THE GIRLS’ SCHOOL.
So began my school-life. There is not time to tell you all about it
now. There were about seventy of us there, from five to seventeen years
old. Some of them had been slave girls, and could tell a story to match
mine. Twice a day we gathered for meals, and we learnt to clean out our
rooms, mend and wash our clothes, and make our own shoes, so as to be
useful when we returned home. Then there was study and drill, and all of
it was so interesting—not a bit like the dry way they teach in Chinese
schools. Yet, best of all, were the Sunday services in the chapel and
the class-meeting and Bible-study in the week. My feet were gradually
loosened, and as they grew again I learned to skip and run with the other
girls; and when I went home it was wonderful the impression made on the
people in our out-of-the-way village.
Several years have gone by since I went to school and entered upon that
new life. Now I am learning to teach others; for teachers are badly
needed in our schools and women teachers are difficult to get. To-day I
have been thinking over my life. Like a dreadful dream there rises before
me the picture of Yin-dee, the neglected little slave of a cruel woman. I
see myself hobbling over the ground picking cotton, or in the evil home
making tea for opium-smokers and gamblers. I almost expect to hear the
harsh tones of my mother-in-law calling me to do some menial duty.
Then I remember the famine and its horrors. I can scarcely believe that
it is all a thing of the past, and I have become Ping-an, the child of
rest and peace. And what has done it all? Just this—the love of Jesus. It
was Jesus who sent the missionary with the message of love and pardon,
and it is Jesus who now fills my heart with joy. Yet I cannot forget that
there are many—oh, so many!—of my sisters in China in the same sad plight
as I was. I wonder how long it will be before the message will come to
them? How long before they will enter the land of rest and peace?
In the city of Pekin there hangs a great bell, and there is a legend
connected with it on which I love to ponder. Twice had the labor of
years been lost at the time of casting. The third time, just as the
molten metal was to be poured into the mould, the lovely daughter of
the maker, knowing that by no other means could a perfect bell be cast,
flung herself into the cauldron and gave her life to save her father from
disappointment and shame.
China now is waiting to be moulded. Old things are passing. It is a new
China we are beholding. Many ways have been tried for her regeneration.
The cold morality of Confucius is powerless. Buddhist monks and Taoist
priests have come in vain. Only by the cleansing Gospel of Christ can
China be purified and made a vessel meet for the Master’s use. Ages ago
this girl sacrificed herself that the bell might be perfect. What we
women and girls of China need is that more missionary teachers should
come to us, bringing the love of the Lord on their lips and in their
lives—then will China be saved and won for Christ. It is worth it a
thousand times. Will some of you come? Will more of you give? Will all of
you pray? There is something each can do, if you will only try. Out of
death springs life, and out of your sacrifice for Christ shall spring a
new China, free from the sins which have bound her in the past.
David Livingstone
BY A FELLOW-TOWNSMAN.
At Blantyre, Scotland, on the 19th March, 1813, a child was born to Neil
and Agnes Livingstone. We never know when is happening an epoch-making
event. Every new soul ushered into the world is a shut casket of
possibilities. The boy born in the humble home consisting of a “but and
a ben,” was destined to become one of the greatest missionaries; and
the most conspicuous and intrepid explorer the world has ever seen; to
achieve for himself a deathless fame, a name of imperishable memory, and
to leave to mankind a heritage of truth and influence. His cradle was in
the peasant’s cottage, but his grave is in Westminster Abbey. I have many
times visited the house where he was born, and the mill where he worked,
and oftentimes I have read the inscription that is over his grave. I
esteem it a great privilege to have lived for years near the birthplace
of the great and good David Livingstone. His home was one of those which
are the glory of Scotland, the abode of the godly and intelligent working
class. His mother was a sweet, gentle woman, and his father was a good
man.
When ten years of age he went to work. His working hours were from six
a.m. to eight p.m. His first week’s wages, sixty cents, he gave with
pride to his mother. He saved a few pence and purchased a “Rudiments of
Latin,” over which he pored when the day’s work was done. His thirst for
knowledge was intense. At the age of sixteen he had read many of the
classical authors and knew Horace and Virgil well.
[Illustration: DAVID LIVINGSTONE (1813-1873)
The Great Missionary Explorer.
Went to Africa 1840. Died in Africa 1873.
How David Livingstone gave.—
“I will place no value upon anything I have or may possess except in
relation to the Kingdom of Christ.”]
It was about his twentieth year that the great spiritual change took
place, which was to determine Livingstone’s future life. At that time he
definitely received Christ as his personal Saviour, and there can be no
doubt that his heart was thoroughly penetrated by the new life that then
flowed into it. Religion became the everyday business of his life and
his daily prayer was that he might resemble Christ, a petition fulfilled
in no ordinary degree. A desire was born within him to preach Christ in
China, and that he might be fitted for that work he entered as a medical
student in the University of Glasgow, and in due time was graduated in
medicine. He received not a cent of aid from anyone. What a struggle
he had! What economy he had to practice! Frequently his meal consisted
entirely of oatmeal porridge.
He was accepted by the London Missionary Society and sent out in
1840—not to China—but to Africa. To God and to Africa he gave his
manhood’s prime. No grander work was ever done than that accomplished
by David Livingstone. In him life’s fire glowed. With magnanimous and
self-sacrificing devotion, with undaunted courage, in the midst of
manifold sufferings, through days of hunger and weariness, and nights
of dreadful loneliness, he worked for Africa’s salvation. He loved the
natives, and they loved the man who was ever kind and good. He worked
amongst them with a vision ever before him of the men and women, whom
they, by God’s grace, might become, and that vision shaped and controlled
and sustained him in all his efforts. With the vision of the latter
day before him he addressed himself nobly and well to the work of the
present. God alone knows what Africa owes to Livingstone.
This full and overflowing life closed to earth’s activities in May, 1873.
His spirit marches on. Such men never die. His spirit has entered into
the great stream of the ever-swelling life of mankind, and continues, and
will continue, to act there with its whole force for evermore. He lives
in minds made better by his noble example. He lives in the Livingstonia
Mission, that great beacon light; he lives in great numbers of the
regenerated natives of Africa; he lives in all who are constrained to
work for Christ in that dark land.
I pray our Epworth Leaguers to read the story of his life, that they
may know what one consecrated man did in a lifetime, that they may have
a revelation of the possibilities in man, that they may be inspired to
emulate him in his noble simplicity, high resolve, invincible courage,
exalted self-sacrifice; that they may be possessed with the overmastering
purpose which guided and drove him on. Read his life and be inspired
with the thought that life is a high and noble calling. Reading of his
toils and struggles and victories, pray God for grace to “follow in his
train.” His motto was: “Fear God, and work hard.” Make it your motto. The
greatest of all tragedies is to live and die without a thing done by the
sweat of the soul.
—_Loch Ranza_.
Christmas in Our Boys’ School, Junghsien, West China
BY EDWARD WILSON WALLACE, B.A., B.D.
If you were a Chinese, and every day ate two meals of rice and some
vegetables, with meat only twice a month, if as often; if you worked from
daylight to dark seven days in the week, and had no summer vacation or
Christmas holidays; if you had no books to read except possibly (if you
were lucky) one or two greasy and tattered volumes of ancient philosophy,
not one word of which you understood; in other words, if you were an
average Chinese boy or girl, don’t you think that you would look forward
even more eagerly than you did this year to Christmas? I think you would.
At any rate the boys and girls connected with the church in Junghsien
were expecting a great treat, and we were planning to give them all that
they expected, and more.
Then suddenly, unexpectedly, a terrible thing happened that put an end
to all these hopes and plans. Can you guess what it was? It was not a
fire, or an earthquake, or a riot on the mission. But one morning there
came word that the Emperor of China and his step-mother had suddenly
died, and that everyone must go into mourning. And that was the end of
the two Christmas concerts, the Christmas tree, and the feast. For the
rules for mourning for a dead Emperor in China are quite strict. No one
could marry for a month—that rule did not affect us, for the only wedding
arranged for by anyone connected with the church, that of Mr. McAmmond’s
teacher, took place a few days before. No one was to be allowed to have
his head shaved for a hundred days. Every Chinese boy and man allows just
enough hair to grow on the top of his head to form his “pig-tail”; all
the rest of his head is shaved clean. But imagine what a messy effect it
is to have the head covered with a couple of months’ growth around the
long cue, as there is now. It is the Chinese way of going into black;
for, of course, every man’s hair is as black as pitch. Another rule was
that no one could wear satin clothes for a hundred days, and the little
red knobs on the top of the caps had to be changed to blue, which is the
second degree mourning color in China, white being the first. So far the
rules did not interfere with our Christmas entertainment. But now we come
to the fatal order, “There must be no music and no celebrations for a
month.” Alas! for our Chinese boys and girls. Christmas fell within the
month.
It is true that we might have got around the trouble by claiming that
ours was a foreign church, and so did not fall within the common rules.
This, I believe, was done in other places. But our church here is a
large one, and we are constantly trying to make the members understand
that it is a Chinese church, not a foreign one, and we decided that this
was a splendid opportunity to impress on the people the fact that when
a man joins the Christian Church he does not in any way become less of
a Chinese, and that our Church believes in honoring the rulers of the
country. As soon as it was finally decided that we should follow the
regulations the members agreed that we had done the correct thing.
In one way it was rather fortunate for the boys in the school that we had
no entertainment to prepare for. Just at Christmas last year came the
examinations, and some of the boys were working very hard to prepare for
the entrance examination. So it gave them a better chance to study. And
during Christmas week they had four examinations.
We did not intend, however, that Christmas should pass without something
to make the boys remember the day and what it means. If they could not
have a Christmas tree, I determined to give them the next best thing—in
fact, when I was a boy a year or two ago, I thought it was away ahead of
a mere tree—that is hanging up the stockings. The boys had never even
heard of such a custom, so it was great fun for them. One morning in
school, after prayers, I solemnly asked the boarders, “How many of you
have two pairs of socks?” There was blank amazement. Why did I wish to
know that? I only smiled, as I began with the boy in the front, little
“Georgie Bond.” “Have you two pairs of socks?” “Yes, but the extra pair
have holes.” Then to the next boy, “Have you a second pair?” “I have
three pair, but they all have holes, some of them as big as this,” and he
made a circle with his thumb and finger. “Have them mended,” I replied,
and passed on down the line. I found that all the nine boys had extra
pairs and all of them, as is the case with the stockings of every decent
fellow I ever knew, had holes. I maintain that in China, as at home, it
is a sign that a boy is a real boy when he wears holes in his stockings.
So I advised them to have one pair mended and washed before Christmas
Eve, and bring it to me. And then—well, we should see what we should see.
[Illustration: The boys of the Junghsien School who had a good time at
Christmas.]
Great was the excitement among the boys, and not a sock was missing when
the great night arrived. I did not let the boys hang up their own socks,
but packed them all off to the school study-room upstairs, while one of
the teachers and I pinned the socks up in a row in the class-room under
the blackboard. You know we have no fires in the schools here, and so
there are no chimneys. All the same Santa Claus found a way, for next
morning—but wait a bit.
When I got down to the school on Christmas morning at half-past seven
I found the boys already at breakfast. They were casting anxious eyes
in the direction of the room with the closed door, and like other boys
I have known they did not take long to eat their Christmas-morning
breakfast. When they were all ready they filed into the room. I am not
going to tell you how those stockings were filled. You may decide for
yourselves how, and by whom it was done. I don’t think the boys stopped
to think anything about “how.” They were too much interested in the
sight of twelve white Chinese socks in a row, all bulging out in a knobby
fashion, with things sticking out of them, and a flat, red parcel behind
every sock. On the blackboard was written in Chinese, “Jesus’ Holy
Birthday.” After they had looked for a minute I suggested that they take
down their socks and see what was in them. Then for the first time in
their lives they had the joy of exploring the mysteries of a Christmas
stocking. Their presents were not very much, you would say, perhaps. Each
boy found a story-book and a photograph of the school, and then down in
the sock were nuts and candies, and right in the toe an orange. The two
teachers each got a New Testament with the Chinese and English on the
same page.
They did not say much, and I wondered if they were disappointed, until
one of the teachers, Mr. Jang, came up to me with tears in his eyes,
saying, “You say we must not thank you, so I think we ought to thank God.
Can’t we do it just now?” It touched me deeply. “Yes,” I said, and we all
went up to the study-room and, standing there about the long table, one
after another of the boys made a short, simple prayer of thanks to God,
not only for the gifts of the morning, but especially for the greatest
Gift of all, Jesus Christ.
At nine o’clock we had our regular morning prayers, and then I gave to
the day-boys their presents, a New Testament and a bag of nuts and candy
to each one. We had a nice little service in the church for all the
church people, but our real Christmas service was held the next Sunday.
On that day we had a special musical service, led by the boys, who had
been practising for months under Mr. and Mrs. McAmmond. It would have
done you good to hear them open the service with “Come, Thou Almighty
King,” with Georgie Bond singing one verse as a solo. The anthem was
“Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” and our Chinese angels sang splendidly.
On Christmas morning the church members gave away free rice to five
hundred poor people. So that altogether the boys, even if their Christmas
was quieter than usual, have had something to remind them of the joy of
this beautiful season.
God Wants Them All
God wants the boys—the merry, merry boys,
The noisy boys, the funny boys,
The thoughtless boys;
God wants the boys with all their joys,
That He as gold may make them pure,
And teach them trials to endure.
His heroes brave
He’ll have them be,
Fighting for truth
And purity.
God wants the boys.
God wants the girls, the happy-hearted girls,
The loving girls, the best of girls,
The worst of girls;
God wants to make the girls His pearls,
And so reflect His holy face,
And bring to mind His wondrous grace,
That beautiful
The world may be,
And filled with love
And purity.
God wants the girls.
Li Liang Chen
_Student, Soldier, Trader, Evangelist._
REV. J. L. STEWART, B.A., B.D.
It was on the street of the Temple of the Four Sages, in the capital
city, Chengtu, Szechuan. There, to-day, its low, grey gable abutting the
entrance gates, stands also the Worship Hall to the Western God, who
is surely becoming Father of the East and of all. Within the temple,
only the smoke of a few incense sticks mingled with the tobacco and
opium fumes curled upward through cobwebs and tiles to the heavens. In
the Worship Hall, three score and more of China’s youth, black-haired,
bright-eyed, brilliant-minded hopes of her future greatness, were
gathered. But half the hall was theirs. Up the centre ran a wooden wall
past which presumably not even a wandering glance might go. That part
beyond was sacred to the women and school girls. As not even these latter
were present to embarrass the situation, native eloquence found full
fling.
It was the weekly meeting of the Epworth League of the College boys.
Moreover, it was missionary night, and members were all attention. The
leader was in fine form. With flushed cheek and fervid voice he called
his hearers to see visions.
“Jesus came to found a kingdom among men. All within the four seas are
brethren. The kingdom must then include all under heaven. Jesus founded
it first among His fellows, the Jews. These carried the message to Greeks
and Romans. These bore it to barbarians in Europe and Britain. These have
wafted it round the world, and to our land of the Middle Kingdom. And we?
We must bear the glad tidings on to Thibet, to the tribesmen and to the
aborigines....”
Just then there was a commotion in the rear of the church. Someone was
trying to make himself heard. At this persistent interruption all turned.
A ripple of indignation quickly changed to interest as they saw the new
speaker, a big, broad-faced, burly fellow, whose countenance beamed forth
a happy combination of courage and child-like simplicity.
“Your younger brother begs his elders’ pardon,” he ventured, “but here in
the seat just in front of mine are two of these strangers from the tribes
country. Why wait indefinitely some future date? They may leave before
our leader is through. Why not begin here and now?”
A voice of assent and approval ran around the room. For ten minutes the
speaker, bending forward, chatted pleasantly with the wanderers from
the great ranges to the west, well diggers, it seemed, seeking work
on the plain, welcomed them to the meeting and told them simply and
sympathetically of the Saviour of all and His message of love to men.
Then the meeting went on as before.
A simple enough little incident, surely, but it is an index to the
speaker, sincere, sympathetic, fearless, practical. It was Li Liang Chen,
that is, Li of Perfect Virtue, as his parents had named him in hope. To
attain the Chinese goal of greatness by becoming an official was likewise
a longing, and to that end he was sent early to school. There, year by
year, through youth and young manhood, he had repeated his history,
rhymed his poetry, patiently traced the puzzling characters and later
written countless stereotyped essays under a still famous teacher of the
district. More than once he had gone up with the picked men of his county
to try for the coveted degree, that opening door to official life. Alas!
how few could hope for success; oft-times scarce two in a hundred. His
heart was, moreover, ever too great for his head, so those with more
self-abstraction or secret alliances with the examiners, won the day.
In military matters, literary attainments played a lesser part, the
physical was the all-important, so thither his ambitions turned. Here,
though some surpassed him in lifting the two and three hundred weight
stone, success came surprisingly. He soon bent a strong bow and sent his
arrow clean and quivering to the heart of the target. In feats with fists
his stature, strength and courage placed him among the envied few, while
in swinging great swords he was scarce surpassed.
China, however, cares not for war. In the long life of no other nation
has history written so large, “Blessed are the meek, for they shall
inherit the earth.” Her list of honor runs, scholar, farmer, mechanic,
merchant. The scholar sways by thought, so is first. The farmer and
mechanic each produces, so come next. The merchant does neither, but
distributes, so is fourth. The soldier is not even mentioned, for he
exists but to destroy. Such being the sentiment, in times of peace but
few are maintained or indeed needed to follow the profession of arms
among these most easily ruled of the millions of earth. Li, like the many
of his fellows, must have other means of support.
His father was a merchant in the market village of the Chao family, near
Jenshow. By dint of industry and economy, he had also added a small farm
to his possession. Li was placed in the shop. Affability won friends,
time and tact got him trade, while his fearlessness gradually carried
him far afield. Back from the borders of the aborigines he brought white
wax and ponies; from the province of Uin Lan he led pack mules laden
with tea. In Kweichow, south and east, he sought silks and horses. From
the far-flung tribes to north and west he bought musk and medicines,
and from the Thibetans wools and hides. Soon agencies were established,
compass-like, all about his centre, and Li, the trader, was known to big
firms in scores of cities, towns, and in the great capital.
But travels had touched more than trade. In larger centres he had seen
the much-talked-of foreigner, with his ever-present hospitals, schools,
and churches, and had heard him discussed from province to province in
countless inns and teashops. Once, only once, he had paused one day in
his busy life to listen to a street preacher. He carried away little of
what was said. How could such things concern him and his sole search for
goods and gold? Thus ten years fled by. He lost much, but made more, and
at length decided to settle in his native village, among his own, the
better to be a filial son to his now aging father.
About that time mission problems assumed a new phase. After the dramatic
events culminating in the Boxer cataclysm in 1900, the missionary found
himself received in a new light. Previously permitted, as a matter of
indifference, or in many places despised, insulted, persecuted, he
now found himself pushed into unsought prominence. Foreign troops had
defeated the forces of the Son of Heaven. Foreign officials had but to
say the word, and China bowed to obey. Were not the missionaries friends
of these consuls, indeed might they not themselves be officials or
paid to act as such? In fact, one nation, France, openly allowed their
“fathers” official status. The bishop ranked with a viceroy, the humblest
priest with the local magistrate.
The fruit of it all came fast. People flocked to the churches, not to
be bettered by Christian teaching, but to gain power with which to
threaten and coerce their enemies. This, it is not unfair to say, was
particularly true among Roman Catholic native priests and their converts,
where the worst characters of the community carried the day with high
hand. It was at least true of the Jenshow district, where, abetted by
the church, “converts” coerced, blackmailed, robbed, assaulted their
helpless neighbors. Should reprisals arise they were at once labelled
“persecutions,” appeal was made to the priests, then to the bishop,
and thus to the chief officials of the province, or locally to the
magistrates. The honest, hard-working citizen’s lot seemed hopeless and
helpless.
Then the knowledge slowly gained ground that there were two parties among
these foreigners. Protestants, it was said, had equal power, but did not
countenance such coercion. Why not invite these into the county, and join
their organization? The plan was plausible and prevailed. Representative
men went to the capital to invite the Protestant missionaries. After a
time they came, received everywhere with honor and acclaim. Villages,
a score and more, organized and sent representatives to support the
movement. A central organization sprang up and a big building was secured.
Among the many villages that thus sent representatives was that of the
Chao family. Who should be sent but Li, the scholar, soldier, merchant,
man of affairs. He went to Jenshow, listened, gave hearty support, bought
books said to be necessary and went his way. He was more interested now,
however, and read his books carefully. Though his motives could scarce be
called Christian, he was being led and to lead in a way that he knew not.
Some months later, a convention for leaders was summoned in the
provincial capital. Li was ready and receptive. He returned to his native
village, moved as not before to pilot his people. Many became converts,
not of convenience, but of conviction, among these his former teacher and
his own family and friends.
Another year, and again a conference of those most worthy was called. Li
came gladly. This time his home-going meant the giving over of business
interests to others while he went forth in his own village, county town,
and all the surrounding district, this time persuading men to make the
greatest of all investments, those eternal investments in the Kingdom
of God. Henceforth for him he felt his life’s chief business lay in the
extension of the reign of righteousness, peace and joy throughout his
native land.
Two years have passed since then, but he is still as of old—fervent,
fearless, faithful. A year’s study at college in Chengtu has given him
greater grip and wider vision. To-day he is again out in the work he
loves, the scholar seeing even more clearly the signs of his times, the
soldier going courageously forward in the great commission, the trader
offering in all market-places treasure that death cannot corrupt, the
evangelist heralding the glad tidings of great joy to a great people.
Of such stuff are China’s first apostles in the far west. Of such appeal
is the message of the Son of Man to draw alien races unto Himself. To
this end let us have firmer faith in all.
Bo and Nare, or Found Out
“Rub-a-dub-dub! rub-a-dub-dub!”
Little Bo heard the music, and ran after it. He had been fishing in a
pool with a bent pin for a hook. “It is lots more fun to run after the
band than to fish with a pin and not catch anything,” thought Bo. So he
gave the line to his little sister Nare. Nare wanted to fish before, but
Bo had said, “Girls don’t know anything ’bout fishing.”
Bo lived in a far country where even fathers don’t love little girls.
Bo did not share his playthings with his sister, as you have done. He
made her wait on him. He didn’t know any better. That was the way Bo’s
father treated his mother. Bo was not white, as are the boys and girls
who read this. He was brown as a berry. So was his little sister Nare.
So were all the people Bo and Nare knew, except two ladies. These white
missionary ladies were Bo’s teachers. They told him about Jesus. But Bo’s
father taught him to worship idols. Bo sometimes wondered which was the
true God. But at this particular minute he only thought about the music,
and ran after it. He saw a great crowd and a priest in the midst beating
a drum. He heard the priest cry in a loud voice, “Let every one keep
silence.” Then the priest looked fiercely at the small boys. Bo began to
tremble, and wish he were back fishing. “On this day week,” again shouted
the priest, “at noon a god will arise from the ground in the field near
our temple.” A second time the drum sounded, and the priest moved on to
convey the news to other villages.
Everybody began to talk excitedly. “A god rise from the ground!” said
they; “can it be possible?”
Bo was delighted. “Now I’ll find out,” thought he, “if men make our gods
out of wood and stone, as the missionaries say. I’ll go and see for
myself.”
That week seemed the longest Bo had ever spent. But the great day came at
length, and Bo was very happy. Nare was not. Nare wanted to go too. She
begged Bo to take her, but Bo answered, “You are only a girl; it doesn’t
make any difference what you think. By-and-bye I’ll be a man; so I ought
to know what is right.” Bo thought it manly to speak so rudely. Why,
even mothers are treated very badly by boys in countries where Jesus’
teachings are not known.
So Bo started off alone. He found the largest crowd he had ever seen in
the great field near the temple. In the centre was a vacant space, where
only priests stood. Bo made straight for that spot. But a priest took him
roughly by the shoulder, and said, “The new god will kill any one who
comes inside this circle.” Bo ran back and hid behind a tall man, who
didn’t look afraid.
It was a silent crowd. Most of the people seemed awe-struck. Every one
was eagerly looking toward the vacant space where the god would rise. At
noon more priests in long white robes came out of the temple. They began
to mutter and wave their hands. The tall man next to Bo said, “Something
black is coming out of the ground!” Bo stood on tip-toe and strained his
eyes to see.
The something grew larger and larger. Every eye was fixed upon the spot.
Could it be the top of a head? Yes, for the brow, eyes, nose, and mouth
slowly appeared. All this time the priests never once went near. The
big black idol seemed to rise of itself. The crowd, almost wild with
excitement, cried out, “A miracle! a miracle!”
Bo thought the priests looked much pleased when the people shouted, “’Tis
a miracle!” Soon the priests went into the temple. They didn’t think any
one would dare go inside the circle.
Now it happened that the tall man who stood next to Bo no longer believed
that idols were gods. “The priests are trying to cheat us,” thought he.
“A rival temple is the favorite, where most money is given. The priests
of this temple are poor. They have made up this miracle in order to draw
more offerings here.” So this wise man said to a friend near, “Let us
make this god grow faster.” The other agreed. They went boldly forward
and took hold of the idol.
Bo heard people say, “They will surely fall down dead.”
But no; the god came up quickly—head, hands, body—all complete. Still the
two brave men stood unharmed and actually laughing. They cried out, “The
priests have fooled us; come and see for yourselves!”
Then, pell-mell, pushing and tumbling over each other, all rushed to the
spot. What do you think they saw? A great pit full of soaked peas. The
priests knew that peas grow larger when left in water; so they filled the
pit with peas, poured on water, placed the idol on top, and covered it
lightly with soil. By-and-bye, when the peas had begun to swell, the idol
was pushed through the ground.
The people were very angry. They nearly killed the priests, whom they
found feasting in the temple.
After one long look backward, Bo trudged home in disgust. He could never
again believe in their priests. That evening Bo told Nare his decision:
“We’ll not be afraid of make-believe gods any more. We must pray to the
great Father who lives up in the sky.”—_Selected._
Results of a One-Cent Investment in One of Our Country Sunday Schools
At a Sunday School missionary meeting, the Superintendent received a
number of letters from the scholars, giving an account of how they had
traded with a cent which had been given them a year ago. It is needless
to say that this was by no means the least attractive part of the
programme. The following are some of the letters as received, in which we
have made no corrections:—
“I bought a cent’s worth of radish seed and sowed them in a plot of
ground which my Mother gave me. I tended to them with care and sold them
at 5 cts. a dozen. I sold 12 dozen and made 60 cts.”
“Two years ago I took a cent to see how much I could make for missions.
One year ago I took another cent. I spent them both and gained nothing
with them. You can’t speculate much with a cent. A lady wanted me to do
some work for her and said she would pay me, so I got $1.15 for last
year, but didn’t get it in time for the meeting, and this year I have
added 35 cts. more. Total amount, $1.50.”
“Bot lead pencils at wholesale and sold them out retail, with the
proceeds bot some sugar and made taffy and sold it for missionaries,
making in all, 58 cts.”
“I have twenty-five cents to give you for the missionaries. I sold some
cucumbers to a lady for five cents, and the rest Ma gave me for doing
errands.”
“I earned this money buying and selling rhubarb, 20 cts.”
“I bought one egg, raised a Pullet and sold one dozen for 20 cts., one
dozen eggs for 15 cents, then sold the hen for 20 cts. Total amount made,
55 cts.”
“I ernt this fifteen cents by buying and selling eggs.”
“I bought a patch of potatoes for one cent and tended to them and sold
them for 10 cts., making a profit of 9 cts.”
“I have just 51 cts. I went errands and washed dishes and did other
little things for it.”
“I bought beans and planted them and sold them for 3 cts.”
“I bought with my cent some radish seed, and Mr. Wilson gave me a plot to
sow it in. I watered and weeded them and sold them at 5 cts. a bunch, and
made $1.”
“I blacked the boots for a month and earned 15 cts. I will try to do
better next time.”
“My cent I invested in potatoes. I planted and tended them and arranged
with a gentleman to take the potatoes at 40 cts. per bag. I am glad to
hand in my $1 as the result.”
“I am a very little boy, but I ain’t too small to work. Last year you
did not give me a copper to work with, but I thought I would try and do
something for poor little boys and girls away off in heathen lands, so
last summer I picked dandelions, tied them in bunches, and sold them
around the town, total amount, 5 cts.”
“Total proceeds, $12.12.”
“I first bought a can with my cent, and picked berries and sold them.
Received twenty cents.”
“I bought a row of carrots of my Father for a cent, and had five pails,
and sold them at 10c. per pail, which is fifty cents.”
“I bought a cents worth of knitting cotton and knit a pair of garters and
sold them for Ten cents. (10c.)”
“We Bought 2 cents worth of Eggs and Sett them, got 2 chickens, and sold
them for 20 cents.”
“Bought one ct’s worth of Bootblacking, blackned boots for five cts.
bought five ct’s worth, blackned boots for five cts. a week, got one
dollar.”—_Missionary Outlook._
The Schoolmaster’s Lesson
The schoolmaster, with the savings of two laborious years, had treated
himself to a fine large microscope. This instrument, in its mahogany
case, occupied a place of honor on a side table. It was a world of
wonder, a more than Aladdin’s lamp to the children, who looked with joy
to the occasions when the schoolmaster revealed to their wondering gaze
its enchantments. Whenever the schoolmaster took a little key from his
vest pocket and approached the sacred altar, where reposed the marvel,
the children stowed their books under the blue desks, and fairly held
their breath with expectation. Any one of them might have the honor of
being summoned as officiating acolyte of the occasion.
On this afternoon the schoolmaster had a bowl of water and some small
green weeds from the nearest pond. He put some of the green plant in a
large, clear glass. As it floated, the children coming near to look, one
by one saw that the plant seemed supplied with minute green sacs filled
with air.
“Now, take your seats,” said the master. “This is called a bladder-plant,
from these wee, green bladders, whereby it floats. Listen, and Nathan
will tell you what he sees. Nathan, come forward.”
Nathan came gladly.
“Now, tell us what you see in the water, Nathan.”
“I see little live things; some have little shells on them like mussels,
only they look about as big as tiny pin-heads. Some have little whirling
wheels on their heads. A good many are like very, very wee caterpillars.”
“Those last are the water-bears,” said the schoolmaster. “Now look at the
bladder-plant.”
“The bladders,” said Nathan, “are little bags. Their mouths are open.
They are set round with hairs. Some of the bags look full of something,
and dark. Some of them seem to have some live thing kicking in them. Some
are empty, and as you look in at the door it is like a little clear green
room. Oh! I see a water-bear swimming up to one! He looks in. He seems
to think it is pretty. I guess he wants to know where there is something
kicking. He looks in there. Now he goes to an empty one. Now he swims by.
No, he changes his mind. He thinks he will go in. He pokes in his head.
The little hairs at the door bend inward: they let him go in easy. He is
in! Oh! now he is trying to come out!”
Great excitement in the listening school—eyes wide open, heads bent
forward.
“Can he get out?” cried someone.
“No! no! he can’t,” exclaimed Nathan, all eager. “The hairs bend in, and
let him in, but he cannot get by them to go out! They won’t bend out. Oh,
he can’t get out.”
The schoolmaster now took one of the dark, full sacs, cut it open with a
very fine, sharp instrument, and put it under the glass.
“Now what, Nathan?”
“Oh, that bag is full of dead things, of what you might call the bones
of these bits of creatures, the shells off one of those tiny things like
mussels. They are things that have gone in and have got all melted up.”
“Here is another,” said the schoolmaster, putting a lighter green sac in
place, also cut open. “What now?”
“That is the very sac the water-bear looked into to see something
kicking. The kicking thing was another water-bear. Now it is dead. The
one that went in just now is kicking, too.”
The schoolmaster took that sac also, opened it, and released the
struggling water-bear.
“What now, Nathan?”
“He is out, but he doesn’t feel good. He doesn’t swim round as he did
before he went in. I think he is going to die, schoolmaster. Oh, here is
another bear just going into a sac. Let him out quick, won’t you?”
The schoolmaster opened the sac and the freed little animal swam off.
“He got out, right off, and nothing but him,” said Nathan. “Schoolmaster,
isn’t it queer that when they look in and see the dead ones, and the
bones and skins, or see other ones caught and kicking, and can’t get out,
that they don’t learn better than to go in themselves? I should think
they’d have sense to keep out!”
“People do not have sense to keep out when the circumstances are just
about the same. Now, all of you children, listen. You know that Nathan
has told you of these little, gay palace-rooms, where the doors open in
and not out, and the things which swim by seem curious to know what is
inside. Some of these gay places hold struggling captives; others are
full of the relics of the dead. Now, that is a little parable to you.
Let the little green sacs stand for places where strong drink is sold.
Those who enter such places form the drinking habit, and then they cannot
get free from it. Persons, yet free, look into these dens for drinking.
They see in them people all ragged, dirty, poor, unhappy, bloated, crazy,
sick, wrecked and ruined victims of the habit. They see yet others who
mourn that they are enslaved, who have a sense of shame and danger, and
struggle to get rid of the appetite that makes prisoners of them, and
will destroy them. In this little plant, when the little animals get into
the sacs, the plant melts up their bodies and seems to suck up their
juice and feed on it until nothing is left but the fine bony parts. So
the unhappy person who goes into a grog shop finds that the dealer feeds
on him until his health and happiness, and money and respectability are
all gone, and perhaps nothing is left of him but the poor body that is
ready for the Potter’s field. Is it not strange that when we see how many
persons are utterly ruined by drink, any will venture into places where
drink is sold, and will even begin to taste the fatal liquor? Whenever
you see a place for selling whiskey, I want you to think of the little
water-bears and other water creatures which enter the snares of the
bladder-plant.”—_Selected._
Liu Tsi Chuin
_Rioter and Evangelist._
REV. J. L. STEWART, M.A., B.D.
“Ninety-five” is a date of dates among the pioneer workers in West China.
All winter rumors of the doings of foreigners had been floating about
the city of Chengtu, old stories of suspicion and superstition scarce
heard to-day: “Foreigners ate children.” “Doctors pulverized eyes for
medicines, hence their wonderful cures.” “Bodies were buried beneath the
church floors.” “Foreigners having, many of them, blue eyes, could see
into soil and discover hidden treasure as the dark-eyed people of China
might see stones on the bottom of streams.” “Foreigners were there to
seek treasure or territory.” Even high officials, ’tis said, fed the
flame with the hope that it would soon become so hot the “foreign devils”
would flee.
There were, however, few open acts of hostility during these days. Then
suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, it came. It was the fifth of the
fifth month feast. According to time-honored custom, the crowds assembled
on the great east parade ground, scarce a stone’s throw from the Mission
compound, for the throwing of plums. Vendors, their big baskets well
filled with the fruit still green, had booths, or pushed through the
people everywhere. Everyone bought, sowed his plums broadcast in the air,
then scrambled with the rest, for, aside from the sport, the plums so
obtained were said to ward off sickness, demons, disaster, and brought
good luck for the year to come. As the day grew, masses of roughs and
toughs, many from the yamen, some say, mingled with the thoughtless, and
jammed and jostled together till the air was filled with the hum and hue
of voices, and hearts and heads were half-hysterical for mischief and
riot.
Already as evening came, the crowd had overflowed past the gateway of the
mission premises.
“Here’s where the foreign devils live,” said one.
“Let’s hurl a stone at the gate,” said another.
“Who dares?”
Soon one stone by stealth, then a volley, rattled against the big black
doors. The gateman’s rebuke only made the ringleaders more bold. They
fell back when the foreigner appeared; but were at his heels, a howling
mob, when the gates again closed behind him. The rabble rushed to the
point, restraint was thrown to the winds. A riot was on in earnest.
Into the blackness of the night, two men, strangers, homeless in a
strange, inhospitable land, fled with their heroic wives and hushed
little ones. Then and for hours afterwards, as hiding from street to
street they sought their way to our W.M.S. home, they heard afar the
frenzied shouting, and saw the flames pierce high into the darkness
as church, and hospital, and homes, and goods, and gifts, and many a
treasured heirloom from half round the world became fuel for the fires.
Next day saw the mob’s return to its work of destruction till every
building of every mission in the city, Protestant and Catholic alike,
was in ruins, and the foreigners, irrespective of sex or creed, huddled
together in a few low outer rooms of one of the official yamens.
Such was Liu Tsi Chuin’s first introduction to the foreigner, for he was
in the thick of the fray on the first night, and followed on next day as
one by one the missionary families fled, and the buildings were looted
and burned. It was a full decade before he came in touch with them again
and then—how changed the circumstances!
Liu Tsi Chuin was of good family. His name, Tsi Chuin, “Be princely,”
would give a hint, at least, of his parents’ goodness of heart. His
father was the trusted treasurer of a district magistrate not far from
Chengtu. Alas, when Liu was but a child of three the father died. Shortly
after, his little sister also died, and Liu and the little widowed mother
were left alone. His father, however, had been a man of thrift, so that
even after the exorbitant funeral ceremonies were over, enough was left
to buy a neat little home on the Great Well Corner in the provincial
capital, and even some over to be invested for interest. Little Liu was
sent to school. He had friends of his father in official circles. That
would mean influence in the days to come, and that position, promotion,
power, so hope was high in the little household.
At the age of thirteen a change came in Liu’s life. A relative, of whom
there are ever plenty in Chinese families, had persuaded the little widow
that mints of money might be made by embarking in business. After much
persuasion, she yielded. Was not the interest small? And would not her
boy need more as he grew older? And was she not ambitious for him? The
sums loaned were called in, and the little home mortgaged.
Soon a great double shop displayed a new and euphonious name. Big
lanterns swung below the eaves. Long boards with letters of gold told
of the virtues of the place, while within hams swung from the ceilings,
various confections covered the counters and long strings of tobacco
lined the shop front close by the street. For five years business went
on briskly. By degrees, however, other relatives and friends attached
themselves till “the money failed to fill the mouths,” and, in brief,
business failed and had to be abandoned. Another venture was made in the
then flourishing opium trade, but their capital was limited and larger
firms outsold them.
Liu was now a youth of twenty. With the little capital left he tried
running a sox shop. Alas, in his last venture he had lost more than
money. He had lost manhood as well. His countrymen have a proverb, “You
can’t work in a dye shop and keep your clothes unstained.” Liu had
himself fallen a victim to the opium he sold to others.
[Illustration: The evangelist and his family.]
The record of his ruin is the old story of China’s sorrow after that.
Sucking his pipe, sleeping, sliding about stealthily from spot to spot,
seeking relief from the fiend which haunted him by day and by night,
he had little time for business, his thoughts were busy with baubles,
trade fell off, goods disappeared, his last cash left him, and despair
and destruction followed fast. It was during those days that he found
himself one of the throng of thoughtless and rowdies, assembled for plum
throwing. The sacking of the missions was but a new excitement with a
possible gain to all, and what could it matter anyhow to frighten away a
few foreigners whom nobody wanted? But that story we have told.
Liu had married meantime. A little daughter had come to his home. Then
later his wife died. He left the city and sought employment with his
father’s former official friend. The latter gave him a small position
as messenger. But official life is precarious. His benefactor lost his
position, and Liu was once more down and out. He wandered back to the
capital and to his child.
* * * * *
No one visits Chengtu who does not find his way some time or many times,
if he has the opportunity, to the Great East Street at night. By day it
is filled with busy buyers at the great silk, tea and porcelain shops,
but by night it is more animated still. When the great shops close their
shutters at sundown, the curbstones are immediately pre-empted by swarms
of junk dealers, curio sellers, vendors of fans, needles, chopsticks,
pictures, rare old bronzes, ink slabs and vases. Here, too, are
diviners, fortune-tellers and fakirs. It is the bazaar of the capital,
once seen not to be forgotten, with its twinkling candles stretching
far away, its lines of squatting vendors, its hum of busy voices, its
clattering, chattering, crowding thousands who throng the thoroughfare.
There with his little store of stuff about him, Liu might be found each
night. The day he spent picking up a few curios from house to house, when
not too busy with his pipe.
One day he rambled again along the street where in former days he, with
the rabble, had wrought such ruin to the cause of missions. The church, a
new and larger one since those days, stood open. Numbers of people were
crowding in, so he, with an uncle and two friends, sons of his former
official patron, joined the stream. They listened half curiously, half
carelessly, to the prayers and singing, all so strange to them. Something
in the sermon, however, brought Liu to attention. The speaker said that
this God of love could so fill and thrill a man with His Spirit that even
the passion for opium could no longer hold him. Could it be possible?
Liu was no willing victim to the habit. He had tried all kinds of pills
and strange concoctions guaranteed to cure, or recommended by friends.
He had fought by his own will power till that became so weak he scarce
struggled longer. But here was a new thought from the truth-telling
foreigner, and a new hope. Perhaps this foreign God could help. So at
invitation he, with his companions, waited for the after meeting, where
all are welcomed who have questions or seek further light.
He became even more interested and came again and again, bringing his
friends with him. Then the ancestral tablet fell down in the official
home one night. The two sons took it as a sign that their ancestors were
angry with their worship of the foreign God, so they came no more. A
month later a storm burst over the city. The thunder, a somewhat rare
thing on the Chengtu plain, so frightened the uncle that he, too, never
returned to the church.
But Liu was not to be balked in his search. He met others among the
members who had been helped by the foreign pastors and doctors, and he
was determined to be free. The rest of the story is readily told. It
is the story of an ever-increasing number of New China’s sons. Foreign
medicine, earnest counsel from his pastor, daily reading of the Word
which is Spirit and which is Life, prayer and service and the inflooding
of the Spirit of God brought a new power and peace to a life which for
long had struggled and suffered, and been all but slain through sin.
With health and hope and freedom came also a great longing that others
might know the glad Gospel message. He took to selling books up and down
the very streets where men knew him best. As he went he told his story
in shops, at corners and in the homes of friends. Seeing his sincerity
and ability, our mission soon sent him farther afield, till he traversed
much of the northern district. Then he served for a time faithfully and
effectively in Kiating and Chin Ien. He has now been a year at college
as a probationer. His little daughter is a promising pupil in our girls’
school. He himself married recently a beautiful young woman, rescued and
reared by our Chengtu orphanage, and they to-day are together laboring
earnestly for the coming of His Kingdom. Thus Liu Tsi Chuin is realizing
in a way his father never dreamed the hope of the “Princely man,” for the
greater Father had need of him.
Where Do You Live?
I knew a man, and his name was Horner,
Who used to live on Grumble Corner—
Grumble Corner, in Crosspatch Town;
And he never was seen without a frown;
He grumbled at this, he grumbled at that;
He growled at the dog, he growled at the cat;
He grumbled at morning, he grumbled at night,
And to grumble and growl were his chief delight.
He grumbled so much at his wife that she
Began to grumble as well as he;
And all the children, wherever they went,
Reflected their parents’ discontent.
If the sky was dark and betokened rain,
Then Mr. Horner was sure to complain;
And, if there was never a cloud about,
He’d grumble because of a threatened drought.
His meals were never to suit his taste;
He grumbled at having to eat in haste;
The bread was poor, or the meat was tough,
Or else he hadn’t had half enough.
No matter how hard his wife might try
To please her husband, with scornful eye
He’d look around, and then, with a scowl
At something or other, begin to growl.
One day, as I loitered along the street,
My old acquaintance I chanced to meet,
Whose face was without the look of care
And the ugly frown that it used to wear.
“I may be mistaken, perhaps,” I said,
As, after saluting, I turned my head;
“But it is, and it isn’t, the Mr. Horner,
Who lived for so long on Grumble Corner.”
I met him next day, and I met him again,
In melting weather and pouring rain,
When stocks were up, and when stocks were down;
But a smile somehow had replaced the frown.
It puzzled me much; and so one day
I seized his hand in a friendly way,
And said: “Mr. Horner, I’d like to know
What can have happened to change you so!”
He laughed a laugh that was good to hear,
For it told of a conscience calm and clear,
And he said, with none of the old-time drawl,
“Why, I’ve changed my residence, that is all!”
“Changed your residence?” “Yes,” said Horner,
“It wasn’t healthy on Grumble Corner,
And so I moved—’twas a change complete—
And you’ll find me now on Thanksgiving Street!”
Now, every day, as I move along
The streets so filled with the busy throng,
I watch each face, and can always tell
Where men and women and children dwell;
And many a discontented mourner
Is spending his days on Grumble Corner,
Sour and sad, whom I long to entreat
To take a house on Thanksgiving Street.
—_Josephine Pollard._
A Bible for a Pistol
A True Story
“See, mother, see what I have brought you!” exclaimed a young Brazilian,
holding up to view a well-bound, gilt-edged book. “Antonio Marques told
me that the priest ordered him to burn it, but he did not like to destroy
so good a book, and was afraid to displease the priest by keeping it, so
I offered to trade my old double-barreled pistol for it. I thought you
might like to have the book, for they say it is all about religion, and
you are so religious. It might be of some use when you go to repeat your
prayers for people who are dying.”
The mother took the book from her son’s hands, and slowly reading the
title, “A Santa Biblia,” said: “Ah! this is good; this is the ‘Rule of
Life,’ I am glad to have it.” Then beginning at the first of Genesis, she
glanced over several chapters until she reached the tenth. “Yes, you are
right, my son; here is just the kind of prayer I want. Here is a long
list of names, and as they are all in the Bible, they must all be of
saints, and some of them will surely help the poor creatures.”
The youth frequently found his mother with the book before her when he
came in from his work, and had he taken the trouble to look over her
shoulder he would have found her always reading the tenth chapter of
Genesis.
The woman, who had the fame of knowing by heart a great many prayers, was
often sent for to go even long distances to repeat them for the hope and
comfort of the dying; and she was faithfully trying to master the long
names, so as to say them off glibly to serve as a prayer.
One day, as they sat taking their noon-day coffee, a messenger came
from a neighboring plantation, begging her to go at once to see a young
girl who was very ill. With book in hand, she set out, and arriving at
the house a sad, though to her not unusual, sight met her eyes. A girl
of about fifteen lay upon the bed, her beautiful black eyes looking
strangely bright in contrast with the pale features. The parents and
sisters, instead of caring for her, were wringing their hands and wildly
crying out, “She is dying! She is dying!” The sick girl feebly stretched
out a wasted hand, gasping: “They say that I am dying; teach me quickly
how to die; tell me, what must I do?” The old woman gently took her hand
and in a soothing voice said: “Don’t be nervous, dear; if you will repeat
after me the Pater Noster, the Ave Maria, the prayer to St. Joseph and
the rest, and then a new prayer that I have learned from this good book,
you need not be afraid.”
A sight never to be forgotten by one who knows that there is but the one
“name under heaven, given among men whereby we must be saved,” was this
death-bed scene. The old woman, in clear tones, rapidly repeated among
other things, “Shem, Ham, Japheth, Gomer, Magog, Madai, Javan,” and so
on through the long list. The dying girl vainly tried to follow her as
her voice grew fainter and fainter, for she was, with all her failing
strength, clinging to this false hope as she passed out into eternity.
Some years later, the young man who had gotten the Bible in such a
curious way, married and left the old house to live at the wife’s
homestead. One evening, as the old father sat in his usual place reading,
the husband said: “Anninha, what is that book your father is always
reading?”
“That,” she replied, “is the Bible. He often tells me about what he
reads, and it is very interesting. I wish I could read it for myself; but
it is a French book, and I can read only Portuguese.”
“If it is called the ‘Holy Bible,’” said he, “then my mother has it in
Portuguese, for I gave it to her long ago. I never read it myself, but
she used to learn things out of it for prayers. They never sounded very
interesting to me.”
“Could you get it for me, Jose?” she asked.
“Yes; I will go over and ask mother for it to-morrow,” promised he.
When the wife got the Bible, she carried it to her father, who was much
pleased to find this favorite book in his native tongue, and, opening it
at the New Testament, he began to read aloud. The young couple listened
and soon grew so interested that they begged him to go on, till they kept
him reading late into the night. Deeply touched by the “old, old story
of Jesus and His love,” they began to read for themselves. Soon they
learned that pardon and peace had already been purchased for them, and
that what God required of them was not penances and a bondage to fear
through life, and masses and the agonies of purgatory after death, but
child-like faith and loving obedience—that godliness which gives promise
of the life that now is, and that which is to come.
The son’s first wish was to have his mother learn the good news, so he
carried back the Bible, saying: “Why, mother, you never got the best out
of this book! You only looked for something to die by, and it is full of
good words to live by as well. Let me read you some.”
“No, my son,” responded she, “I got what I wanted out of the book, and
that is enough for me. I do not care to look for more.”
“But, mother,” pleaded he, “you would be so much happier if you knew the
true way to live and to die.”
“Hush, Jose,” said the mother, indignantly. “Do you dare to hint that I,
who have taught so many how to die, do not know how myself? Let me alone,
and do not trouble me any more about the book.”
The man went back to his wife troubled and disappointed. The more they
studied the book, however, the better they understood that it was God’s
Spirit who had opened their eyes, and to Him they must look to perform
the same miracle upon their mother, that blind one leading the blind, and
for this they are still daily watching and praying.—_Selected._
The Giving Alphabet
All things come of thee, and of thine own have we given thee.—1 Chron.
xxix. 14.
Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in
mine house, and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of Hosts, if I will
not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that
there shall not be room enough to receive it.—Mal. iii. 10.
Charge them that are rich in this world ... that they do good, that they
be rich in good works, ready to distribute, willing to communicate.—1
Tim. vi. 17, 18.
Do good unto all men, especially unto them who are of the household of
faith.—Gal. vi. 10.
Every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give, not
grudgingly or of necessity.—2 Cor. ix. 7.
Freely ye have received, freely give.—Matt. x. 8.
God loveth a cheerful giver.—2 Cor. ix. 7.
Honor the Lord with thy substance and with the first fruits of all thine
increase.—Prov. iii. 12.
If there be first a willing mind, it is accepted according to that a man
hath, and not according to that he hath not.—2 Cor. viii. 12.
Jesus said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.—Acts xx. 35.
Knowing that whatsoever good thing any man doeth, the same shall he
receive of the Lord, whether he be bond or free.—Eph. vi. 8.
Lay not up for yourselves treasure upon earth, where moth and rust doth
corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal; but lay up for
yourselves treasure in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt,
and where thieves do not break through nor steal.—Matt. vi. 19, 20.
My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue, but in
deed and in truth.—1 John iii. 18.
Now concerning the collection for the saints ... upon the first day of
the week let every one of you lay by him in store as God hath prospered
him.—1 Cor. xvi. 1, 2.
Of all that thou shalt give me I will surely give the tenth unto
thee.—Gen. xxviii. 22.
Provide yourselves bags which wax not old, a treasure in the
heavens which faileth not, where no thief approacheth, neither moth
corrupteth.—Luke xii. 33.
Quench not the Spirit.—1 Thess. v. 19.
Render unto God the things that are God’s.—Matt. xxii. 21.
See that ye abound in this grace also.—2 Cor. viii. 7.
The silver is mine, and the gold is mine, saith the Lord of Hosts.—Hag.
ii. 8.
Unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required.—Luke xii.
48.
Vow and pay unto the Lord your God.—Ps. lxxvi. 11.
Whoso hath this world’s goods, and seeth his brother have need, and
shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of
God in him?—1 John iii. 17.
’Xcept your righteousness shall exceed the righteousness of the
Scribes and Pharisees, ye shall in no case enter into the kingdom of
heaven.—Matt. v. 20.
Ye know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich,
yet for your sakes he became poor, that ye through his poverty might be
rich.—2 Cor. viii. 9.
Zealous of good works.—Titus ii. 15.