, as soon as Nannie there came
home, at least; but I haven't understood it very well, and I s'pose
I don't now; but I understand it enough to have made up my mind; and
that's more than half the battle. The long and short of it is, I have
given myself to the Lord, or he has got hold of me, somehow; it isn't
much of a gift, that's a fact, but the queer thing about it is, he
seems to think it worth taking. I told him last night that if he would
show a poor stick like me how to do it, why, I'd do my part without
fail; and this morning he not only showed the way plain enough, but he
sent my little girl to help me along."
The father's voice broke then, and a tear trembled in his eye. Sate had
held her little head erect and looked steadily at him as soon as he
began to talk, wonder and interest, and some sort of still excitement
in her face as she listened. At his first pause she broke forth:
"Did He mean you, papa, when He said 'Come unto Me'? Was He calling
you, all the time? and did you tell Him you would?"
"Yes," he said, bending and kissing the earnest face, "He meant me, and
He's been calling me loud, this good while; but I never got started
till to-day. Now I'm going along with Him the rest of the way."
"I'm so glad," said little Sate, nestling contentedly back, "I'm so
glad, papa; I'm going too."
"BUT" AND "WILL."
FARMER SMITH was fond of birds. When he was young, married and settled
in his new house, he planted trees about his home for the birds to live
in. He made several pretty cages for the martins. Here and there he
put small boxes among the tree-tops to draw certain birds that love to
occupy houses that other folks have built.
When boxes failed he would take old oyster cans instead. One day he
picked up a leaky glue-pot and tied that on a young elm-tree.
[Illustration: THE HOME OF THE WREN FAMILY.]
The next day it was "rented" by a wren. There she continued year after
year, taking a vacation in the winter in Florida for her health's
sake. She had a way of paying her rent that quite satisfied Farmer
Smith, as he never ejected or annoyed her. He probably got his rent in
music.
As the years went by, the young elm grew and grew till its top branches
seemed almost to touch the sky. It spread, some said, over a half acre
nearly.
The glue-pot, or wren's nest, had gone up too, beyond the reach of bad
boys that are not happy in seeing birds happy.
One summer, when Mother Wren and Father Wren had gone away on a short
visit, the children looked down from the door of their cottage and saw
some strangers approaching. Among them was Farmer Smith. He was showing
them over the grounds and pointing out this thing and that.
They came under the elm and talked, and the young Wrens listened. And
when the old people returned they related the conversation of Farmer
Smith and the strangers.
They were greatly excited, as something was said about cutting the "old
elm" down.
But the parents quieted their troubled wrenlets with a good supper and,
putting them to sleep, they talked the matter over in a whisper with
their heads close together.
The next day, charging the children to listen carefully, they flew
away, returning soon with a good dinner.
As they sat eating, Miss Kittie Wren spoke up:
"They came again, and I heard Farmer Smith say that this tree was
indeed in the way. He could not raise anything about it, it shaded
everything so. 'But I can't bear,' he said--I couldn't hear the rest.
But I guess it was something awful, and we'll have to get right out of
our pretty house or be cut down. O dear, dear!"
And they all set up a cry, and were quieted only when told there was no
danger, because Farmer Smith said "But."
The next day, on their return, Master Fred related the talk.
"Farmer Smith said: 'I can't get through winter, as I see, without
cutting up "old elm" for wood. But, dear me, how can I? I set it out,
and have enjoyed its shade so long. Yet I suppose some day it must
come down for firewood.'"
"No danger yet," said Mr. Wren. "So long as that 'But' stands there he
can't strike 'old elm' one blow."
The next day Deb told how he came and measured it and figured up how
many cords of wood it might make, and then he guessed he might cut it
next week.
"Needn't be disturbed, darling, so long as Farmer Smith _guesses_ he'll
do it _next week_. That does not mean anything."
At supper on the following evening, Fred said: "Farmer Smith said
to-day, 'Boys, I want you to cut down the elm.' It's all up with us
now."
"Never fear a man who only _wants_ a thing done. Thousands of people
_want_ this and that, but don't _do_ it. You may rest another day,
children. Eat, drink and be merry till we get back."
Mother Wren had barely entered the door with a delicious dinner when
Kittie, Fred and Deb all put in at once:
"You had scarcely gone, when Farmer Smith came out alone and walked
around 'old elm' muttering something. Then he said, 'I will go now and
get my axe and cut it down this very day.' He is grinding his axe now;
don't you hear the grindstone?"
"He said, 'I _will_?' Are you sure it was not guess or _think_ I will?"
"We are positive," all said.
"Then pack up this very minute. We must move before he strikes the
first blow."
And away they went.
Did you ever hear of folks who say they _ought_ to sign the Temperance
Pledge; who _guess_ they will seek religion; who _think_ they will
begin to pray some day, _but_ not _now_? A few _will_, like the
Prodigal Son, and they are--saved!
Do you _but_ or _guess_ or _think_ or _will_?
REV. C. M. LIVINGSTON.
- - - - - - -
Do thy little; God has made
Million leaves for forest shade;
Smallest stars their glory bring,
God employeth everything.
WHY SOME ROSES ARE RED.
_A Flower Legend._
ALL roses were white, in the long ago,
According to flower lore;
But one day an angel passed by that way
As a message of love he bore
To a sorrowful soul bowed down by woe,
And weary with ceaseless pain,
And as he noticed the fragrant white flowers,
He poised on the wing amain,
And quickly approaching those roses sweet,
A beautiful bud to pick,
He whispered, "I'll take it with word of love
I bear to the lonely sick."
But as he plucked the beauteous flower,
Whose soft cheek was pale as death,
He said, "As my errand this time brings life--
I will warm it with my breath."
So he kissed the cheek of the fair white rose,
Which 'neath his thrilling touch blushed,
And with message of love, and pink rose of hope,
The sighs of the sick one he hushed.
And ever since then, when a rose is red,
Or blushes with delicate tint,
A kiss, from some angel of love and life,
On its cheek has left its imprint.
LYDIA HOYT FARMER.
A MOTHER'S LOVE.
IN December, 1821, a man with his wife and child were riding in a
sleigh over the mountains of Vermont. At last the horse refused to
proceed. The man set off to look for help, but soon he perished in
the cold. The mother set off to look for him, with her baby in her
arms, but she was found dead near the sleigh, next morning. The babe,
however, was living, for that mother had wrapped it in her shawl. There
is a sweet poem written about it. This proves to you the deep love that
wells up in the mother's heart. Any mother would have done the same for
her child.
How earnestly should every child strive to love and please his dear
parents.
RINGWOOD.
WANTED--THE MOON.
THE Moon rose early, and Baby Ned
Was rather late in going to bed.
Not two years old, this dear little fellow,
With head so round, and bright, and yellow,
With his eyes so brown, and mouth so sweet,
His fair little hands, and dainty feet--
Wee feet, that have barely learned to walk--
And his wise, quaint, broken, baby talk.
He was perched that night on grandma's knee,
The place where the small king loved to be.
Where the wise brown eyes saw something new
Through the window, up there in the blue.