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Title: Young people abroad
Editor: Mrs. G. R. Alden
Release date: October 22, 2026 [eBook #79840]
Language: English
Original publication: Boston: D. Lothrop & Company, Publishers, 1882
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79840
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOUNG PEOPLE ABROAD ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: EGYPTIAN GIRL.]
Young People Abroad
Edited by MRS. G. R. ALDEN. (Pansy)
AUTHOR OF "FOUR GIRLS AT CHAUTAUQUA," "CHAUTAUQUA GIRLS AT HOME,"
"ESTER RIED," "LINKS IN REBECCA'S LIFE," "JULIA RIED,"
"HOUSEHOLD PUZZLES," "RUTH ERSKINE'S CROSSES," "THE RANDOLPHS,"
"WISE AND OTHERWISE," "A NEW GRAFT ON THE FAMILY TREE,"
"WHAT SHE SAID, AND WHAT SHE MEANT," "THE POCKET MEASURE,"
"HALL IN THE GROVE," "SOME YOUNG HEROINES," "EUGENE COOPER," ETC.
[Illustration]
_FULLY ILLUSTRATED_
BOSTON
D. LOTHROP & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
FRANKLIN ST., CORNER OF HAWLEY.
Copyright, 1882.
D. LOTHROP & COMPANY.
CONTENTS.
YOUNG PEOPLE ABROAD.
THE STARTING POINT.
BERNE.
THE YOUNG ORATOR.
OUR FASHION PLATE.
OUR SPECIAL ARTIST. BY REV. G. R. ALDEN.
CAOUTCHOUC.
YOUNG MARY ABROAD. GLASGOW.
JUPITER.
A TRUE STORY. ISABELLA R. WILLIAMS.
SERVICE HYMN. BY REV. G. R. ALDEN.
TIME ENOUGH. BY FAYE HUNTINGTON.
III. MARY BURTON AND EDINBURGH.
ROUEN.
JANUS.
THE PENTATEUCH.
MARY BURTON AT WINDSOR.
FISHING.
NEARCHUS.
MARY BURTON AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON.
KARL THE SMALL.
WHAT LUCIUS KNEW.
SEXTUS TARQUINIUS.
HOW A CITIZEN BECAME A SOLDIER.
EARLY LOVE TO CHRIST.
LOUISE IN GERMANY.
MARY BURTON AT SMITHVILLE.
OVER THE SEA.
CHOP STICKS.
WATCH YOUR WORDS.
JOHN AND MARY.
A ROMAN PEASANT.
MARY BURTON IN LONDON.
HOW HE BECAME A SOLDIER.
EARLY LOVE TO CHRIST.
THE OLD OAK TREE.
MARY BURTON IN LONDON. [Cont.]
THREE GREAT MEN.
CHEOPS.
TWO ROSES.
A "TRULY" STORY.
THE GUESSING GAME.
MARY BURTON IN LONDON. [Cont.]
A STRANGE COMPANION.
CLAUDE.
MARY BURTON ABROAD. LONDON.
THE MHOWAH TREE.
A NEW USE FOR A BARREL.
THE BALL THAT CROSSED THE OCEAN.
PEOPLE! PEOPLE! PEOPLE!
LUCIEN IN TROUBLE.
TWO CHRISTMAS BABES.
WHAT SUNGA THINKS.
MARY BURTON ABROAD. LONDON. [Cont.]
AH HOI. A TRUE STORY, BY THETA.
THEIR TREASURES.
MARY BURTON AT HOME.
BRIBES.
A "GREAT BIG MONUMENT."
A "SIZAR."
CAMELS.
VENICE.
"LUTETIA."
MONEY AT INTEREST.
AN OLD STORY.
JULIUS CÆSAR.
SPREADING THE BIBLE.
BIRDS. BY INA WOODS.
WHERE I WENT, AND WHAT I SAW.
LAURA'S PLANS.
ONE OF HIS NAMES. BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.
HAMBURG.
INDIA.
AN OLD STORY NEWLY TOLD.
MEINRAD.
A DISCUSSION.
MADE OF STRAW.
WHERE I WENT, AND WHAT I SAW.
YEARS AGO.
GOING TO SCHOOL.
HOW THEY MADE OUT.
LITTLE LUDWIG.
LITTLE ELLIE.
AN OLD STORY.
THE LITTLE GLEANER. BY BERTHA A. ZEDI WINKLER.
"LETTER FOR ME, SIR?"
A QUEER KIND OF SALT. BY PARANETE (aged 9).
JOSEPH AND RICHARD.
YOUNG PEOPLE ABROAD
[Illustration]
[Illustration: POLLY PARING APPLES.]
THE STARTING POINT.
THE kitchen was in completest after-dinner order. Mary's two hands had
dried all the dishes and set them away and swept the room: now she sat
paring the apples that were to be baked in sugar for the early tea,—sat
with a half sad, half-dreamy look on her usually sunny face, and pared
the apple so slowly that tea-time might almost have come before it was
done. She was tired, and she was also just a little blue. It had been a
very busy day.
Before the first streak of daylight had appeared, she was up and at
work, and her busy feet had not found a moment's resting-place since,
though it was now after three o'clock. Uncle Horace, and Aunt Augusta,
and Cousin Ethol had been there to dinner, and were gone now for a
sleigh-ride. There wasn't room for her in the sleigh, and besides the
apples had to be pealed. There was very apt to be apples or something
to attend to, in Mary's life. She didn't care much, however. She was
four months and three days older than Cousin Ethol, but nobody would
have guessed it. What with her stylish hats, and real kid boots, and
handsome furs and kid gloves, Ethol looked quite the grown-up lady, and
Mary was only a good-hearted, capable little girl.
A good scholar in school, a trim little housekeeper at home, and a
wonderfully "handy" child, anywhere. That was what people who knew her
were sure to say. But she was by no means a young lady. Besides,—and
this "besides," covered the sigh which came every once in awhile from
Mary's heart,—Ethol was going abroad,—going to Europe to spend two
years. This was her last visit before they sailed, and in less than
another month they would be on the ocean. Mary had all her life—and it
seemed to her just now a very long life—wanted to see the ocean. There
was no present likelihood that she ever would see it. She wanted to go
to Europe herself. She was sure she could appreciate the sights and
sounds of that rare old world, fully as well as her Cousin Ethel could.
Why should all the nice things come to her, and her cousin have to sit
in that large neat kitchen and pare apples? She wasn't exactly cross,
neither was she jealous; she wouldn't have kept Ethol from going for
the world, I cannot say she was even miserable; she was just a trifle
melancholy.
She went on with her peeling, and with her thoughts. By and by, if you
had been watching her, you would have known by the quickened movement
of her hands, that her thoughts were brightening. The apples began to
drop rapidly into the tin. She had a new idea.
"I'll go to Europe myself, see if I don't, this very spring. I'll
borrow just the right books at the library and read up on them, and
keep a diary about the places I go to, and the people I see. No I'll
write to Lollie Adams all about it. Ethol said she had promised to
write to her dear friend Helen every single week; it is queer she never
said anything about writing to me, and I her own cousin! Never mind, I
won't write to her either; but Lollie Adams shall hear from me every
day. I'll hand her the letters as I go to school; she can read them
over while she sits and sews, and she will like it I know. She will
call it one of her 'helps.' That is a real nice idea Mary Burton: I
don't know why you can't go to Europe as well as anybody. When Ethol
comes back, won't it be fun to compare notes? Just as soon as these
apples are done, I mean to hunt out a book and set to work."
By this time, the cores were being dug out of the apples very fast,
and the tin was almost full; besides, the melancholy look had vanished
from Mary's face. When a person is going to start in five minutes for
Europe, and leaves no one behind that she cares much for, and is quite
sure of not being seasick, why should she be melancholy?
══════════
BERNE.
"NOW where is Berne, or what is it? A person or a place? And what has
this picture of bears climbing a tree to do with it, anyway?"
I know these are some of the questions that you want to ask me, as well
as though I had heard you. Very well, I'll answer. Berne is the name
of a city in Switzerland. Where is Switzerland? Oh dear me, get your
geographies. Yes that little pink spot snuggled in between France and
Austria, is the whole of it, and not so very small either. But it is
about Berne that I want to talk, one of the finest towns in Europe.
Oh, you would like to go there. The city is so high that you would
get a grand view of the Alps. Besides, the houses are grand, and the
fountains are grand, and the public buildings are grand. But you can't
see what all this has to do with bears? What do you suppose is the
meaning of the word Berne? Why, it is thought that the division of
Switzerland which has this name, was named after our friends the bears.
Bären, you know, is the German for bears. Then about seven hundred
years ago, a man named Berthold killed a bear somewhere about where the
city now stands, and as he had a great deal to do with founding the
city, he had the naming of it, and concluded to call it after the bear.
Now you will not wonder when I tell you that the people of Berne are
very fond of bears.
Don't you think the Government pays for taking care of a good many of
them! The picture gives you a glimpse of one of the public bear-pits,
where the performers are climbing trees, and in other ways amusing
themselves, very much as bears do after they come to this country. It
seems to me that the railing around their palace doesn't seem very
high, or look very strong. I believe I would rather not have you lean
on it, especially when I remember that once a soldier leaned over too
far, and fell in, and was instantly killed.
[Illustration: "THE BEARS OF BERNE."]
But mustn't it be a strange thing to see bears carved on the public
buildings? The people of Berne are evidently very fond of Bruin. Now,
are you curious to know a little more about this old city? What the
people do for a living, how they dress, look, and talk? Some of the
questions are easily answered.
I have a little friend who believes that all the people who do not
live in either America or England are wild and ignorant heathen. What
will she say when I tell her that this city of Berne has a grand
public library in it, with more than forty thousand books! and a very
interesting museum, to say nothing of the university, which is so well
known. As to the work there is to do, there are straw hats to make, and
paper, and gun-powder, as well as several other things. Then there are
mines of iron and of lead, and quarries of marble and granite in the
country about Berne. Oh, there is work enough to do besides a good deal
of fishing; for it is said that the salmon and trout which swim about
in the lakes are just delicious.
There is another thing you should remember about Berne; it was the
birth-place of Dr. Haller. Don't you know him? Oh, well, he died before
you can remember, I suppose, since it is now about one hundred and
three years since his death! He was a scientific man, a teacher of
medicine, and of botany, and a poet. He was so interested in the study
of medicine that when very sick, he watched his own disease and talked
of it to his physician, not as if he were talking about himself, but
exactly as if he were a looker-on, studying to see what effect the
medicine would have. The last words he spoke, were, "My friend, the
pulse has ceased to beat."
THE YOUNG ORATOR.
WHEN Hugh Miller, the great geologist, was travelling in England,
among other interesting people that he saw and heard, was one, a boy
of nine, who was fond of making temperance speeches in his mother's
coffee-house. On the evening when Hugh Miller heard him, he commenced
by saying that he had been a temperance man for about nine years! He
told them he knew men who were ragged and hungry before they took the
pledge, and who had to wear shoes without soles, but by taking the
pledge, they had come to be gentlemen. After the speech was over,
as the customers for coffee or confectionery came and went, they
stopped for a minute to talk with the boy Samuel about his temperance
work. To some he was very polite, answered them carefully, and most
respectfully; others, among them two graceful appearing, well-dressed
young ladies, he did not answer at all.
"You were rude to them, my son," his mother said. "Why did you not
answer their question?"
"They drink," said young Samuel, solemnly.
"Drink! The young ladies! What do you mean?"
"Yes'm," said Samuel. "They won't sign my pledge at all."
In Samuel's opinion, everybody who would not sign the total abstinence
pledge were set down as people who drank. I suppose he said to himself,
"If they didn't ever intend to drink liquor, they would be perfectly
willing to say so. And that is all the pledge asks them to do."
OUR FASHION PLATE.
FASHION, you know, is a queer thing. It keeps changing and changing
without regard to taste, or even to sense, one would think. And as
we are fond of getting fashions from abroad, I present you with the
picture of two ladies in full court dress. They are from Bombay,
which is certainly a large and important enough place for us to give
attention to their style of dress.
You will notice that they have taken special pains with their
embroidery and jewelry. I doubt whether we could match the bracelets in
this country, in size at least. But what about the feet! How should you
like a fashion that would banish all the pretty kid boots, and scarlet,
and navy-blue, and brilliant plaid stockings, and oblige us to dress
just in our "skin and toes" as a certain little miss put it? Oh well,
there is really no telling what we may come to. I have so much faith in
our dear American people that I believe they would follow like martyrs
in the barefooted line, if the next orders from Paris should direct it.
Yes, and the little girls would lay aside their kid boots and lovely
stockings, with a sigh indeed, but they would do it.
[Illustration: HINDOO WOMEN OF BOMBAY IN CEREMONIAL DRESS.]
As to the bracelets, judging from the size which some ladies and even a
few little misses wear now, I am not sure but we could put these large
ones on without a sigh; that is if they cost enough money. Meantime,
however, I am rather glad that we don't live in Bombay. Aren't you?
══════════
OUR SPECIAL ARTIST.
BY REV. G. R. ALDEN.
[Illustration]
Ah, you sweet, sweet sunshine! gladdening all the day,
Ever bright, bright sunshine can't you always stay?
How many, many pictures make you, on the way?
To make this the nicest, now, for me I pray.
Now, you artist Sunbeam, take a careful look;
Ah, you pencil Sunbeam! laughing like a brook
Take a look at baby,—sweet as sugar cake,—
So as to take her picture, making no mistakes.
O, you wondrous artist, way up in the sky!
Ah you faithful artist, reaching from so high.
You are never partial to the rich, or poor.
Though you are so clever, working evermore.
Now, then, sweetest sunshine, look at Baby May.
And now, careful sunshine, give her "shade," to-day;
Take her every dimple; take her every curl.
She will never whimple, she is papa's girl.
Thank you, dear old artist, for this picture true.
No one else can ever paint my May like you.
And to ask no money! for a face so fair!
For a face so "sunny," radiant and rare.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE INDIA RUBBER TREE.]
CAOUTCHOUC.
I WONDER if you know what that word is? And what this woman is
doing? Let me tell you—she is making India rubber.
She cuts little holes in the bark of the great tree, and at once a
milk-colored stream of sap runs out, and is caught by little clay cups
covered with pieces of bamboo that have been set under the tree.
When she has caught a good deal of this milk, she empties it into
turtle shells, and it is ready for smoking. This she must make haste
to do, or the milky-white liquid will grow thick and gummy. Do you see
a long-necked earthern jar in the picture on the next page? I don't
suppose you think it is much like a chimney, but that is just what is
used for. A grand fire is made out of palm nuts, some of which you can
see tumbling around on the ground,—then a cloud of white smoke puffs
up through this chimney, and does its work on the "Caoutchouc" or sap.
This queer word, by the way, seems to be used for the name of the
tree, from which the sap is taken, and also for the sap itself. Well,
when the smoke is rolling up nicely, the workman pours a little sap
into a wooden shovel, such as is held in the hand, pushes it into the
thick smoke and moves it back and forth very fast; this makes the milk
thicken and turn grey. Then some more sap is poured on the shovel, and
goes through the same process, until the "Caoutchouc" is perhaps nearly
an inch thick; then it is cut from one side, taken off the shovel, and
hung in the sun to dry. As it dries, it turns from its silver grey
color into yellow, and then, presently into dark brown, as we see it in
this country.
[Illustration]
Now, how do you think you would like to work with such a smoke as that
puffing up in your face all the while?
A very wet place it is too; the Caoutchouc tree does not grow well
except in places where the water from the river overflows to the height
of more than three feet, as often as once a year. So of course the
ground is low and damp, and disagreeable a great deal of the time.
The tree, by the way, has another, more correct and rather prettier
sounding name, "Siphonia Elastica." Is that easier to pronounce? Don't
you hope that these poor people get well paid for their work?
Ah, but they don't! They are in the power of rich and hard men, who
oblige them to take a very small price for their rubber, and then do
not pay them in money, but oblige them to go to the stores and trade
out, at high prices, what they have earned. What do you suppose they
are most likely to buy with their hard-earned money?
Why, gold watches, and silk jackets, and silk umbrellas, and all sorts
of things useless to them, for which they sometimes have to work a
whole year! What a pity that they could not learn the value of money
and the value of time! Did you ever hear of people in this part of the
world who spent money so foolishly?
[Illustration: BOUGH OF THE SIPHONIA ELASTICA (_Caoutchouc Tree_).]
I have also shown you a branch of the "Siphonia Elastica." Do you know
where this tree grows? The river, on the bank of which these people are
working, is named the Madeira. How many of you can tell me just where
that river rises, and what is its mouth?
══════════
YOUNG MARY ABROAD.
_GLASGOW, July 13, 18—._
"MY DEAR LOLLIE: — Don't you remember when we were studying history,
how interested we used to get in old Scotland? Just think of actually
being in one of its cities! I'm not going to tell you a bit about the
ocean voyage, the sea-sickness, and all that sort of thing. Everybody
who goes abroad does that, and it's the same old story over again,
and just 'horrid' I think. I'm going to begin here in Glasgow. I
wonder what you want to hear about most? Of course I can't tell you
everything. I know; I'll tell you about St. George's Square. Lollie,
don't you remember we used to think the square in front of the court
house at home, was real pretty? Dear me! If you could see this! Just
think of a square all filled up with lovely bronze statues, for one
thing. Oh, of course I don't mean the statues fill up all the space,
but there are lovely ones.
"The grandest one is Walter Scott's. The monument on which it is placed
is magnificent, eight feet high, and the statue is just splendid! There
is no inscription on the monument, except the name, 'Walter Scott.' I
suppose people think his books are his inscription. For that matter
they might be his monument. Then there are statues of Sir John Moore,
and James Watt, and Robert Burns, and several people that I don't know
about. Did you know that Sir John Moore was born in Glasgow? I didn't.
It seems James Watt, began his experiments with steam, here; that's the
reason he has a statue. Lollie, wouldn't you like to do something great
and grand, so people would build a monument for you, or something, and
everybody would remember you always? They do have statues of women.
Queen Victoria's is in this very St. George's Square.
"There are fine hotels all around the square, and the great
post-office, and public buildings. We are stopping at a temperance
hotel, and it is named after Washington. Isn't that nice? I declare, I
have forgotten to say anything about the Clyde! Isn't that a sweet name
for a river? If I should ever have the naming of a beautiful little
boy, I would call him Clyde. You can't think how lovely the river is!
People say it has the finest scenery in the world; but I don't know
how to describe scenery, I only know that it is perfectly magnificent.
The name of the finest street in the city, is Argyle; that is a pretty
name, too.
"We went to see John Knox's monument; it is on a hill, and is very
high and grand. And oh, I have been on a sail down Loch Lomond! And
I saw Dumbarton Castle; it is built on a great rock partly split in
two. Oh, the beautiful lake! It is twenty-two or three miles long,
and has mountains on each side; one of them is about three thousand
two hundred feet high, and is named Ben Lomond. Then there are lovely
little islands that we pass, one of them is a park, another has the
ruins of an old castle on it, and another an old church. Inchlonaig is
an island where drunken wives used to be sent by their husbands. Set
ashore there, you know, with some bread and water, and left as long as
their husbands pleased! At least that is the story one of the gentlemen
told me, and he has written a book, and ought to know. Oh, but I wish
I could draw, or rather paint, and I would send you a picture of the
falls of Inversnaid! They are so lovely! Did you know that Wordsworth
wrote a poem named 'Highland Girl.' I think that is the name of it;
the story was about a Highland girl, anyway, and she lived at this
waterfall. I'm going to read the poem as soon as I get a chance.
"That reminds me of another book that I mean to read sometime. A
gentleman told me about 'Rob Roy,' one of Walter Scott's stories, and
pointed out the very cave where Rob Roy hid himself, and the prison
made out of a rock, where he was caught. It is on the shore of the
lake. I should like to read stories that had real true history all
mixed up with them. I don't believe mother would object to that. Only
I asked the gentleman who talked with me, how I could be sure which
was true, and which was made-up? And he laughed, and said, 'That was a
little troublesome, occasionally.'
"Oh, Lollie dear, I have so many nice, beautiful things to write you
about, but I must leave them all until next time.
"And now, good-by, your ever loving friend,—
"MARY."
With the greatest satisfaction did Mary Burton hop up from her chair
in the plain, square, upper room in her father's house, in the country
of Central New York, where this letter was written, and hasten to get
on her sun-bonnet, and take her pile of schoolbooks, and trip down the
shady walk of the village street to school, stopping on her way to hand
in at the door of the dressmaker's shop, her Scottish letter.
"Foreign mail in!" she said, in a low, gleeful tone, as she found that
Lollie Adams, her friend and confidant, although a girl of nearly
eighteen, was the only one in the room.
"It is all true, Lollie, and was such fun! I do hope you will like it."
Then she sped away to take her place as the first scholar in arithmetic
in the district school.
JUPITER.
DO you think that is a handsome man? I have seen faces that I liked
a great deal better. But the people who used to live in Greece had
an idea that no more beautiful person could be found. In fact, they
thought he was a god. Wouldn't it be dreadful to think of praying to
such a face as that!
[Illustration: JUPITER.]
He was called the Sky-god. The Greeks thought that he had a father
named Time, who had eaten up all his children, except this one and two
others named Neptune and Pluto. Neptune was thought to be the god of
the ocean, and Pluto the god of death. Jupiter the people believed,
always carried his hands full of lightning, and had an eagle by his
side! He had, or they thought he had a son, named Vulcan, the god of
fire, who made these lightnings. I think you never heard of anything
more strange and foolish than the ideas that these poor Greeks had.
They thought that Vulcan was the god who made the volcanoes, so they
named them in that way, after him. They had a story about some awful
giants, each having a hundred hands, who had piled up mountains on top
of each other, and climbing them had tried to throw Jupiter down out
of heaven. This seemed to give Jupiter the headache, and he told his
son Vulcan to strike his head with a hammer. No sooner was that done,
than Jupiter's beautiful daughter Minerva appeared, and told her father
what to do to outwit the giants. He pushed them all down, and piled
real mountains on them, Etna and Ossa; whenever after that, when there
was an earthquake, these silly people thought it was caused by a giant
trying to get out!
Now you want to hear something about Jupiter's wife, I am sure. Well
her name was Juno, and her favorite bird was the peacock. This is what
the Greeks thought Juno did for the peacock. They say there was once
a shepherd who had a hundred eyes, and Juno set him to watching a cow
named lo. The cow was really a lady, and Juno hated her. The shepherds
watched awhile, then a god named Mercury came and played soft music
and got the shepherd to sleep, and drove the cow away. This made Juno
angry; and for revenge she took out the shepherd's hundred eyes and put
them in the peacock's tail!
Did you ever hear of anything so foolish? The Greeks thought that there
were twelve gods and goddesses who lived on a mountain called Olympus.
Jupiter was the greatest of the twelve. They were supposed to meet
every day in Jupiter's palace, and eat a kind of food called ambrosia
which they thought would make them live forever. Also it was thought
that they lived on the smoke and smell of animals that were sacrificed
for them. The person who offered the most animals in sacrifice was the
one of whom the gods would take the most care. Dear "Pansies," after
reading all this, I think you will want to go and kneel down in some
quiet corner and thank God, the great and wise "God" that you know him
through the Bible, and that Jesus Christ his Son is your Saviour. Only
think what it would be to have such a strange and foolish religion as
that of the Greeks!
══════════
A TRUE STORY.
IT is twilight on the Sea of Japan, and the Mitsu Bishi steamship,
"Nagoya Maru," plows her way in the blue water.
Come out and look through the port-holes at the waves around us. How
still the sea lies sleeping yonder! Let us go for a moment on the
upper deck, and look at the green hills under the last golden cloud.
Hitherward, in the shadow, lights begin to gleam out like stars.
Now we come down again, and soon the eleven-year-old daughter says,
"Good-night, mamma."
Nearly an hour passes, and Mary Stanley comes, saying pleasantly,
"Where is Etta? Isn't she sleepy yet?"
"Why, I thought she went to your room long ago!"
"Oh, no, she hasn't been there at all."
"Will you see if she is in Mrs. Sheffield's room?"
"I've just been there."
The mother rushes out to search closets and corners in both upper and
lower sections of the steamer.
"Chambermaid, do help me hunt my girl." "Have 'you' or 'you' seen my
daughter, about 'so' tall?"
"No, madam; we'll look for her. She can't be lost."
"Has she fallen overboard?" whispers the agonized woman to herself.
She sees a girl reaching out at a port-hole, and the swift vision comes
of one sinking and struggling alone and unheeded in the dark waters.
While no one cared, she was calling, "Papa, mamma." Away back, how far?
There can be no grave, and "we must go right on." 'Tis of no use to
stop and search for the body. A hungry shark is her coffin.
"My child! My child! There was no one to hear your cry."
This is while we are searching the state-rooms. A thought flashes
on me. Mary's room is opposite Mrs. Sheffield's, on one of the side
passages. Mr. Sheffield's is on the next passage, on the same side of
the steamer. She may have gone into the room opposite his. Trembling
and white with fear, the mother opens that door. There, on the upper
berth, the child lies asleep.
How glad was that mother over her lamb that she feared was lost! What
if she "had" been lying in the deep sea, would her soul have been with
Jesus? What if death were to come to you, or you, or you, swift, sharp,
sudden, as we thought it had come to her, are you ready?
"Watch therefore, for in such an hour as ye think not, the Son of Man
cometh."
ISABELLA R. WILLIAMS.
══════════
SERVICE HYMN.
BY THE REV. G. R. ALDEN.
Dear Lord, I would not always be
A boy, and never larger grow;
But like a plant or noble tree,
Or even birds, at first so wee,
Would ask this favor now of thee,
That thou woulds't make a "man" of me,—
To "stature" make me grow.
Dear Lord, I would not always stay
A boy, and never "nobler" grow:
I'd grow in spirit, every day,
At work, or study, or at play;
And never yield in any way
To what has made so many stray:
In "spirit" make me grow.
Dear Lord, may I not knowledge gain,
And in true "wisdom" grow?
Must I forever thus remain,
Though life should be without a stain,
And body never feel a pain,
Shall nothing better fill my "brain"?
In "wisdom" make me grow.
Dear Lord, must I no "progress" trace,
And never "better," better grow?
Upon me, Lord, bestow thy grace;
Towards Zion's City keep my face,
And help my journey on apace,
Until I reach thy resting-place,
Make me in "grace" to grow.
Thus be my pattern dearest Lord
And like to "Thee" I'll grow:
I'll seek the pattern in thy Word,
Accept the invitations heard;
By thy sweet story daily stirred
I hope to gain the great reward.
Make me like "Thee" to grow.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
TIME ENOUGH.
BY FAYE HUNTINGTON.
[Illustration] "OH, there's time enough!"
These words fell upon my ear the other morning as I was getting ready
for breakfast. The first bell had rung some time ago, and still the
little boy lingered over his morning toilet, and mamma, knowing that
the second bell must ring very soon, was remarking, "My boy, you will
be late!"
And this remark, repeated for the second or third time with the
addition of, "I think you will need to hasten a little," called forth
the same response:—"Oh, there's time enough!"
And then I remembered that I had heard this same little friend of mine
make this very same response many, many times. He seems to have the
feeling that there is always time enough for all the things he "wants"
to do before it is necessary to attend to the things which he "must"
do. For instance, that morning he wanted to look at a new book that had
come just the night before; then he wanted to see how that game went;
he wanted to count the icicles that hung like a lambrequin outside
the window. You see all these things were important to a boy, but
that breakfast-bell would not wait, and mamma knew it would not; and
she knew, too, that the steak would be cold, and the coffee stale, to
say nothing of overdone muffins and stiffened oatmeal. And though she
hurried the boy, and insisted upon his leaving his various employments
and attend to his duty of dressing, the bell "did" ring before he was
ready, and they "were" late, and the sick mamma had to make out a
breakfast upon insipid coffee, and cold steak, and soggy potatoes, all
because the little boy would insist that there was time enough.
Be it summer or winter, my little friend uses this expression very
often. Last summer they were stopping at an old-fashioned country
house. Willie was delighted with the flowers, and the birds, and all
the rest of the country pleasures. He grew strong and healthy on the
fresh new milk, and fruit, and eggs. But even here it was the same, he
could never be got ready for breakfast. Sometimes he was too sleepy,
and sometimes he was wide awake, but wanted to lean out of the low
window and have a frolic with the kitten, by means of a ball and
string. Or, he must look over the treasures gathered the day before,
bits of stones, bits of bark, curious gnarled sticks, and the like,
always saying, "Oh, there's time enough!" Of course he was almost
always late, much to the annoyance of his mamma, and his good aunt,
who, having taken great pains with her breakfast, did not like to have
it spoiled with waiting.
Some day Willie may find himself in trouble, because of the habit of
putting off the thing he ought to do, while he follows out his own
plans. All this makes me think of one question. Are any of you saying
in regard to the preparation for heaven, "Oh, there's time enough!"
III.
MARY BURTON AND EDINBURGH.
"DEAREST LOLLIE,—Oh you blessed child, if you were only here this
morning to talk with me, instead of being off in that little dried-up
village in America! 'Here' is Edinburgh. Doesn't it seem just like a
dream? Oh Lollie, I have thought of you all the week. Such lovely,
'lovely' flowers! I did not know there were so many in the world as
are crowded into this one city. Lollie did you know the Scotch people
cultivated flowers so much? I didn't. I thought they were a cold,
grave, sort of folk who did not care for such gay little creatures as
flowers at all.
"Nothing could be more untrue. Don't you went to think, along the
railway, coming here, even the names of the stations are spelled out in
great glowing letters, with flowers growing, you know, on a mound by
the road-side! Oh, Edinburgh is grand. Great stone buildings, looking
strong and lasting. We are stopping at the Clarendon, and I am afraid
you will laugh when I tell you the nicest thing I have seen about it,
is the stars and stripes waving on the upper balcony! It does look so
like home. There are two Edinburghs. I mean it is a city set on two
grand hills, or rows of hills. The highest belong to the old town,
where the castle is. Why, Castle hill is three hundred and eighty-three
feet high! A lovely lake used to divide the two towns, but the people
had it drained, and made gardens all over it, and on the north side of
the gardens is Princes street,—a perfectly lovely street. There is a
high, splendid bridge built between the two towns.
"We have been everywhere. How shall I ever be able to tell you all
about the things I have seen? You like monuments, you know. Well, I've
seen such grand ones. Last Thursday we went to see the Scott memorial.
That is in these gardens of which I have been telling you. It is a
little over two hundred feet high, in the form of an open Gothic spire
supported on four Early-English columns which serve as a canopy to
the statue of Scott. There are niches all around and up the monument,
filled with marble people who represent some of Scott's characters.
I heard a sad thing about it yesterday. That was, that the man who
planned the memorial,—designed it, you know, and thought out all these
lovely fancies about it,—died before it was built! Even before he knew
that they were going to work entirely from his plan. His name was
George Kemp. Poor fellow, I wish he had lived to see it. It took four
years to build this monument.
"There are ever so many statues on Princes street, Livingstone's among
others; Nelson's monument is on Calton hill; it is rather ugly. There
is a ball on the top called the 'Time ball.' At exactly one o'clock, it
falls, and a gun is fired at the Castle. This is done by electricity,
somehow; I don't understand how. There are ever so many sciences that I
will have to study when I get back from Europe, in order to understand
what I have seen.
"Oh, I saw the house where John Knox used to live. It is on High
street. It says on the outside in queer letters and queer spelling,—
"'LUFE • GOD • ABUFE • AL • AND • YI • NYCHTBOUR • AS • YI • SELF!'
"Just think, he has been dead over three hundred years, and is
preaching away yet from the walls of his house! Speaking of High street
reminds me that we went to St. Giles Cathedral. It is built in the form
of a cross. The tower is made in the shape of a crown, and is very
grand and beautiful. It can be seen from nearly all parts of the city.
The church is very, very old. It was rebuilt as long ago as 1859. Think
of a church building large enough to be made into four! That is the way
it was arranged after the reformation, and John Knox preached in one
of them. Lollie, did you ever hear of a woman named Jenny Geddes? She
sat in this church choir a little less than two hundred and fifty years
ago, and when the Dean began to read the new Episcopal service, she was
so angry that she picked up her stool and threw it at him. I saw the
very stool; it is in the Museum. She had a good deal of spirit, hadn't
she?
"Oh Lollie, I saw somebody who interested me more than John Knox, or
Scott, or Nelson, or any of them. Don't you think, Mr. Burnham is here!
I saw him on the hotel piazza and screamed out his name and rushed up
to him, so glad to meet him again. He is just the same Mr. Burnham. In
the midst of all the talk about the plans for to-morrow, of going to
the Castle, and seeing the king's old room, he bent down and said to
me: 'I trust you are still looking forward to see "the King" in his
beauty, in the palace which he has gone to prepare.' Wasn't that just
like him?"
"He did say that," said Mary, when she stopped on her way from school
to talk over the Edinburgh letter that she had taken to Lollie in the
morning. "It was just after history class, and we girls were talking
about the palace at Holyrood and how much we should like to visit it,
and Mr. Burnham came up behind us and said that. Oh Lollie, he is a
perfectly splendid teacher."
And Lollie, as she sewed away on button-holes, said to her friend, "I
think he is; what with enjoying his talk and your European letters, I
am having the nicest time I ever had in my life. Stay to tea, dear, we
are going to have soft gingerbread."
And Mary stayed.
ROUEN.
DON'T you like to know a little about places that are miles and miles
away, and that sometime, perhaps, you will go and see?
[Illustration: ROUEN.]
This city, as you see, is named Rouen. How much does that tell you? Not
much. Well, suppose you were in, say London, and wanted to go to Paris.
One route you could take would lead you right through Rouen. First you
would go by rail to Newhaven, then by steamer to Dieppe, then by rail
again to Paris, passing, as I say, through Rouen. Let us stop there a
bit.
A large city, rather. One hundred and fifty thousand people live in
Rouen. It is a manufacturing city and I presume the first thing you
would look at or think much about, would be the factory chimneys,
standing close together and shutting out a great many other sights.
Some travellers say that the streets of the city are narrow, and dark,
and dirty. Then we have the advantage of them, for on paper, everything
certainly looks lovely. Many of the houses are built of wood, and faced
with slate.
Others are elegant mansions built of stone. Along the bank of the river
Seine the houses are very handsome. One writer says that the streets
along the Seine are almost as beautiful as those in Paris. But the
Cathedral,—the wonderful Cathedral! Wouldn't you like to see it? When
I go to Rouen, I will certainly stop first of all before the Cathedral
of Notre Dame. How high do you think the spire is? Four hundred and
eighty-two feet! I can't "think" such a height as that, can you? The
main part of this great Cathedral is very old, having been built early
in the thirteenth century. How many years ago is that?
I wish I could give you a description of this wonderful building; but
many of the people who have written about it, have contented themselves
with exclaiming over its beauty, without telling us much about it.
Remember, when you go to see it, and write letters home about it, don't
you do anything so stupid as that. There is another beautiful building
in Rouen, which I want to show you in this picture. It, too, is a
church named St. Ouen.
This is said to be one of the most beautiful Gothic building in the
world. That main tower which looks so strong and grand in the picture,
is two hundred and sixty-eight feet high.
I wish I had a picture of Joan of Arc's Tower for you to look at. Don't
you know about her? Ah, then, here is work for you. What can you find
out about a maiden by that name? Could I piece together a bit of her
history, do you think, from the letters that you will write me? I will
wait and see. Study her story as soon as you can and let me have it,
so I can give it to the several thousand Pansies who will not take the
trouble to get acquainted with her for themselves, but will leave all
the work for you and me to do.
══════════
JANUS.
IT isn't January, to be sure, yet you may be interested in seeing the
creature from whom the month takes its name. He was supposed to be a
Roman god—the watching god. Since he had two faces, it was thought he
could look in at least two directions at once.
In old Rome there was a temple dedicated to him; the name of the great
gate belonging to it was Janiculum. This gate and temple were always
open in time of war.
A little more than five hundred years before Christ came, a great
war was going on in Rome. The enemy came with a great army, and word
came to the Romans that their fort or temple had been taken. Now the
soldiers would pour across the great wooden bridge which was all that
separated them from the Romans. This bridge was built across the Tiber
river. It was determined that, in order to keep the enemy on the other
side of the Tiber, the bridge must be cut down. But how could they cut
it down with the soldiers on the other side ready to fire on them as
they worked?
[Illustration: JANUS.]
Suddenly came three men out from among the Romans and declared that
they were willing to cross the bridge and guard it while the others
worked to cut it down. The road was so narrow on the further side that
not more than three soldiers could come down at once to attack them.
So they marched across. Their enemies laughed to see only three men
coming to meet the great army, but they found that three men could
fight bravely, and they shot down the soldiers, as they came by twos
and threes to meet them, and the Romans on the other side worked away
at the bridge.
Think of the three brave men fighting out there alone! Well, the
desperate work went on, and soon the great timbers of the bridge, under
the fierce blows of the axes, began to tremble. Then they shouted to
the three men to come away. Two of them sprang back and were safe,
but one, whose name was Horatius, stood his ground, determined not to
leave until there was no danger of a single enemy crossing. And the
bridge shook and quivered and fell in a hundred pieces into the flowing
river, and Horatius stood alone, on the enemy's side. He was wounded
in two places, but it is said he jumped into the Tiber, which was a
swift-flowing, dangerous river, and wounded though he was, swam so
bravely that he escaped to his own side, and was saved.
Oh, how proud the Romans were of their brave deliverer! He had lost one
eye in the battle, and they named him Coeles, which means "One-eyed."
This they did to show him honor. He was so much beloved that during
a famine, three hundred thousand of the Roman citizens resolved to
each bring food enough to last one day. So, for at least three hundred
thousand days there was no danger of his starving.
Isn't it strange that heathen people could show so much and such
constant gratitude to one who risked his life to help them, when our
country is full of people who know that Jesus gave his life to save
theirs, and yet feel no gratitude at all?
══════════
[THE PENTATEUCH.]
DO you know what this strange roll is? Well, it is the first five books
of the Bible—Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Deuteronomy, and Numbers. All
together they are called the Pentateuch. That is a hard word, isn't it.
It means five fold, or the fivefold book.
[Illustration: CYLINDER CONTAINING THE PENTATEUCH.]
Before books were printed, and so common that everybody had them, they
were all written with a pen in large, bold letters. It took a man
several years to write a copy of the Bible, and cost so much that but
few people were rich enough to own one. The letters were nearly an inch
in length in some copies, and such manuscripts are called, "uncial" as
distinguished from "cursive," which are in a running hand like writing.
They were all written upon a long strip of parchment, rolled up from
both ends.
This picture shows one of these books.
Now if you will go to a Hebrew church some Saturday morning, you will
see one of these rolls written in this way, in the Hebrew language,
just as this one was written two thousand years ago.
Perhaps some of you will write me a letter telling me about the author
of the Pentateuch.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: WINDSOR CASTLE.]
MARY BURTON AT WINDSOR.
_WINDSOR, Sept. 18—._
"MY DARLING LOLLIE,—Oh! Oh! Lollie dear, how shall I 'begin' to tell
you all I have seen to-day. I ought to be tired enough to be in bed and
asleep, but you see I am so eager to talk to you that I cannot sleep.
Just think! I have been at the Castle all the morning. It has been a
perfect day from the first opening of my eyes. We came from London
this morning. (That reminds me that I haven't told you a bit about
that great beautiful awful city; but we are going back there, and you
needn't be afraid; I know I shall write a whole volume about it yet.)
"Well, Windsor, you know, is only about twenty miles, perhaps not
quite that from London, so it took us about an hour to get here. This
is Friday, the last day of admittance to the Castle; that is for this
week, and it seemed an age to wait for another week, so we just left
everything in London and came on to-day. Oh Lollie! How Professor
Sargent would criticise that sentence! Wouldn't he? I fancy I can
hear him saying,—'Do you think anything in London will suffer very
materially because of your absence, Miss Mary?'
"Well, the Castle; we reached there at a quarter past ten and had
to waste an hour, because eleven o'clock is the earliest hour of
admittance. Still, of course, there were lovely grounds to look at.
Lollie, think of walking through a real castle that has been lived in
by kings and queens for so many years. I was half wild with delight. We
couldn't see the private apartments at all; they are hardly ever open
to visitors. Isn't it mean? What hurt would it do just to let us peep
in, and see what their real home rooms look like? It never seems to me
as though they had any home, or that they ate, and slept, and laughed
and talked like other people. It seems as though they did everything
by rule. Lollie, there are thirteen towers in the Castle. The great
elegant ball-room and the state dining-room are in these towers. Oh,
there are ever and ever so many different buildings, you know; the
principal part of the Castle is built in a sort of Court, and there is
a lovely round tower in the centre. That is where the governor lives.
The top of the tower is more than two hundred feet above the Thames,
and the most lovely views of the river can be seen from it. It was
rather cloudy to-day, but one of our party said that in fine weather as
many as twelve counties could be seen from the tower.
"Oh, Lollie, if you 'could' see the paintings! Many of them were done
by those old artists that we have read stories about. And then some
are by artists who are living now. I like the modern ones a little the
best, but I suppose that is because I am not capable of understanding
the beautiful work of the old masters. Some of our party just raved
over paintings that I couldn't see any beauty in. While they were
gazing, I took a promenade down the corridor. How long do you suppose
it is? Do you remember the academy piazza which was sixty feet long and
seemed such a pleasant walk to us? Well, this corridor is five hundred
and twenty feet long. I paced back and forth and imagined I saw queen
Victoria and the princes and princesses, and all the grand lords and
ladies. In fact,—now Lollie, you needn't laugh at me,—I imagined I was
one of them myself, and that I wore a white satin dress, and diamonds
in my hair and on my neck, and oh, everywhere! It was real fun; ever so
much nicer than to be a true princess, because when I got tired of it,
I put the white satin and everything out of the way without any trouble
and went down into the garden; you go down from the terrace down a long
flight of steps, and it is just perfectly lovely there.
"I can't describe gardens, can you? Oh, Stacey Livermore is here; he
went with us to the Castle. We went down the gardens together, and
saw Herne's oak. 'Do you know about Herne's oak?' I asked him, and he
said, 'Poh, no; I don't know about any of these things. A fellow ought
to stay at home and study a hundred years before he comes to Europe.
I know that old fellow Shakespeare wrote something about it, but I
haven't an idea what.' I didn't know any more about it than Stacey,
but I shouldn't wonder if you did. We went the 'Long Walk,' which is
a lovely, lovely avenue, three miles long, in the midst of a great,
magnificent park. There is a row of old elm trees all the way on each
side of the walk. We saw Prince Albert's tomb in the distance. I asked
how much it cost, but nobody knew.
"That reminds me, though, that I 'did' hear what the new stables and
riding house cost,—seventy thousand pounds! Think of that! Oh Lollie, I
can't tell you about Windsor Castle at all; when I commenced, I thought
I could; but there are some things you can't describe.
"On Monday we are going to Stoke Pogis, (isn't that a horrid name?)
Stacey says he knows a lot of things about that place. He is going
with us, and he says he'll help me remember things to tell you. He
is improved a little I guess,—you know there is room for it. He is
different some way; I can't quite make out what it is, but I like him
more than I used; he can be real sensible sometimes.
"Well, dear, I'll try to tell you all about Stoke Pogis."
"It was the awfulest work," giggled Mary.
She had come back from Windsor, and was seated on the doorstep with
Lollie who had come for her after supper walk, and to get the foreign
mail.
"You see I can't find out much about Windsor Castle. I found a picture
of it, and just little bits of description here and there; everything
I've said is true, but it made me cross to think how many real nice
things I could have told you if I had only known what books to find
them in, and then could have got the books. I'll tell you what it is,
I mean to find out about it all; somebody knows things of course, and
I'll ask questions until I find out. Then I shouldn't wonder if I'd run
down to Windsor again, some day, and write you another letter."
"So all you wrote, is strictly true, is it?" asked her friend. "That
about Stacey is then, of course?"
Then the two girls looked into each other's eyes, and shouted with
laughter.
"I don't care," said Mary at last, "He needs improving, and if I can't
do it any other way, I'll do it on paper."
"Are you sure there is no other way, Mary, dear?" Lollie asked her,
quietly. "If Stacey were only a Christian, he would be wonderfully
improved. Seems to me I would try to help him in something besides
Algebra, if I were you."
══════════
FISHING.
NOW, I suppose you think you know all about it, but did you ever swing
out of a boat, down a line, into the ocean, as the men in the picture
are doing? Let me tell you about it: these men are not working for
fish, but for pearls. Do you know what pearls are made of? Nothing in
the world but two kinds of lime called "carbonate" and "phosphate"
put together with some sticky substance; yet the work is so wonderful
that no man has ever found out how to make the lovely balls of light.
Jewelers have tried very hard, and made some pretty good imitations,
but the strange, quivering sort of shine that the true pearl always
has, they can never copy.
Pearls are found, you know, in oyster-shells, but a little grain of
sand, or bit of shell, so tiny that it cannot be seen by your or my
eye, is always the starting point of each pearl. Around this, the two
kinds of lime gather bit by bit, the great artist, who alone can make
them, letting them fasten together by the laws which he has made, and
by and by there is a brilliant pearl! They are by no means plenty.
Sometimes the pearl-divers have to work long before they find one.
[Illustration]
Away off in the strait of Manar, near the island of Ceylon, is the
place where many of the pearl-oysters are caught. Now for the way
they are caught. Here is a picture of the boat. Twenty men belong to
each boat; half of them divers, the others, sailors. The boats start
out about ten o'clock at night, sail along all night, and reach the
fishing-banks about daylight.
They fasten a large stone to a rope, then the diver puts the rope
between the toes of his right foot, and slips down under water, the
divers above holding on to the other end of the rope. You notice how
straight the man going down keeps his head; he is very careful not to
go under water head first. With his right hand, he holds on to the
rope, and with his left foot, he holds the net into which his oysters
are to be put. Now what do you suppose he does with his left hand? Why,
holds his nose so that the water cannot get in! Before going down, he
takes care to fill his ears with cotton dipped in oil, so that the
water cannot fill them. Now he is ready for work. As soon as he reaches
the bottom, he picks up every oyster within reach, as fast as he can,
fills his bag, hangs it around his neck, gives the signal, grasps the
rope again, and is drawn up. He cannot stay under water more than
half a minute at a time, and so of course he has to work very fast.
Sometimes a diver will make as many as twenty trips under water, for
one morning's work, and get not a single pearl! There are only about
thirty days in the year in which he can work at his business, but even
this, is more than his body can endure. It is such hard and dangerous
work that it is said no diver lives to be old, and he is likely to
have a very painful and loathsome disease. Besides, there is always
danger that a great shark will come while he is picking up oysters, and
swallow him.
Is it not strange that any men can be found who are willing to take
so much risk and trouble for the sake of earning a little money, or
finding a few pearls! Did you ever read about the "pearl of great
price?" Did you ever think how strange it was that there are people who
will take such trouble to get the "little" pearls that God has made and
buried in the ocean, and will not accept this "pearl of great price"
from God, as a free gift?
══════════
NEARCHUS.
"WHAT does that word mean?" Claire asked, leaning her elbow on the
table, and spelling out the word carefully. Claire was always asking
questions.
"Mercy knows! I don't!" This was the way her fifteen year old sister
Alice answered.
Then Claire tried again.
"Aunt Margaret, what does Nearchus mean?"
"My name is not Mercy," said Aunt Margaret, "but I think I can answer
your question. Nearchus is the name of a man who lived about three
hundred and fifty years before Christ came, he was a Greek, and lived
in Crete."
"Aunt Margaret, what did he do that made them put him in a book?"
"Oh, well, for one thing he was considered in his day a great traveler.
Alexander the Great was very anxious to know about the coast of Asia;
he wanted to make a road through the water, from Egypt to India,
and sent Nearchus out in command of thirty or forty vessels and two
thousand men. It was a long and dangerous voyage for those times, and
took a brave man to command. Poor Nearchus had a hard time of it. Great
storms came up and hindered, so that when they had been at sea forty
days, they had hardly gone eighty miles. Then their provisions almost
gave out, and they thought they should certainly starve. The emperor
sent a ship after them with provisions, and they tried again; they had
a shipwreck, losing two or three of their vessels; they came across
wild people on the islands, who tried to make war with them; and,
indeed, you can hardly think of anything wild and ugly that did not
happen to them while they were gone."
[Illustration]
"But, auntie, what is going on in this picture? I don't see any natives
here."
"Let me see! Oh, these are worse than natives, they are whales!
Nearchus, when he sailed into the Persian gulf, came across a great
army of them. The sailors were dreadfully frightened, the whales were
so large, and there were so many of them. At first, Nearchus thought
he would have to turn back, the sailors were so afraid, but finally he
succeeded in putting some of his own courage into their hearts, and
they made a brave fight, and scattered the whales.
"On they went, and soon they came across lovely shores, where were
fruit trees of almost every kind, and corn-fields, and pasture-land.
I think they must have had a very good time after that; still they
didn't know as much as they thought they did, for all the while they
were sailing up the Persian gulf, they thought it was the Red sea.
They stopped at a little island that is now called Ormuz, after having
been more than six months on the water. There they heard good news.
Alexander and his army were only five days' march from them. You may
be sure they started on that march as fast as they could. It is said
that Nearchus' trials and hardships had changed him so that Alexander
did not know him. The fleet had been so long unheard from, that it was
given up for lost. So they offered sacrifices to the gods in gratitude
for his safe return. He came back home with great honors, and was
feasted and admired."
"But, after all, did his journey do any good?"
"Why, yes dear, a little; he gave his mite to the knowledge of the
country. I suppose we know a bit more about the world to-day, than we
would have known if Nearchus had stayed at home."
Claire sighed, and said with a thoughtful face, "Folks have to take
lots of trouble to know things."
"No," said her sister, laughing; "I don't think you do; you just have
to pour out questions to Aunt Margaret, and she answers them all."
Silence for a few minutes, and then another question—"Aunt Margaret,
where is Nearchus now?"
"What a child!" said Alice.
And Aunt Margaret with a very grave face answered—
"You know he has been dead more than eighteen hundred years, Claire;
and yet he is living! God is the only one who knows about him now."
Claire gave another little sigh, and said pitifully—
"I wish he had lived until Jesus Christ was born, and he would have
told him it was no good to ask Jupiter and those foolish gods to take
care of him."
"But perhaps, dear, he would not have given his love and service to
Jesus even then; some people who know about him, do not, you know."
This made sister Alice blush, but she said not a word.
[Illustration]
MARY BURTON AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON.
"DEAR LOLLIE,—Isn't it queer for me to be spending more than half a day
in an 'old' church! Some of our party just wanted to keep staying and
'staying!' But then I didn't wonder; 'you' would have liked it, Lollie.
Of course, you know the church at Stratford-on-Avon is the place where
Shakespeare is buried—though I didn't know it until Mr. Burnham told
me so. If it were not for that same Mr. Burnham, I should know very
little about the places where we go. But he comes up and answers all my
questions, besides a great many that I want to ask, and don't like to."
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF CHURCH AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON.]
"We saw the house where he used to live,—Shakespeare I mean, not Mr.
Burnham; and now I think of it, I don't mean even that, for the house
was pulled down, but somebody has built another just like the old one,
so we can see what it was. A common enough house; I think I like ours
at home, better. Still it seemed strange to walk around it, and think
what a great man once lived in it; and people didn't know he was going
to be a great man! I suppose his father punished him, and his mother
boxed his ears, occasionally, just as though he was not going to be the
greatest poet in the world! I stood looking at the great slab lying in
the chancel, and by the way, it has a horrid verse on it. I copied it
for you, spelling and all—
"'GOOD FREND FOR IESVS SAKE FORBEARE
TO DIGG THE DVST ENCLOASED HEARE.
BLEST BE YE MAN YT SPARES THESE STONES,
AND CVRST BE HE YT MOVES MY BONES.'
"I asked Mr. Burnham if it was supposed that Shakespeare wrote those
lines, and he said, he believed some people supposed so, but it would
be hard to prove it, or make scholars believe it. Then he asked me why
I looked so dissatisfied; wasn't Shakespeare's tomb satisfactory? I
laughed, and said, that I wanted to know a hundred things. He told me
to ask him fifty of them, and see if he could answer. 'Well,' I said,
'I don't know anything about Shakespeare before he became famous. I
want to know what kind of a boy he was,—rich or poor, a good scholar,
or bad, and everything.' 'Poor,' he said. 'His father was once quite
wealthy, but when William was about fourteen, he had to leave school
and go to work, earning his own living.'
"'What did he do?' I asked, eagerly, and I wondered if even as early as
that, he wrote verses that people paid money for. But what do you think
was my answer!
"'Well, it is supposed, and with very good reason, that he became a
butcher.' Think of it, Lollie, the great Shakespeare a 'butcher!'
Then Mr. Burnham said it was thought that he also taught school for a
time, but nothing was very certain about this part of his life. You
see, the trouble was, they didn't know he was going to be famous, and
so took no pains to remember about his boyhood. But before he was
nineteen, he married! His wife's name was Anne Hathaway, and she was
about twenty-seven when they married! I don't think he was very good
to her; only think! all he left her in his will was a bed! It doesn't
seem to me, from all I have heard, that he was a very good man, if he
'was' a great one; but Mr. Burnham says he was better than many men,
in his time. His monument is horrid! At least I think so: a great
awful 'skull' on the top! The little angels on each side are sort of
ugly-looking creatures, too. I don't like the great man's face, either;
this is what it says both in Latin and English, on his monument, 'In
judgment a Nestor, in genius a Socrates, in art a Virgil; the earth
covers him, the people mourn him, heaven possesses him.' I asked Mr.
Burnham if he were a good man,—that, is a Christian,—and he said he
had never heard anything that would lead him to think so. Then I don't
think they ought to put that last sentence on his monument, do you?"
[Illustration: SHAKESPEARE'S TOMB.]
"He was just fifty-three years old when he died, in April, 1616. How
almost 'awful' it seems to think of any one having been dead for more
than two hundred and fifty years!
"Lollie, do you know much about Shakespeare's writings? I told Mr.
Burnham that I didn't believe I had ever read a dozen lines that he
wrote; and he answered, that there was time enough for me to read him,
if I lived; but he thought quite likely I had a great many lines of his
without knowing it, as he was more often quoted than almost any other
author. 'But,' he added, 'I would rather have Bunyan's monument.' I
didn't know anything about Bunyan's monument, and I told him so. And he
promised when we went to see it, to tell me a great deal about it, and
him.
"Then he read for me Anne Hathaway's epitaph written by her son. It is
in Latin; I made a copy it: 'My mother, thou gavest me milk and life;
alas for me that I can but repay thee with a sepulchre! Would that some
good angel might roll the stone away and thy form come forth in the
Saviour's likeness! But my prayers avail not. Come quickly, O Christ!
then shall my mother, though enclosed in the tomb, arise and mount
to heaven.' I liked that epitaph best, because it sounded as though
somebody loved her.
"Lollie, I had a feeling, standing by those graves that had been there
for two hundred and fifty years, that nothing lasted but 'graves!'
I said something like it to Mr. Burnham, and he smiled, and said, I
must not forget my own soul which was to last after those marbles had
crumbled into dust. I'm going to write about something pleasant, next
time, I guess.
"Your loving,
"MARY."
══════════
KARL THE SMALL.
HE wailed over his writing-book. He hated writing, he declared,
and wished that the man who invented it had never been born. His
copy-book was filled with huge mountains and dark valleys of ink; he
had forgotten how to make a capital Z, and he never knew how to make
a capital K, and he couldn't tell b from d, and O, he had a dreadful
time! Perhaps worse than all was the fact that his beloved teacher
said his writing looked like "hens and chickens walking over a marsh!"
He laid his arms on the table, and his head on his arms, and cried
outright.
"I declare!" said his big brother. "If he isn't like his namesake, Karl
the Great! I wonder in how many other things he resembles him?"
This sounded as though there might be a story coaxed out of the big
brother, and Karl the Small was always ready for stories. He took his
head from the table and asked one question, "Who was he?"
"Your namesake. Why, he was a good old German king who lived about a
thousand years ago. A good fellow he was, too, a brave soldier, and
one who tried to be sure that he was fighting for the right. Here is a
picture of him; see what a fine-looking man he was."
[Illustration]
And the big brother took down a book from the library and turned the
leaves, and young Karl leaned his elbows on the table again and stared
at his namesake.
"Who is that man he is shaking hands with?"
[Illustration]
"That is Witikind, one of his conquered enemies; a brave soldier, too,
who was determined that he 'wouldn't' be conquered, but he was. He was
a heathen, and fought for his idol god, but when Karl conquered him, he
gave up his idols and became a Christian. Your namesake used to have
some fine presents sent to him; among them came one day, an elephant."
"My!" said young Karl, his eyes sparkling.
"You would have liked that. But I believe I would rather have had his
clock."
"What kind of a clock?"
"Well, the name of it was a 'water clock;' every hour a bright ball
would drop into a brass bowl, and a handsome little knight all fixed
up, would come out at one o'clock and march around; at two o'clock two
knights would appear, and so on."
Young Karl declared the clock to be splendid, but still believed he
should like the elephant. Silence for a few moments while the boy
stared at his namesake. Then he ventured another question: "How am 'I'
like him?"
"Why," said the big brother, laughing, "though he could read and speak
Latin, beautifully, it is said he could never learn to write! But I'll
tell you one thing, my boy, he 'tried' hard; carried his tablets about
with him, and practised whenever he had a chance; but he had so many
cares, the chances were rare. It is my opinion if he had done as his
namesake is doing—learned when he was a little boy—he would have been
all right."
"I mean to study German," said young Karl, thoughtfully.
══════════
WHAT LUCIUS KNEW.
"NOW for it! One, two, three, run!"
And away went the three boys, from the top of Burr's hill; a grand race
for life, or for fame; it was to be decided who could first reach the
meadow gate, a quarter of a mile away—the two brothers, or Lucius, the
cousin from the country, who was visiting them. He was a swift runner;
he gained on them every minute, and I think would have reached the gate
first, if any of them had reached it first, or indeed at all. But an
unlucky root of a gnarled old tree poking itself above ground in the
way, caught Lucius' foot at just the wrong minute, and down he went,
rolling over and over like a ball.
The cousins came up panting and breathless, to stop the ball, and find
out the bruises. But Lucius shook himself, and declared that he was
not hurt, and could tear that old root up with his teeth to pay it for
stopping the race.
"History repeats itself," quoted Cousin Will, laughing. "Brutus has
been kissing his mother."
"What do you mean?" asked Lucius, opening his eyes very wide.
"Why, you know about Lucius Junius Brutus?" said Will, dropping on the
grass to rest himself.
"No, I don't," said Lucius, dropping down beside him, while Harry
strolled off to search for ferns. "What about him?"
"Oh, he went with his cousins to see the Delphic Oracle; those old
Rooms were always asking their 'Oracle' what was going to happen, you
know. Well, Junius Brutus was supposed to be, not very bright, but that
was all put on, because he was a little afraid of his cousins. They
asked the Oracle, the brothers did, you know, who would be the ruler
of Rome after their father died; and she said the one who kissed his
mother first, after they reached home. Well, the brothers had an older
brother named Sextus, and they agreed to keep still about this to him.
They made for home, each bent on being the first to kiss the mother,
but just as they were setting foot in the city of Rome, down tumbled
Lucius Junius Brutus, making believe fall, you see, and 'kissed' the
ground. He was the only one who had understood the Oracle to mean by
the word 'mother' the earth out of which we are all made."
Lucius laughed. "He was a sharp fellow to understand what the Oracle
meant," he said. And then, after a moment he added, "I wish 'I' knew
things as you and Harry do."
"Study history, my man, and then you will know 'some' things."
"Kissing his 'mother,'" Lucius said, musingly; "yes, that is true;
'Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.'" Then, after a moment
of silence, "But I know a thing worth forty of that. I wonder if 'you'
do?"
"What is it?"
"Why, do you know what Job said?"
"Job! Let me see, he was that old fellow who had so much trouble, and
grumbled, or no—he didn't grumble, did he? What about him?"
"He said, 'I know that my Redeemer liveth, and though after my skin,
worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.' I know he is
'my Redeemer,' too."
Then they were still for as much as five minutes; and when Will spoke
again, his voice was low and grave. "Then old fellow, you know more
than either of us."
══════════
SEXTUS TARQUINIUS.
HE was a famous Roman. Among other ways in which he won fame, he
deceived a whole army. There was war between his country and another.
Sextus pretended to run away from his father, came to the enemy, told
them he had been badly treated by his father, and had deserted. They
believed his story, took him in, trusted him. And in course of time, he
had command of the army and the city. Then he sent to his father for
instructions, as to what to do.
It is said that the father was walking through a field when his son's
message arrived. He chose not to put his answer into words, for fear,
I suppose, that some harm might come to him in the future, because of
them. So, without speaking a word, he switched off the heads of all the
poppies that were growing around him. Then he told the messenger to
tell Sextus what he had seen.
Back went the man with his strange message. But Sextus understood it at
once. He managed so as to have all the chief men in the enemy's army,
put to death. Then the Romans marched in and took the city.
Wouldn't it be a sad thing to live a long life, and be remembered at
last only for some deed of cruelty, or selfishness, or cowardice? I
wonder, whether two thousand years from now, people will be reading
about some of the Pansy boys and girls, as we are reading now about
Sextus, and his father, Tarquin? If so, I wonder what will be
remembered of you?
══════════
HOW A CITIZEN BECAME A SOLDIER.
ONE day I was walking through the streets of York, in England. I saw a
little way ahead, a soldier coming toward me. He had the red uniform on
of the infantry—the dress of the army. I knew at once when I saw him
that he was a soldier.
When he came near me, I stopped him. I said, "My good man, if you have
no objections, I would like to ask you a few questions."
"Certainly, sir," said he.
"Well, then, I would like to know how you first became a soldier?"
"Yes, sir, I will tell you. You see, sir, I wanted to become a soldier,
and the recruiting officer was in our town, and I went up to him and
told him I wanted to enlist.
"'Well, sir,' he said, 'all right.'
"And the first thing he did, sir, he took an English shilling out of
his pocket, sir, and put it into my hand. The very moment, sir, a
recruiting-sergeant puts a shilling into your hand, sir, you are a
soldier."
I said to myself, "That is the very illustration I want."
That man was a free man at one time—he could go here and there, do
just what he liked, but the moment the shilling was put into his hand,
he was subject to the rules of war, and Queen Victoria could send him
anywhere and make him obey the rules and regulations of the army. He is
a soldier the very minute he takes the shilling. He has not got to wait
to put on the uniform. And when you ask me how a man may be converted
at once, I answer, just the same as that man became a soldier. The
citizen becomes a soldier in a minute, and from being a free man
becomes subject to the command of others. The moment you take Christ
into your heart, that moment your name is written in the roll of heaven.
══════════
EARLY LOVE TO CHRIST.
A little girl was desirous of publicly professing her faith in Christ.
One of the elders said to her, "When do you think you commenced to love
the Lord Jesus?"
"I don't know, sir; but I think it was when I began to love my mother."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LOUISE IN GERMANY.
"OH! Ho! Hum," yawned Rufus, and he stretched himself on the sofa at
full length, and then yawned again.
Presently he spoke, "I say, Louise, have you got your lesson? I don't
'begin' to know mine; it's an awful lesson."
Louise was in one of the easy chairs, book in hand, an amused smile on
her face, and she laughed outright as her brother spoke.
"Almost," she said, in answer to his question. "What a queer man the
Emperor Joseph was?"
"Queer? I don't know. Why?"
"Oh, I think it was fun to travel as he did, not let people know who he
was, and surprise them."
This sounded to seven-year-old Stevie like a story, so he left his
blocks and came and hung on his sister's chair.
"How could he do it?" he asked her.
"Oh, he dressed in plain clothes, and rode on alone, without his suite;
he stopped at common-looking hotels and ate sausages for dinner; once
he offered to be the godfather of a child who lived in a dreadful
little hut. They seemed to like him, and decided that he should be
their child's godfather, if he would come the next day. So he came; but
it was in his elegant dress, with his sword flashing by his side, and
the emperor's crown on his head.
"Another time he took supper with a very poor man who had ten children
of his own, but who had adopted a poor orphan. They didn't know they
were eating supper with the emperor, and they did not find it out until
the next day when he sent a present of a good deal of money, to each of
the eleven children.
"I should have just enjoyed doing such things; it must have been real
fun. Still, he wasn't very happy; he tried to make better laws, but the
people didn't like them; and I guess he was better at planning than at
doing, for he said himself they ought to put over his grave, 'Here lies
a man who, with the best intentions, never carried out a single plan.'"
"Look here, Louise," said Rufus, rising on one elbow, "where did you
find all that?"
"Why, in our history lesson, of course."
"'I' haven't seen a word of it."
"Why, Rufus Smythe! Then you haven't 'half' studied your lesson; it is
all there."
"It isn't so nice as my lesson," declared Stevie. "Mine is about a man
that the people didn't know who he was, and he met a funeral, and he
stopped them and spoke to the dead man, and he got right up and was
alive and well! Your Emperor Joseph couldn't do that."
"No," said Louise, stooping to kiss Stevie. "Your story is a great deal
the nicest; it is about the greatest king who ever lived."
══════════
MARY BURTON AT SMITHVILLE.
THAT is not in Europe, you understand; but is the pretty little village
where Mary lives. Just at this writing, she is not in the most amiable
of moods. She is seated in a low chair, by the west window of Lollie
Adams' room, engaged in hemming a ruffle so that Lollie can shirr it.
"So there is no foreign mail, to-day?" questioned Lollie, a shadow of a
smile hovering around her lips, she sewing, meanwhile, very fast.
"No, there isn't, and I'm out of all patience; I meant to have just
the nicest letter for you. I saw a picture of Westminster Abbey, and I
wanted to write about it; but do you believe, after trying hard for two
days, I can't find anything that sounds like real plain English about
it. Where is Westminster Abbey, anyhow?"
"More than I know," laughed Lollie, "I am not in Europe, you will
remember, and have never been."
"Well, what is it? A church where they have meetings every Sunday, and
does the queen go there to church? And what is there so very wonderful
in it?"
"I haven't the least idea," said Lollie, serenely.
"That's just it, neither have I; and I've tried as hard as ever a
mortal could, to learn. I suppose I haven't the right sort of books,
but I wish I could find out what sort to get. I hunted through Uncle
Robert's encyclopædia and found just nothing at all. And in one book,
I found a sentence that read as though everybody knew all about it, of
course, and there was no need to spend any time on it. 'Westminster
Abbey is of course too well known to need any description from
me,'—that is what one writer said; I find plenty of such sentences.
I believe when people don't know anything about a thing, they say
that. I'm going to try it. After this, whenever you come to a sentence
which tells about things so well known that they may be passed over in
silence, you may understand that I don't know the least thing about
them, and neither does anybody else that I can find to talk with.
"I asked Stacey Livermore to-day, if he was posted on Westminster
Abbey, and he said, 'Why, yes, of course; everybody was. Edward the
Confessor had it built, instead of going on a pilgrimage to Rome as
he had promised.' But when I began to question him, as to how it
looked, and where it was, and what it was for, and the things that
had made it famous, he knew no more than a kitten. I spent the whole
of last Saturday morning in the library, going over old, musty books,
that, judging from their titles, would have something to say about
Westminster, and every one of them talked as though of course I knew it
all! I tell you what it is, Lollie, I do hope I will really and truly
go to Europe some day, so I can write a book, and I'll describe things
so plainly that people can see them the minute they shut their eyes."
"I hope you will," said Lollie, laughing, "I 'sincerely' hope you will
go, both for your sake and mine. But in the mean time, dear, don't
pucker that hem. You need help in the selection of books; why don't you
ask Mr. Burnham what to get to read up on Westminster?"
"So I will," declared Mary, with brightening eyes; "that will be just
the thing. There, Lollie Adams, you have given me the first real help
on Westminster that I've had this week. Oh, I'll know something yet.
You shall have your description, see if you don't."
"And about Stacey, is he improving anywhere except on paper, yet?"
"No; he's horrid. He lounges into Sabbath school when it is nearly half
out, and knows as little about his lessons as I do about Westminster."
"Perhaps, little girlie, he needs some real out spoken help from you;
as much as you need it on another subject. How much do you say to him
on this subject, so much more important to understand, than Westminster
can be?"
Silence for a few minutes, then Mary said, "Lollie, you are just
'awful' to ask questions. Hand me the scissors, please. I don't know
how to help Stacey, but I suppose I might try."
══════════
[Illustration]
OVER THE SEA.
AWAY off in Italy is a beautiful city named Florence. It is built on
either side of the lovely river Arno. It is said to be a city where
there is a great deal of sunshine, and a perfect glow of flowers; in
fact, its pet name is "The City of Flowers." There are many beautiful
buildings, picture galleries, public libraries, and the like, but
the one spot where I want to go to-day, is the cemetery where Mrs.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning is buried. She, you know, was a poetess.
I wonder if you have yet read any of her wonderful poems? She was
born in London, seventy-two years ago. It is said that when she was a
very young girl she wrote beautiful poems, but she had a wise father,
who encouraged her to write only for him, and to study hard. The
consequence was, when she began to write for other people, she was so
well prepared that they saw she was a genius.
When I was a girl, I read her long poem "Aurora Leigh," and loved it. I
selected bits from it for recitation; I remember one, a description of
Aurora's fancy work, a maiden in canvass and wools with pink eyes, and
blue hair, I think it was, and then occurs these lines—
"We sew, 'sew'! prick our fingers, dull our sight;
And all for what? A pair of slippers, sir,
To rest you when you're weary;
Or a stool, to stumble o'er and vex you."
Mrs. Browning was a good and true woman, as well as a very talented
one. Here is a picture of the great marble tomb, resting on six marble
columns, which covers the spot where she sleeps. The initial letters of
her name and the date of her death, which you see in the picture, are
all the lettering there is on the monument.
Now I am going to copy for you a few verses of that one among her poems
which the children like best. It is entitled—
"THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST.
"Little Ellie sits alone
'Mid the beeches of a meadow,
By a streamside, on the grass,
And the trees are showering down
Doubles of their leaves in shadow,
On her shining hair and face.
"She has thrown her bonnet by,
And her feet she has been dipping
In the shallow water's flow.
Now she holds them nakedly
In her hands, all sleek and dripping,
While she rocketh to and fro.
"Little Ellie sits alone,
And the smile she softly uses,
Fills the silence like a speech,
While she thinks what shall be done,—
And the sweetest pleasure chooses
For her future within reach."
Oh, I should like to give you the whole story of little Ellie, but
there are seventeen verses, and you see I haven't room. It is full of
the queer and quaint fancies of that little barefooted girl.
After all, pretty as the poem is, if you and I were standing by that
great white marble tomb, thinking and talking; about the sleeper,
perhaps we would rather repeat this verse of hers just then, than any
other that she wrote.
"Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward into souls afar.
Among the Psalmist's music deep.
Now tell me, if there any is,
For gift or grace, surpassing this,—
'He giveth his beloved sleep.'"
══════════
[Illustration]
CHOP STICKS.
HOW would you like to have only two long thin sticks with which to take
up your food and throw it into your mouth? This young Chinaman stands
all ready to use his, which he has between his fingers. I suppose there
is rice in the bowl. The question is, how is he going to take up rice
with those two sticks! There is nothing like knowing how. Oh, I wonder
if this boy with his pleasant, intelligent face, knows about the true
God, or still prays those foolish senseless prayers, such as the people
of his country offer to their idols. A lady who has been a missionary
in China for ten years told me that some of the Chinese think they will
be rewarded for the number of prayers they say. They have one sentence
which they call a prayer; I don't know just what it means, nor do they,
but they constantly repeat it. "Oh, Me Toh Fee," that is the sentence,
I believe; and my friend says she often has conversations like these:
"What kind of a dress is that you wear? Oh, me toh fee." "What makes
you Melicans so pale? Oh, me toh fee." "How far is it to where you
live? Oh, me toh fee." Think of calling that a prayer! So they try
hard to get a great many prayers said through the day. So anxious are
they to please their idol in this way that some of them never ask a
question, or make a remark, without closing with the words "Oh, me toh
fee." Dear me! What an example they are to us after all! How many of us
who know how to pray, and who are sure the Saviour hears and answers
us, care to please him by speaking to him often? Surely we ought to
make haste to teach these Chinese, who are willing and anxious to pray,
how to reach the ear of the true God.
══════════
WATCH YOUR WORDS.
KEEP a watch on your words, my darlings,
For words are wonderful things;
They are sweet, like the bees' fresh honey—
Like the bees, they have terrible stings;
They can bless, like the warm, glad sunshine,
And brighten a lonely life;
They can cut, in the strife of anger,
Like an open two-edged knife.
Let them pass through your lips unchallenged,
If their errand is true and kind—
If they come to support the weary,
To comfort and help the blind;
If a bitter, revengeful spirit
Prompt the words, let them be unsaid;
They may flash through a brain like lightning,
Or fall on a heart like lead.
Keep them back, if they're cold and cruel,
Under bar and lock and seal;
The wounds they make, my darlings,
Are always slow to heal.
May peace guard your lives, and ever,
From the time of your early youth,
May the words that you daily utter
Be the words of beautiful truth.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: IN THEIR HAPPY CHILDHOOD.]
JOHN AND MARY.
MANY years ago there lived in the great city of J— two children,
John and Mary. Often they played together, and went hand in hand to
school. And many a time, as they were coming home, now looking into a
shop window or hurrying by a saloon, or almost pushed from the narrow
sidewalk by some drunkard, they promised each other, when they should
grow up, that they would fight with "all their might and main" for
Temperance. John said, if he could only study law and become a smart
man, and get into office, he would close up the rum-shops—he would
defend the poor widow and fatherless. And little Mary promised she
would never marry a man who drank.
But, like too many boys and girls who promise never to touch or
taste strong drink, both of them, when temptation came, forgot their
promises. I've known so many strong temperance girls who said they
never would keep company with young men who smoked, and went to saloons
and theatres and such places, and yet two-thirds of those very same
girls, a few years later, did just what they were not going to do.
Some of you say you will always keep clear of all this nasty, dreadful
business. I wonder if you will. God help you! You can't escape unless
you are kept by his mighty power, because you are fighting against "the
rulers of the darkness of this world." No one has ever stood against
such foes alone. I tremble for you, if you are not on the Lord's side,
and he on yours.
But we must follow John and Mary a few years. Both grew up, John
becoming so popular he was made a judge; and so he had a good chance
to carry out his early promises about temperance. But he cared more
for his office, and how he might keep it year after year, than he did
to use it for the comfort of the oppressed and as a terror to evil
doers. So he soon fell into bad society, spent a good deal of his
time gambling and drinking, and became very profane and wicked and
hard-hearted. The devil has used alcohol and gaming and such things to
make men hate God and each other.
As for Mary, she was soon engaged to be married. It was a most
beautiful day in May when, amid the good wishes of friends and the
songs of birds, she started on her wedding tour—a beautiful beginning,
as most are, but, like most, a sad ending. She is soon a widow, and
with an enemy. She married a very nice young man, "except" that he
was not a total abstainer. He would not sign the pledge, nor would he
promise never to touch strong drink; one of those, you know, who "will
not sign away their liberty," who "know what they can stand," who "will
not be such fools as to be contemptible drunkards."
For a time, he was a loving and industrious husband. Then he became
very intimate with some of the fast young husbands who invited him to
their club meetings. There he met the judge, and there drank and gamed.
It is never far from some of those club-houses to the lowest dens. This
young husband who "would not sign away his liberty" was not long in
finding his way there, and, little by little, his money went into the
saloon-keeper's till, while he now could drink glass after glass, with
the judge at his side. Finally nothing was left but a craving appetite,
a wasted name and home, and wife and children in tears and rags.
Last of all (the old story—you can read it when you will in the
dailies), that husband was killed in a drunken carousal in the place
where he spent all his earnings—murdered, and cast out-door, like a
dog, by the saloon-keeper.
Can you blame that wretched Mary—now a widow, with her homeless,
friendless children—if she cried for justice against that cruel
adversary?
Ah, how many Marys are now wringing their hands and crying, as
they look down into open graves where a once-beloved friend is
being lowered, to awake in the great day of judgment to "shame and
everlasting contempt"—for it is written over the gateway of heaven,
"Drunkards shall not enter"!
What an "adversary," indeed, is strong drink! And how Mary, as she
comes from the cemetery to her desolate home, must have thought of her
beautiful childhood, and that lovely spring morning when she became a
happy bride! And now all was so soon night and winter. And how came
it all? Who did it? And what would save her dear boy from the fate of
the miserable father? She would go immediately to the judge; he would
surely pity her, and aid her in her effort to bind and destroy this
adversary.
She was soon on her way. The street was crowded. The throngs jostled
her this way and that, but her heart was too sore, and her purpose too
grand, to be frightened by anything. So on she presses, right by the
dreadful place where her husband spent his last night—right over the
walk, stained even now with his blood.
There is the judge, sitting in state—put there to plead the cause of
the poor, the widow and fatherless. Down at his very feet, she casts
her weary self.
"For God's sake, give me back my home and comforts that my adversary
has stolen away; and, if need be, bind him in prison, lest he reach
forth and destroy my dear boy also! For the sake of our childhood's
days, for the sake of promises made years ago, for the sake of your own
sons and daughters, for the sake of hundreds whose hearts are sadder
than even mine!"
No wonder he drove her away, and commanded his officers to hush her
cries. What could such a man care for Mary's tears and entreaties now?
Hadn't he learned to care for neither God nor man, through his love for
office and money and strong drink? Maybe that "adversary" was standing
near, and whispered to the judge that if he regarded this widow, he
would see to it that all the saloon-keepers would vote against him.
That was enough. How many unjust judges there are now-a-days! They
were once temperance boys, I suppose, many of them; they signed the
pledge, and sang temperance songs, and recited temperance verses from
the Bible, and we thought they would make grand temperance men in a few
years. But, they grew up, and wanted office, and got it—some of them by
thinking and "treating," and pledging saloon-men, if they would elect
them, they would serve them. And they are doing the bidding of their
masters. Thousands of poor, suffering widows come pleading before them,
year after year, to make good laws against these wicked rum-sellers, or
defend the laws, or execute them. And the long, weary years drag by,
and, like this unjust judge, they will not "do justly, and love mercy,
and walk humbly," and "relieve the cry of the distressed."
[Illustration: PEACOCK'S COMPLAINT TO JUNO.]
But cry on, sorrowing, broken-hearted Marys, against the great
adversary, Rum. Even this godless, cruel judge did at last relent
before such pleading. Cry on, dear boys and girls, against your great
enemy, strong drink. And cry not so much to hard, cruel man for aid, as
to our mighty, loving God, who will avenge his own speedily that cry
day and night to him, though he bear long with them. Read Luke xviii.
══════════
A ROMAN PEASANT.
HASN'T she a pleasant face? If this picture were colored, it would be
more striking; a Roman peasant woman's idea of dress seems to be to get
as many and as bright colors together as she can. Scarlet and white
are favorite colors, especially for head-dresses. The girls are apt to
wear short, pink dresses and blue aprons, embroidered richly in all the
colors of the rainbow.
[Illustration]
One writer, in speaking of the dresses of the baby peasants, said
the effect was to make them look like butterflies. Can you imagine a
clean-faced, carefully kept baby in anything but a white dress?
I am afraid that this class of peasants in Rome do not bear a very
high character. They seem to get their living in doubtful ways, and
much of their gayety belongs only to their dress, for I think there
must be among them very heavy hearts. They are very different from the
peasant women of Holland; these are "workers." Their long, dark woolen
stockings, and short, dark woolen dresses look as if made for use
instead of show. They have one curious fashion, that is a head-dress
made of gold, pure gold at that; it must be about two inches wide,
and goes all around the head. A peasant woman seems to feel that
whatever comfort or necessity she has to do without, she "must" have a
head-dress; the cheapest of them are said to cost forty dollars, while
many cost more than a hundred. Only the very poor and miserable wear
silver ones; none go without. Did you ever think what a pleasant mark
of our religion it was, that women who belong to Jesus Christ have no
such trammels of fashion? At least they need not have; He has made us
free; neither gold bands, nor silver, nor yet iron ones, need be worn
by us. What a strange sight it would be to see a poor, hard-working
woman, who had little children to support, paying forty dollars for a
gold band to wear around her head. How sure we would be, if she lived
in this country, that she had not given her heart to Jesus. I wonder if
we, any of us, wear about us, in our dress or on our faces, marks which
show that, we have not given ourselves to him?
══════════
MARY BURTON IN LONDON.
_LONDON, Aug. 18—._
"DEAREST LOLLIE,—You couldn't guess where I have been all the
morning: in a meat market! Don't you think I must have been hungry? But
really it seems to me just now as though I never 'should' be, again,
or want to see any more meat, but I suppose I shall like it as well as
ever by to-morrow. Ah! But the market where I have been is well worth
going to see. Do you remember Sarah Williams describing to us Fulton
Market, in New York? Dear me! I wonder what she would think of London
market. Lollie, imagine iron gates twenty-five feet high, nineteen feet
wide, and weighing fifteen tons. Nineteen feet wide! Why my room at
home is only fourteen feet wide, and you know we think it a pretty good
sized bedroom. Three acres of market! 'Can' you imagine it? The roof
is made of glass, and fancy iron work, and is just as pretty as it can
be. If you can imagine how large a place three acres is, just go up to
Mr. Burnham's and walk around the grounds, he says there are just three
acres.
"You may imagine it took us some time to walk through the market, for
there were so many things to gaze at, and it is six hundred and thirty
feet long. Under the market, there is a railroad depot; tracks are
laid from there to all the railroads in London, and even out into the
country, so that people can get their meat sent to them at the last
minute. One of the waiters told us there was a train passed through
their depot every two minutes, all day long. There are one hundred and
sixty shops, or stalls, in this market ranged on either side of the
avenues. Think of having avenues for promenading through a market. They
are just splendid, anyway. The central one is thirty feet wide; then
there are six side avenues, each twenty feet wide. Oh, I can't tell
you how lovely it was to stand at one end of the main avenue, and look
away down as far as the eye could reach; a wide, straight beautiful
walk, with lovely glass roof, mixed in with ornamental iron arches and
pillars, and great balls of fire, for gas lights.
"Oh Lollie, I couldn't realize that there were people enough in the
world to eat all the meats that we saw in that market. I said something
of that sort to Mr. Burnham, and he said that he would like to have
everything in it cooked, ready for eating, then open the great gates,
and call on those who had no breakfast and no dinner, to come in and
eat. 'I don't think by dark there would be a mouthful left,' he said.
Only think of it! So many hungry people in London. Oh I saw such
queer-shaped eggs, just mountains of them piled up. I could think what
they were, but a man told us they were plover's eggs. Then don't you
think I saw eagles to 'eat!' They come from Norway, and are not like
our American eagles, but still I should think that no American would
like to eat them just for the sake of the name.
"Well, it was a nice, clean, cool, elegant place. Think what an immense
amount of money must have been spent on building it, and how much it
takes every day to keep it stocked. And there are people enough to eat
all the food displayed there, and in hundreds of other places, and
still hundreds go hungry; and this is all in one city. What a 'great
big world it is!' How 'can' God take care of it all? This evening
when we had prayers in our parlor, Mr. Burnham read the verse, 'Not
a sparrow falleth to the ground without our Father.' Then he looked
directly at me, for I had told him I couldn't realize that God could
think of so many people at once. Oh I was glad to hear it read out from
the Bible, in plain words that we cannot mistake; and then the next
verse rests one so: 'Fear ye not, therefore: ye are of more value than
many sparrows.'
"Oh Lollie, it is good in a great, full, 'terrible' city like London,
to remember that our Father numbers the very hairs of our head. It is
good to belong to Him. That is the thought with which I want to go to
sleep to-night, so I will leave you now.
"Good-by dear, until to-morrow."
══════════
HOW HE BECAME A SOLDIER.
ONE day I was walking through the streets of York, in England. I saw a
little way ahead, a soldier coming toward me. He had the red uniform on
of the infantry—the dress of the army. I knew at once when I saw him
that he was a soldier.
When he came near me, I stopped him. I said, "My good man, if you have
no objections, I would like to ask you a few questions."
"Certainly, sir," said he.
"Well, then, I would like to know how you first became a soldier?"
"Yes, sir, I will tell you. You see, sir, I wanted to become a soldier,
and the recruiting officer was in our town, and I went up to him and
told him I wanted to enlist.
"'Well, sir,' he said, 'all right.'
"And the first thing he did, sir, he took an English shilling out of
his pocket, sir, and put it into my hand. The very moment, sir, a
recruiting-sergeant puts a shilling into your hand, sir, you are a
soldier."
I said to myself, "That is the very illustration I want."
That man was a free man at one time—he could go here and there, do
just what he liked, but the moment the shilling was put into his hand,
he was subject to the rules of war, and Queen Victoria could send him
anywhere and make him obey the rules and regulations of the army. He is
a soldier the very minute he takes the shilling. He has not got to wait
to put on the uniform. And when you ask me how a man may be converted
at once, I answer, just the same as that man became a soldier. The
citizen becomes a soldier in a minute, and from being a free man
becomes subject to the command of others. The moment you take Christ
into your heart, that moment your name is written in the roll of heaven.
══════════
EARLY LOVE TO CHRIST.
A little girl was desirous of publicly professing her faith in Christ.
One of the elders said to her, "When do you think you commenced to love
the Lord Jesus?"
"I don't know, sir; but I think it was when I began to love my mother."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: ST. BONIFACE FELLING THE OAK.]
THE OLD OAK TREE.
DO you remember about the two gods, Woden and Thor that the Germans
used to worship a great many years ago? Woden was supposed to be
very wise, because two ravens kept whispering to him all the time,
about what was going on here. The sun and moon were his eyes. What
makes the moon paler than the sun? Now there is hardly a schoolboy
who cannot give the true reason, but what do you think these Germans
said, long ago? Why, that Woden gave the sight of one eye to pay for
a very large drink out of the well of wisdom; and the name of that
one eye was "moon" so of course it has been dull ever since. Thor,
his son, was a very fierce and terrible god; all the oak trees were
sacred to him. Once there came among these Germans, a missionary named
St. Boniface. A great many of them listened to his story of the true
God, and believed on Him. Now there was a very huge and beautiful oak
tree, sacred to Thor; the heathen used to go under it to worship him,
and even the Christians were afraid to touch it because it was sacred
to Thor. St. Boniface talked with the people about it, asked them if
they did not believe that Thor was able to take care of the tree if
he was a god. Then he offered to cut down the tree. One day, all his
ministers gathered with him about the tree, carrying crosses, and the
woodman came with his axe, and the frightened people stood watching and
trembling for fear of Thor's awful anger; and the tree was cut down,
and Thor made no motion, nor in any way showed that he was anything but
a wooden god. For this reason a large number of people lost their faith
in him, and declared that they were going to worship the God of whom
St. Boniface told them.
══════════
MARY BURTON IN LONDON. [Cont.]
"MY DEAR LOLLIE,— I am just home from a visit to the Bethnal Green
Museum. It is a lovely place in which to spend a morning. Do you know
about it? James the First had the ground on which it is built given to
the poor. It is said that all around the Museum at that time were bare
fields, but now it is a crowded city. The building itself is ugly I
think. It is all of dark red brick; the front is arched, but the arches
are not graceful looking. I told Stacey Livermore that the building
looked very much like the Union depot at Marysville. Inside it is just
a great world's fair, all sorts of things on exhibition. There is a
department for animal products, and one for vegetable products, and
one for minerals, and one for metals, and one for wooden things. How
much does that tell you about what I saw? I ought to pick out some one
thing of special value and describe it; that is the way Mr. Burnham
says we must write letters of interest from abroad; but do you believe
I can do it? You see, the trouble is, I looked at so many things,
they just whirl around in my brain, a mass of color and confusion,
and I can't get anything out of them. One of these days I'll settle
on something and describe it perhaps. The prettiest thing I saw, that
had anything to do with the Museum, was the fountain just in front of
the main entrance. It was perfectly lovely! Exquisite vases, and cups,
and carved figures, and the water streamed in such graceful jets from
them all. It is made of majolica ware. 'What is majolica ware?' I asked
Stacey Livermore.
"'S'pose I know!' he answered, as if he were so much astonished at
being asked. Then I was determined to know about it; so I asked
auntie, and Mrs. McMartin, and her niece, a young lady who knows
everything—except about majolica ware; I couldn't get a bit of
information as to that. So I waited for Mr. Burnham to come up, and
tried him. Of course he knew. He said it depended on whether I meant
what was it now, or what it was once when the Italians first began to
use the word. I said I wanted to know from the beginning. So he told
me. The Italians called a certain kind of earthen-ware by that name,
because the first that they ever saw came from Majorca. After awhile
the same kind of ware was made at Faenza, so people stopped saying
'majolica' and said 'faience' instead; a prettier name I think, don't
you? In these days, he says the name majolica is used again, and people
mean by it anything made out of colored clay, and coated with a white
opaque varnish which makes it look like the original faience. I didn't
like to ask him what 'opaque' meant, so I had to wait until I could
get to a dictionary; then I was astonished to find that it only meant
something that couldn't be seen through!
"A beautifully carved figure of St. George and the dragon is on the
top of the fountain. That was another thing about which I had to ask
questions. I really wish I knew 'anything!' Still I didn't learn much.
Stacey said St. George was a man who lived a great many years ago, and
they made a saint of him. Now of course I knew that. As to the dragon,
there was a story that he had rushed upon such a creature and killed
it, and saved the life of a king's daughter by so doing; but who the
king's daughter was, and how it came to happen, or whether there did
really anything happen to make the legend out of, and if not, who
first got it up, he didn't know. Stacey doesn't know much, now that's
a fact; neither do I; but I do mean to study hard when I get home. I
have been saying some of those things to Mr. Burnham to-night, and the
answer he made was just exactly like him: 'But with all your getting,
get wisdom.' That sounds as though the Bible thought there was one
thing worth being called wisdom, doesn't it? I know Mr. Burnham thinks
there is nothing so important as that kind of wisdom. Well, so do I, of
course; but then comes the question, if I truly think so, why don't I
get that? Aren't people queer, Lollie? I mustn't write any more. Auntie
says my letters are always too long. Do you think so?
"Your loving Mary."
══════════
THREE GREAT MEN.
THEIR names were Solon, Cyrus, and Crœsus. Solon was one of seven very
wise men, who lived in Greece between five and six hundred years before
Christ was born. Among other things he did was to make a set of laws by
which to govern the country.
[Illustration: CRŒSUS BEFORE CYRUS.]
Some of them were queer, and in these days we should not think them
very wise. One was, that if a man was thought to be dangerous to the
best interests of the country, the people could banish him for ten
years; his name would be written on an oyster shell by any person who
did not like him, then the shells were all thrown into a great ship,
and by and by they were counted, and if they reached a certain number,
the man was banished. Suppose there were such a rule in this country
and these days, about boys! I wonder how many would be banished! At
one time, Solon went to visit the famous king Crœsus, who lived in
Lydia. He, you know, was very rich; he asked Solon (who was called a
philosopher), who he thought was the happiest man in the world; and
Solon answered, the one who did right, was neither rich, nor poor, had
good children, and died bravely. Crœsus did not like this, and when he
asked the wise man plainly what he thought of him, and received the
answer, "Call no man happy until he is dead," he was more vexed still.
About that time, he was planning to go to war with Cyrus who was king
of the Medes and Persians; you can read about him in the Bible. Crœsus
decided to ask the oracles what he would better do, and to prove
whether they knew what they were talking about, he said the oracle at
Delphi must tell him what he was doing. This was the answer he received:
"Lo, on my sense striketh the smell of a shell-covered tortoise.
Boiling on the fire, with the flesh of a lamb, in a cauldron. Brass is
the vessel below brass is the cover above it."
Now it happened that Crœsus, at that time, was boiling a tortoise and a
lamb together, in a brass dish! So then, he felt sure that the oracle
knew everything, and asked it whether he should go to war; it replied,
that if he did, a great kingdom would be overthrown. As this was just
what he wanted to have happen to the kingdom of Cyrus, he concluded
that that was what the oracle meant, and went to war. But it was his
own kingdom that was taken; the city of Sardis was burned, and when he
himself was about to be killed, he remembered what the wise man, Solon
had said: "Call no man happy till he is dead," and feeling how wise a
saying it was, he cried out, "Oh Solon! Solon!"
Then king Cyrus wanted to know what he meant by that, and he told him
of Solon. This interested Cyrus very much, and he concluded to save
Crœsus' life. O, the poor men, who were so wise, and yet so ignorant!
They knew nothing about the Lord Jesus Christ, who has conquered even
death, so that those who belong to him need not wait until they die to
be called happy; but are just as sure of happiness as though the river
of death were already passed.
CHEOPS.
"CHEOPS!" said Albert, turning the paper which had but that word
written on it, upside down, and almost inside out in his effort to make
it read something else. "Now I 'should' like to know what a fellow was
going to do with that?"
"It means, chops," said his young sister, leaning over his shoulder and
studying the paper carefully. "He has made a little quill that looks
like an 'e,' but he didn't mean to, and it means chops, like what we
had for breakfast, Albert."
[Illustration: VIEW OF GALLERY IN THE GREAT PYRAMID.]
"Oh!" said Albert. "What an idea!" Then he leaned his head back and
shouted, with laughter. "Think of Professor Strongworth giving me
mutton chops for a subject to write an essay about!"
"Well," said the little sister, positively, "he 'has,' anyhow."
Albert was only ten, and it must be confessed that when the box was
passed with subjects for essays therein, he had drawn a hard one for
a boy of his age. For the rest of the evening, he pored over books,
talking now and then with father, or Aunt Carrie. His first discovery,
he announced in an astonished tone, "I declare, it is a 'man!'"
The next morning his essay was ready; here is a copy of it:
"CHEOPS."
"This is the name of a man who lived in Egypt about three thousand
years before Christ came. He was the king. He had a good many names.
Khufu, and Suphis, and Chemnis, and Chembres, and Cheops. I think the
last three names mean the same thing. Some people say Cheops was a
tyrant, others say he wasn't; but I have studied a good deal about him,
and I think he was. He built a pyramid, at least his money built it,
the largest pyramid in the world, and its name is Cheops. Some people
say he had the temple closed and wouldn't let his subjects go there
to say their prayers, because it would take time. I don't know how
that is, but I know it took a hundred thousand men ten years to bring
stone enough for the pyramid. This stone is very beautiful, hard like
granite, and all sprinkled over with red and black, and when polished,
shines like diamonds. Think of a hundred thousand men working ten
years, to bring stone to make a grave to bury old Cheops in! It took
twenty years to finish the pyramid, and nobody knows how much it cost.
I suppose he wanted to build the finest pyramid that ever would be, and
he did, and I wonder what good it does him now?"
[Illustration: DISTANT VIEW OF THE PYRAMIDS.]
"The way they built pyramids, was this: first a little pyramid was
built, with steps to go up it, and a little stone room, well finished.
Then they built a kind of covering to this, and another, and another,
and another, until they got it as large as they wanted it. The last
covering was of very beautiful stone, like this red and black stone
which Cheops used; only I guess none of the other pyramid builders used
the same kind. Oh, yes, they did, too; for a man named Khafra who was
either Cheop's son or his brother, it was so long ago that everybody
seems to have forgotten which, built a house in the desert, all of this
red and black granite, or stone of Assouan, except where here and there
he put a little alabaster. Nobody knows why he built it, nor what he
built it for, nor in fact whether he ever built it at all, only it is
named for him. The work is very beautiful, but, oh dear! How many years
the people have all been dead. What good did it all do? I wonder if
they took care of their souls and went to live in 'the house that is
not made with hands.' Isn't it strange to think that perhaps some day I
shall see Cheops?"
TWO ROSES.
ON a straggling, wayside bush,
Where the robins sing,
Out of sight of careless eyes,
Two wild roses swing.
Both are fair as fair can be,
Swinging to and fro,
Greeting, though unnoticed,
All who past them go.
Nodding there, so sweetly,
Almost out of reach;
Soon a ray of sunlight,
Falls upon them each.
So, quietly and peacefully,
Each has passed its life;
Which, in the end, with gladness,
And sunshine bright, is rife.
May not these two roses, teach
Lessons to us all.
Living patiently for others
God's smile will on us fall.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A "TRULY" STORY.
"NOW, what I want," said little Neelie, creeping on to the old chest in
the attic, and settling herself comfortably, while the warm summer rain
pattered on the roof overhead,—"what I want is a 'truly' story. I'm
just sick and tired of make-believe stories. I want to hear about some
peoples who said things and did things, just as you and I and mamma and
lots of folks do."
"Well," said sister Kate, remembering a wonderful story which she
knew was true, "'I' like true stories, too, and I've got a perfectly
splendid one to tell you.
"Once, a great many years ago, there was a good young man made a slave
by some wicked people; they got him in a war, some way, and they made
him take care of ever so many horses, and treated him very cruelly. He
had a kind uncle who tried and tried to get the wicked king to let him
come home; but he wouldn't,—he said that a piece of gold that would
weigh ten pounds would have to be paid before the young man could be
free. His poor uncle could not get so much money,—that is an 'awful'
lot, Neelie,—so the man had to stay a slave.
"'Most everybody used to keep slaves then, and the young man's uncle
had one whose name was Leo. One day he came to his master and told him
if he would let him go where his nephew was, and stay a good while, he
would get him free. So the uncle told him to go.
"So Leo went away to the country where the young man was. Every day he
watched for a chance to speak to him; but the slaves were guarded so
carefully that he could get no chance. He saw him go by with horses,
and he saw that he was ragged and dirty, and looked very dreadful. At
last Leo went to a man and said, 'I want you to sell me for a slave to
that chief who keeps so many horses; you may have all the money that he
will give for me; I want to be his slave.'"
"What did he do that for?" asked horrified Neelie.
"You listen," said the historian, "and you'll see. So Leo was sold for
a slave to the same wicked chief who owned his young master. He was
taken to the chief, who asked him what he could do, and he said he
could cook beautifully. So he was tried, and when they found he was a
wonderful cook, they gave him the cooking to do. His master liked him
very much, and made him a kind of ruler over all the other slaves. So
he saw the young man, who used to be very rich, every day; but he shook
his head at him, and made signs that they must not pretend to know each
other. He had a plan to make the young man free, but he knew he must
wait, and wait, and be very patient; so he waited a whole long year.
"One day Leo made up his mind that the time had come. He went down
where the poor, sad young man was sitting, watching his horses, and sat
down with his back turned to him, so that nobody would think they were
talking together. He said:
"'It is time to go home. When you put the horses in the stable
to-night, don't go to sleep; be ready for the first call.'
"That day the chief had company, and one of the company—a man who liked
to make fun—said to Leo,—
"'Look here! Tell the truth,—don't you intend to take one of your
master's horses and run away, some night, to your own home?'
"What do you think Leo said? Why, he said,—
"'Oh, yes; I mean to do it this very night.'
"And he told the truth,—he 'did' mean to; but he laughed when he said
it, and the man thought he was saying it for fun, and laughed too, and
said,—
"'Well, see that you don't carry off anything of mine.'
"And that very night Leo and the young man escaped. They had a dreadful
time. They had to swim a deep river in the night. And once some men who
had been sent to catch them rode so close, on their horses, that they
could hear them talk; and they said, if they caught those two slaves,
one should be hung, and the other cut into little bits of pieces."
"Oh, my!" said Neelie, with a shudder.
"But they got safely home; and 'then' wasn't the uncle glad!"
"What did he give Leo?" asked the little audience.
"Oh, I was going to tell you. Leo, you see, was born a slave, and
thought he would always have to be a slave; but the good uncle gave him
his freedom. He took him to the church and opened every door in it, as
a sign that he was free. Then he gave him land and a house, and treated
him just like a friend. And that's all."
"Is it a truly story?" asked Neelie.
"Oh, yes; it is,—every word."
"Whereabouts is it in the Geography?"
"Oh, it was away off in Rome, where they kept slaves."
Neelie was still for a few minutes; then she said:
"It is a nice story, and Leo was good; but he wasn't so good as Jesus,
was he, Kate? 'He' stayed ever and ever so many years out of heaven,
and had a dreadful time, and was killed, wasn't he, Kate?"
"Oh, Neelie!" said Kate. "What a queer little thing you are!"
THE GUESSING GAME.
THE boys had been playing ball, and croquet, and tag, and I don't
know how many other running games, all the afternoon. At last they
sat down to rest, and play a guessing game which Charlie Wood said he
originated. One of their number was selected to tell a true story,
leaving out names and dates, and the boys were each to have two chances
to guess it. Arthur Dunlap was the one chosen to give the story.
"Well," he said,—all their stories began with "Well,"—"there was once a
man famous for being a—well, a tyrant, among other things, and a sharp,
keen man. He had a place of power in the government, but people hated
him because he was unjust."
[Illustration]
"He was a good deal of a scholar, and he thought he was a poet. Once he
made a poem, and called on another scholar in the town to listen to it,
and say what he thought of it. The man was honest enough to find some
fault with it, and the old tyrant was so angry that he had him sent to
prison. A good many weeks or months afterwards—I forget which—the poet
composed another piece; he read it over carefully, and decided it was
the best thing he had ever written. The more he thought about it, the
more anxious he was to have the scholar whom he had sent to prison hear
it; he knew he was a good judge of poetry. Finally, he sent for him to
come and listen to the poem. When the old fellow had finished reading
it, he looked around to the prisoner,—sure, this time, that he would
be praised. But what did the man do but turn to the soldiers who were
guarding him, and, shaking his head, say, 'Carry me back to prison.'
"The tyrant could understand a sharp thing when he heard it, and he was
so amused with the man's wit and courage that he laughed and forgave
him. Now guess his name and his country."
This was not an easy thing to do. The boys all looked puzzled.
"I haven't the least idea who it is," said Horace, who was always
marked high in history. "I don't believe I ever heard of him."
"Oh, yes, you have; you are well acquainted. I heard you talking about
him last week."
"What did I say?"
"Ah, that would be as good as telling!" said Arthur, shaking his head.
"When did it happen? This century?" asked one.
"No; nor the last, not the one before it, nor the one before that; it
is 'very' ancient."
"B. C.?" asked young Willard.
"Yes, sir; B. C. almost four hundred years."
"What part of the world? North, south, east, or west?"
"Oh, I may as well tell you it was in Sicily, and the name of the city
is one that Dick, here, is well acquainted with."
"Syracuse," said Dick, promptly.
But even then the boys couldn't guess.
"You'll have to hint what I was saying about him," said Horace.
To this all the boys agreed.
And so Arthur said it was something about a friend of his, and a sword.
Thereupon two of them shouted, "We know!"
And a third said, "Oh, Dionysius, of course; but I never heard that
story of him before."
══════════
MARY BURTON IN LONDON. [Cont.]
"DEAR LOLLIE,—Now I have something that is perfectly wonderful to
describe to you. I know it will take a good while, because there is so
much to tell; but I am going to try to 'condense,' as auntie says. But
first I want to go back to that last letter about the Bethnal Green
Museum, and correct it, or finish it. Auntie read it over just before
the mail went, and she laughed at me. 'The idea,' she said, 'of writing
about Bethnal Green Museum, and not explaining that it was a free
institution, or, at least, open free for three days in the week, and
that there are rooms for instruction in drawing, designing, and many
other studies.' Well, now I have told you that, do you like the museum
better? I suppose it was an important item, but I never thought of it.
Auntie says that is because I don't expect to stay long enough to get
any benefit from it. Do you suppose I really am such a selfish creature
as that?
"Well, now, let me tell you about the Royal Albert Hall. It is in Hyde
Park, right in front of the lovely floral gardens. It is an immense
brick building, circular in shape; inside it is lovely. Mr. Burnham
says it is like the Colosseum at Rome, only of course not so large. But
it is large."
[Illustration]
"Down in the centre a thousand people can be seated, and then in the
amphitheatre fifteen hundred more. Then there is a row of boxes for
eleven hundred people, and a lovely circular balcony that will hold
twenty-five hundred. Now you will be sure to think that is all, but it
isn't; above the balcony is a circular gallery for two thousand more.
It doesn't look nearly so large. Stacey and I almost quarrelled about
the number of people it would seat. He was right for once, and I was
wrong (for a great many times).
"There is an immense organ, and a platform for two thousand musicians.
Wouldn't you like to hear a choir of that size sing? Mr. Burnham says
that about ten thousand people can be comfortably seated in this hall.
The dome of the building is all glass; and there is a curious sort of
tent, hung just below, which makes the light as soft and pretty as
possible. It is the very finest building I have seen yet. But, Lollie,
I'm just discouraged with trying to describe things to you. 'If Lollie
were only "here!"' I say a dozen times in as many minutes sometimes.
Now, when I began about this hall. I thought I could tell you some real
wonderful things; and after all, what have I said, but that it is a
great, big room, that will seat ten thousand people? I can't put the
lovely lights that filled it on paper for you, nor the sound of the
great organ, nor the graceful galleries and balconies, and if I could,
they wouldn't look as they did to me.
"'How much did it cost?' I asked, suddenly, as we stood looking around
on all the beauty. Uncle laughed, and said 'Mary was a thorough
American.' Of 'course' I am; why shouldn't I be, but I don't know just
what he meant. Mr. Burnham said, to speak within bounds, he would put
it at two hundred thousand pounds. That sounded large, but I really was
not sure how many dollars it was; these 'pounds' do bother me so! I
rushed for a dictionary as soon as I reached home; for I have to ask so
many questions, I have decided not to ask a thing that the dictionary
will tell me, and it is a wise book.
"Well, I suppose you know how much a pound is, but for fear you don't,
I'll tell you that it is about four dollars and eighty-four cents.
Nine hundred and sixty-eight thousand dollars! Isn't that 'immense?' I
don't know about things, Lollie; I really don't. People think this hall
is so grand and splendid, and it is; and they say Prince Albert was a
public-spirited man for planning it, and having it built; but oh, the
awfully poor people that we saw on our way home! Awful men, and more
awful women and children. Oh, the 'children!' What if all that money,
or half of it, say only 'half' of it, had been spent in making decent
homes for some of those people, would there be as much misery in London
as there is now? Stacey laughs at me, and says, what if I should wear
just my skin on my hands instead of the pretty gloves of which I am so
fond, and spend the money in clothes for poor children, would there
be as many without clothes as there are now? Well, of course there
wouldn't, 'quite' so many, and yet it doesn't seem the same thing. I'm
all mixed up. 'Do' you suppose I ought to go without gloves?"
══════════
A STRANGE COMPANION.
THE winter of the year 1709 was one of extreme cold; scarcely ever was
a colder winter known in Europe. In France many people froze to death
in their beds, not only among the mountains, but even in the villages
and cities. The hottest fire was not sufficient to keep a room warm.
Sparrows and crows and jackdaws sometimes fell down dead while flying
in the air. Large flocks of sheep and cattle froze in the barn-yards.
During this winter a poor little Savoyard boy was wandering the streets
of Luneville, in Lothringia. He was an orphan. His older brother, who
had taken care of him, was frozen to death.
The little Savoyard boy wandered about from house to house to get a
little employment or a piece of bread. He was glad to blacken boots or
shoes, dust clothes, clean dishes in the kitchen, or do anything that
would give him a cent. But when night came on, his sufferings became
intense. He had slept with his brother in a carpenter's shop, where the
two had covered themselves with an old foot-cloth, on which they piled
shavings very high. But now he was alone, and would certainly freeze in
the carpenter's shop.
At length, the wife of an hostler took compassion on him. She showed
him a little sleeping-place in one of the stalls in the stable where
the horses of a certain prince were kept. In this stall there stood an
iron cage in which a large brown bear was confined, for the beast was
very wild and angry. The boy lay down upon some straw, and stretched
out his hand to pull more. As he stretched out his hand, he put it
between the bars of the cage in which the beast was, and found that a
large pile was there. Thinking it was better to get in where the straw
was, he crawled through the bars. The bear only grumbled a little, and
the boy offered up a prayer which his mother had taught him, and then
committed himself to the keeping of his Heavenly Father.
The bear took the little stranger between her paws and pressed him near
her warm breast and against her thick skin, so softly and comfortably
that he who had not slept for many nights with any comfort now forgot
all fear, and soon fell into a sweet, deep sleep.
In the morning, the boy waked up with renewed strength, and crept out
of the cage. At night, he returned to his strange mother. Beside the
bear, there lay a great many pieces of bread which had been brought
from the table of the prince, but the bear had eaten all she wanted,
and these were left. So the little Savoyard helped himself to all he
needed. He then lay quietly down between the paws of his thick-clad
mother, who pressed him to her as she had done before, and slept there
as in the warmest feather-bed.
In this way he spent five nights without anybody knowing it. On the
morning of the sixth night, he overslept himself, so that when the
hostlers went around with lanterns in the early morning, to attend the
many horses in the stable, they saw the boy lying between the paws of
the great bear. The old bear grunted a little, as if she was very much
offended at any one seeing her taking care of her little favorite. The
boy sprang up and squeezed through the cage, to the great astonishment
of the bystanders.
This strange affair became widely known, and created much wonder
throughout the city. Although the modest Savoyard was very much ashamed
that any one should know that he had slept in the arms of a bear, he
was ordered to appear in the presence of the prince, to whom he told
his recent experience. The prince appointed a day for him to come
again. The boy came, and, in the presence of the prince and princess
and many people of rank, he was requested to enter the cage where the
great bear was. She received him as kindly as ever, and pressed him to
her breast.
The good prince now understood that the bear (or, rather, God working
providentially through the bear) had been the means of saving the poor
little orphan boy from death. No person had taken care of him, yet in
the very coldest night of that remarkable winter, this rough bear was
the means of saving his life. The little Savoyard never forgot how God
had spared him in his great need.
"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in time of
trouble."—_S. S. Visitor._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CLAUDE.
FAR, far away, and a long time ago, there lived a famous soldier, and
he had a wife and boy whom he loved very much. But his king one day
commanded him to take ten thousand soldiers and hurry away to a distant
land and subdue the people who had rebelled. They were a great people,
and very fierce in battle, and to fall into their hands as captives was
to meet a terrible death. So it was a sad day indeed when this husband
and father had to kiss his wife and child for what might be the last
time.
They went with him down to the sea-side, and saw his great army, with
flashing swords, enter the ships and sail away eastward. Then the
mother clasped her boy to her heart and wept. But the brave little
fellow cheered her up, saying, "Don't cry, mamma, dear! He'll come back
to-morrow, I guess, and bring all those wild, bad people with him, with
heavy chains on their hands; and the battles will all be over, and papa
will go no more to dreadful war, and he will stay with us for ever and
ever and ever, and we'll be 'so' happy,—won't we, mamma, dear? And then
some day we'll go into a beautiful ship, and sail away off, off, and
see all the curious people, and birds, and flowers, and, oh! ever so
many things,—won't we, mamma, dear? Now, don't cry any more. There, let
me wipe that naughty tear away; and you mustn't let any more come."
And the dear child suited the deed to the word, and with one, two,
three, a hundred warm kisses in turn, they hastened home.
So the day went away and the next came, and early little Claude awoke,
and begged his mamma to make him ready to go down to the ships and meet
"dear, grand papa." But his mamma put him off that time, promising to
go as soon as a letter should come. So another day and another flew by;
and one Saturday evening, as darkness began to steal all through the
city, and the lamps were being lighted, Claude crept into his mother's
lap, and, looking earnestly into her face, began, "When will he come?
Oh, when will he come? I'm so tired waiting!"
But the little head was weary and soon Claude was fast asleep,
dreaming; while dear mamma softly murmured:
"He is coming o'er the sea,—
He is coming back to me!"
But Claude's "to-morrow" grew into one long year.
Then, one day, the postman came hurrying in at the doorway with a
letter. It was from "papa." The war was over. He was leading his
shattered ten thousand home; but they had many captives in chains, and
other strange things, from that far-away land.
"And," said the postman, as he stood a moment while mamma broke the
seal and read, "they say they are in sight now, and the whole city is
hurrying to the wharf." And away he ran with the excited multitude.
Sure enough, out on the rough waters, with sails pressed by the winds,
the very same ships were steering straight for the city, and here and
there the flashing swords could be seen, and flags flying, and music
swelling.
"There he is, mamma!" shouted Claude, as he saw a fine figure step from
the boat; and a loud huzza rang from street, balcony, and house-top.
"Hail to the chief
Who in triumph advances!—"
broke from a hundred players on instruments. And the grand procession
swept through the avenues, the king wearing his radiant diadem, by his
side the conqueror, grand papa; then his brave army, with their bronzed
faces and bruised bodies, their broken blades and tattered colors; then
a thousand dark-skinned, frowning rebel chiefs, wearing chains, and
following the triumphal chariots of the conquerors. Then came Claude's
other curious things,—birds and weapons of war so very strange,
battle-flags, and ever so many other things that can't be told.
But it was over soon. And grand, brave papa that evening sat, in the
twilight, with Claude on his knee, and patient, happy mamma by his
side, telling over all the battle-scenes, and how many hairbreadth
escapes he had had, and how once he had a hand-to-hand encounter with
the great rebel chief himself, and finally slew him.
"Brave, grand papa!" shouted Claude; and he threw his arms around
papa's neck so firmly as almost to choke him.
Two or three days after that, they went up to the great museum, and
there, all about, they saw "the spoils of war,"—among them the curious
and wonderful things that Claude's papa had brought from the enemy's
country. Claude is looking at some of them now, and exclaiming, all the
while, "Brave, grand papa!"
But there's a braver and grander conqueror than Claude's papa. He went
from his glorious home on high. He came to the rebels of this world. He
conquered Death and Hell. But, ah! what he suffered to do it, no tongue
can tell. In a little while, he is coming to His waiting family. Then
they will be forever and forever with him. Are you his child?
══════════
MARY BURTON ABROAD.
_LONDON, August 18—._
"LOLLIE, DEAREST,— That last letter closed right in the middle of
it! Uncle hurried me,—said there wasn't time for another word, and
wouldn't even wait for me to sign my name. I was glad for one thing:
auntie didn't see it; she would have been sure to laugh over it. Don't
you think I didn't even reach the subject that I intended most of my
letter to be about! I was only going to say a few words about Royal
Albert Hall, and then I meant to tell you of the Monument. All those
adjectives about having a 'wonderful' in the first part, referred to
the Monument. I shall never learn how to 'condense information.'
"I'll start with the Monument, this time, or rather with the steps
leading to it,—Lollie, the most wonderful flight of steps! They are of
granite, and they form a regular pyramid, stretching nearly two hundred
feet in length. The platform at the top is laid in lovely colored
stones, from different quarries in England.
"There is a great gilt railing all around the pyramid. At the four
corners are lovely groups of statuary, in Italian marble. They are
supposed to be pictures of the four quarters of the globe. Some of them
are so strange! The figures are immense. Europe is a woman, seated on a
bull; she has a crown on her head, a sceptre in one hand, and a globe
in the other. England, Italy, France, and Germany sit around her. They
are women, too. England is sitting on a rock, with the waves of the sea
dashing against her; she has a shield in one hand, and a trident in
the other. Now, if you are no wiser than I, you will want to know what
a trident is like. It is a sort of sceptre, and has three prongs, or
teeth. Neptune, the god of the ocean, is generally pictured as carrying
a trident. So I suppose England thinks she rules the ocean. I asked why
the sceptre was named trident. Uncle laughed, and said—
"'Here is our young interrogation-point on hand again.'
"And Stacey added, giving me a survey from head to feet, 'A little grey
thing that asks questions.'
"Well, I said, 'None of that answers my question.'
"Then Mr. Burnham called on Stacey for an answer, and he said he was
sure he did not know; so as usual, Mr. Burnham had to tell me. It
seems 'dent' is the French for teeth, and 'tri' is the Latin for the
number three; and as this sort of sceptre has three teeth, it is named
'trident.' I do like to know the reason why of things.
"Italy sat on a broken marble pillar, with a pallet and a lyre at her
feet; that is because Italy is such a musical and artistic country, but
I don't see why the pillar that she sits on should be a broken one.
France is all ready for war and victory; she rests her right hand on a
sword, and holds a wreath of laurel in her left, to crown the victor.
Germany is studying her lesson, an open book on her lap. I don't think
Germans study any harder than other people, do you? But they were all
very, very beautiful.
"At the next corner, Asia is pictured by five human beings and an
elephant. A woman is seated on his back, just taking off her veil; a
Persian stands beside her with his pen in his hand, a Chinaman on the
other side with a lovely Chinese vase in his arms. A little at one
side stands an Indian in full war dress, and an Arab, who has just
jumped from his camel, leans against the saddle. I liked Asia ever so
much—there was something so wild and grand in all their faces. I don't
see how such things can be made in marble. Why, it seemed to me that I
could see the fringe of the Persian's shawl!
"At the next corner was Africa: a kneeling camel, with an Egyptian
princess on his back; a Nubian standing beside her, with his hand on an
ancient monument; a Moorish merchant in striped dress, turban, pipe,
and a bale of goods at his feet, is the next figure; and the last is a
negro, with his chains broken and lying at his feet.
"At the next corner is America. A woman seated on a buffalo is riding,
or looks as if she were, through long prairie grass; she carries a
shield on her arm, which has an American eagle on it and a Canada
beaver. The United States stands at her side,—a lovely woman, with a
sash made of marble going over her right shoulder; it is all full of
stars; she wears an eagle's plume on her head, pinned on with a star.
Canada stands at the other side, looking at her; she is dressed in
furs, her head-dress of leaves, a pair of snow-shoes at her feet. A
rattlesnake is slipping through the grass, away from the United States.
Mexico is there, in furs and panther skins; and South America is a
prairie hunter, with South American lilies lying at his feet.
"Now, just think, Lollie, of seeing all these wonderful and beautiful
marbles on the platform of the Monument! You see, we haven't reached
the Monument yet; in feet, we haven't 'half' reached it yet. There is
ever so much more to tell you about.
"Lollie, I shall certainly have to wait until to-morrow before
finishing my story. It is time to go to supper now; I hear the first
gong sounding. Just think of writing a long letter, and not getting
through with a description of one monument! But then, it is the most
wonderful monument there is in the world. I do think Queen Victoria
must have loved her husband very much; some way, it never has seemed to
me as though queens really 'loved' people."
"You see," said Mary, explaining the matter, as they sat on the
doorstep, after tea, "I don't get much time for studying up and finding
out all these things, and so I have to cut my stories short, right in
the middle of them, so you will get a letter every week. I pretend to
write it all at once; but, dear me! sometimes I only write three lines
in a day. I was all yesterday afternoon finding out about a trident.
That about the gong sounding for supper I put in, because I heard old
Moolie's cow-bell tinkling, and I knew she was milked, and that mother
would want me to carry the milk to Mrs. Patton's."
Then both girls laughed merrily.
"It is very interesting," said Lollie. "I am in such haste to hear
about the Monument that I can hardly wait. I didn't know there were
such beautiful things in London."
"Nor I," said Mary. "I wonder if Ethol has been to see it? They are in
London now; they have been there for two weeks."
"Why don't you ever put Ethel into your letters?" Lollie asked.
"Oh, I don't know; I can't. Some way, it doesn't seem as if she would
say anything to put in a letter. I can imagine myself talking with
uncle and auntie, but I have to leave Ethel out. I wish she would write
to me. Wouldn't it be nice to get a 'truly' letter from Europe?"
"Perhaps so, but I like my imaginary letters from Europe ever so much;
I am learning a great deal from them. And, Mary, dear, there is one
thing that I like very much,—the little bits of earnest talk which you
have with Mr. Burnham."
"I do, truly, have those talks," said Mary, thoughtfully.
══════════
[Illustration: LITTLE GRETCHEN.]
THE MHOWAH TREE.
IT grows in the forests of India,—a very large, beautiful tree. Did you
ever see an old-fashioned candelabra? It is said that the branches of
this tree look very much like one. They are in regular rows, and rise
almost like the different stories of houses, one above another. The
leaves are dark green, and the foliage is so thick that the shade under
the tree is complete.
It has some very strange habits. For instance, if you lived near one,
some night in February you might go to bed, leaving the tree dressed
in its beautiful green robes, and the next day it would be perfectly
bare, not a leaf to be seen! In a very few days all the branches will
be covered with clusters of flowers; they are of a pale yellow color,
about the size of a grape, and look more like fruit than flowers. In
a short time they get ripe, and down they drop, not quite so fast as
the leaves did, but in a few days the branches are bare again. Now, I
suppose you think the work of the tree is done for that season, but it
is not, by any means. It goes to work at once to dress itself in those
lovely green leaves again. If you have never been in any warm climate,
you probably never saw a tree that could begin to work as fast as the
mhowah. By April, this second crop of leaves is gone, and it is covered
with nuts; they are shaped like almonds, have pretty purple shells,
inside of which are white nuts that are delicious.
Now, what do you suppose the natives do with the great crop of leaves
that fall so fast? Do you think they are left to wither and crackle
under foot, and are finally gathered and burned, like our autumn
leaves? Not a bit of it! They are very useful leaves. If you lived in
India, I presume you would sleep in a bed made of them,—and a very
nice bed it is said to be. Then, more than likely, your house would
be roofed with them, and the hat you wore would be made of them! Then
the flowers, surely they are useless? A native Indian would be shocked
to hear you hint such a thing! Nothing can be more useful than those
flowers. Let me tell you, if for any reason the mhowah trees get lazy
and do not make many flowers, there follows a famine! The people
depend on them for bread. They eat them just as they find them under
the trees, and they make cakes of them, and they dry them, and grind
them into flour, and make bread of them; they make wine and brandy and
vinegar of them. So, you see, they can be used, like our wheat, for
bread or for poison. The nuts, too, are made into very nice cakes, and
the oil is pressed out of them for cooking. Then the bark of the tree
furnishes ropes, and the wood builds good houses. Did you ever in your
life hear of a more useful tree?
Now, I have something sad to tell you about it. The people who enjoy
this wonderful tree are not acquainted with its Maker. Indeed, they
seem to think that it made itself, and they worship it as a god. How
much they need to be taught about the great God who made heaven and
earth!
══════════
A NEW USE FOR A BARREL.
HUNT up on your maps the Straits of Magellan: look at the mountains
hanging over; imagine the point of rock that leans the farthest out,
and think of a barrel hung by a heavy chain swinging there. That is a
post-office!
The postmaster doesn't stay up there to deliver the mails, and no
postman unlocks it; in fact, it has no key. Yet it is a grand old
post-office. Ships coming along that way stop and fish out packages
of precious letters that have been dropped therein, see if they can
find any that want to travel their way, and if so, they take them on.
In their place, they leave a package which wants to go in another
direction, and some day a ship comes along, studies the direction of
that package, says, "Ah, I can take that," and away she sails.
And the barrel swings, doing its duty day by day without being watched,
sending joy to many hearts.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE BALL THAT CROSSED THE OCEAN.
SOME people helped it of course. Jennie and Eva Marsh had a hand in
it. You see it was drawing near to Christmas time, and a great many
children in the Mission Sabbath School were to have presents made ready
for the Christmas tree. There was not a great deal of money to spend,
so the teachers put their heads together and agreed to make a good many
of the presents. Mrs. Marsh promised, for her share of the making, to
have eighteen good, bounding balls, covered with bright leather, ready
for the tree. She remembered that Jennie at least, and perhaps Eva,
could help at that.
Well, what has that to do with Pierre Riton, the little French boy,
who had come with his father across the ocean, leaving the mother, and
two little sisters and a brother, behind? Why, Pierre was one of the
Mission scholars, brought in by Eva herself; he was a friend of hers.
She delighted in looking through the windows of the shop where his
father worked. Pierre brought home fruits sometimes from the market,
for Mrs. Marsh. One day, he saw the balls being made. He told it as a
secret to Eva that he would give all the money he could earn in most a
month, if he could have one of those red balls "right away!"
"Why," said Eva, "you are to have one on Christmas, you know."
Ah, yes, but he didn't want to wait until Christmas, he wanted it
"now." And being coaxed for the reason, he explained that his brother
Claude, away off in France, had never seen such a ball as that, and
never had any Christmas presents anyway. He would give most anything to
be able to send Claude a red ball.
"I could put it in the post-office," he said, growing eager over the
plan; "I've got one of them green things that they do it with."
"Green things?" said puzzled Eva.
"Why, yes; them green heads, made of paper, that they lick, and stick
on."
"Oh," said Eva, "you mean postage-stamps."
Very much more talk they had about it, all in broken English on
Pierre's part. I wish I could tell you "how" he talked, but I find it
easier to translate into real English, than to spell his words. They
separated at last, Eva bent on getting a ball for Pierre three weeks
before Christmas, if she could.
She told mother that it was a great secret, but it was a nice one; and
Pierre would be so glad he would want to cry, if he could only have a
ball "right away." Mrs. Marsh said she didn't know as she wanted the
poor little fellow to be glad enough to cry, but as the balls cost but
a trifle, the work being the most of them, he should have his the next
morning.
"Look here!" said the postmaster, two mornings after that, holding in
his hand a queer-looking little ball, done up in brown paper a trifle
soiled by paste and ink, directed to "Claude Riton, France;" after
which followed directions in a mixture of French and English; Eva and
Pierre in their united wisdom having decided that while the ball was
traveling through America, the address must be English, and when it
got to France, of "course" it must be in French. A three-cent "green
head" had been carefully "stuck on," and altogether it was the queerest
looking little package that had ever begged for a place in the mail bag.
The gentleman to whom it had been shown, laughed heartily, then asked
many questions.
"He is a good little fellow," explained the postmaster, talking about
Pierre. "He works hard, and his father is really one of the hardest
workers I ever saw. He is trying to earn money enough to bring over the
wife and children, but I'm afraid it will be a long time first. I don't
know what to do with this precious bundle; it will never find its way
to France gotten up in this style."
"I'll tell you what to do with it," said the gentleman. "Give it to me;
I shall be in France in three weeks more, if all goes well, and one of
my letters of introduction has that street. I've a fancy to see if I
can't find the youngster, and give him his package. You tell the boy it
went safely across."
Wasn't it strange that it should have been Mr. Stuart, the travelling
partner of the great business firm, to whom Pierre's ball was shown!
As strange as the rest of the story! Mr. Stuart went to France, went
to the very street, and found Claude,—all by accident, as you would
say, too,—gave him the ball, and heard its story; saw the neat, little
French woman with her bright, black eyes, and smiling face. His wife
saw her, too, and engaged her, first to sew, and then to trim, and then
to do fine ironing? What could "not" the bright-eyed little French
woman do?
The story grows too long.
Mr. Stuart and his wife stayed and "stayed" in France. Stayed so long
that the quick-handed French woman became almost a necessity to them.
And when they found how eager she was to get to Buffalo, and how hard
she was working to earn money enough to go, I'm sure it is not strange
that Mr. Stuart arranged it all so that she could work her own, and her
children's passage, and go back with them in the next steamer.
"It is very strange," said Pierre, sadly, to Eva, one Sunday at Sabbath
school, "it is very strange that I don't hear anything about the ball.
I'm afraid Claude never got it, after all."
"Oh, I 'know' he got it," said Eva, with shining eyes; "for I asked
Jesus, every day, to be sure to have it go to him; and Jesus 'always'
does things."
"Does he?" said Pierre, with wondering look. He had not known much
about Jesus before he came to America.
"Then I better ask him to bring my mother, and Claude, and the wee
ones, I want them 'so.'" The words were so broken, Eva could only
understand part of the sentence, but she understood the longing in his
voice and the tears in his eyes, and said earnestly,—
"O, I would, every 'single' day; and I will, too; and He will surely do
it."
Wasn't it nice that two weeks from that time, on Saturday afternoon,
the five o'clock train from New York brought mother, and Claude, and
the wee ones?
The ball, or the love, or the prayers, or all of them together, had
reached away to France, and brought the dear ones across the ocean to a
new home.
══════════
PEOPLE! PEOPLE! PEOPLE!
EVER so many of them, and of all sorts. I wonder if you could guess
their character from studying their faces? Don't you know that some
people are very skilful in this? Suppose you try it. Let us begin with
this one. Study the shape of his mouth and nose, for wise people say
that they tell a great deal about character. Is this man good or bad,
weak or strong, wise or foolish?
[Illustration]
He lived a great many years ago, and was an emperor. I think he was,
perhaps, a better man than most of those who lived at the same time.
He loved peace, and did all he could to keep the world quiet, and at
peace. He thought a great deal of learning, and encouraged scholars to
write books that would be helpful to others. I suppose all the boys,
at least, have heard of two writers named Virgil and Horace. They were
friends of this man, and he encouraged them to write the books which
are being studied yet.
So good a ruler was he, compared with those who had been before him,
that many thought he was the great "Deliverer" to whose coming they
had been looking forward. It was he who made a law that all the world
should be taxed; and it was because of this law that the "Deliverer"
was born in Bethlehem instead of in the town where his father and
mother lived. Now, I presume, you know who I mean, and the name of this
great man, a copy of whose statue I have shown you. But for fear that
some of you do not remember his name, I will ask you to look in the
first-verse of the second chapter of Luke, where you will find it.
I have also given you, on the next page, a picture of the chief country
over which he ruled. Great as this man was, how do you suppose he died?
Not long before his death, there was war in his country, and his army
was conquered. When the emperor heard the news, he sat down in a corner
and cried! Every little while he would knock his head against a wall,
and cry out to the enemy to give him back his soldiers. A few hours
before he died, he asked for a mirror, saying that he wanted to see if
his hair and beard were in order! Then he asked a friend if he had not
played his part well, recited a verse from a play, and so died. How
poor a death for a great man! The "Deliverer" had come, but I am afraid
the Emperor had not accepted him.
[Illustration]
Hasn't this man more than his share of shoulders? I wonder if you would
choose him for a friend? Look what a wonderful forehead he has. When
this portrait was taken, he must have been thinking about something
that interested him very much. Now I will venture to guess what it was.
A row of figures! You can think of ever so many more interesting things
than that,—can't you? But this man was a wonderful mathematician. I
suppose the greatest who lived, at least, at that time. He was very
useful in time of war, for he invented mathematical machines which
would crush the soldiers of the enemy.
One dreadful day an army marched into the city, having found a weak
spot in the great wall, and a party of soldiers came into this man's
study. What was he doing? Why, adding his figures! So eager over them
that he had not heard a bit of all the roar of war! A soldier swung his
sword over the scholar's head, and he glanced up at it and muttered:
"Wait until I get the answer to this problem!" But the man did not
wait, and Archimedes was killed. Now, do you know, it makes me feel
very sad to look at this man, and read of his death, and know how great
he was in some things, and remember that even when dying, he thought
only of his problem? I am afraid he had never studied out the answer to
the question: "What shall a man give in exchange for his soul?"
[Illustration]
Well, I know a boy who gives nearly all of his time to trying to invent
a machine that will go up like a balloon! He neglects his studies, and
his work, and plods over this all the while. He even thinks about it on
Sunday, when he is in church.
Once, in Sabbath School, his teacher asked him where Jesus was when
Lazarus died, and he said: "If I had a piece of wire fine enough, and
at the same time, strong enough, I could do it!" To be sure, he was not
speaking to his teacher, but to a boy who sat near him, talking about
his balloon. What strange people there are, and always have been, in
this world!
[Illustration]
This man has plenty of nose. I rather like his face, though he cannot
be called handsome. Notice his low, narrow forehead, and dull eyes.
Poor man! When there were dreadful troubles in his city, he hid himself
lest he might be murdered; but he was found. The people did not want to
murder him, but to make him emperor. He was a kind-hearted man, who had
one weakness. He promised all sorts of good things, some of which he
could not possibly keep, and some of which he forgot. There are people
living now, who do just as strange things as that.
I know a young miss, who always promises to write to every one who
asks her. If she should keep all her promises, she could not do
anything else from morning till night, but write letters; and the
truth is, there is nothing she dislikes more to do. If she writes to
her grandmother once a month, she thinks she has done wonders! Yet she
keeps on promising.
Well, this poor man, Claudius by name, had a most unhappy life. Of his
four wives, I hardly know which was the most disagreeable; though I
suppose the last one, Aggripina, was really the wickedest. She had a
son, named Nero, who she meant should be emperor; so, after tormenting
poor Claudius in many ways, she finished up by poisoning him with a
dish of food, which she pretended to have cooked nicely for him. To
the doctor, who was called when he was taken sick, she gave a large
sum of money, on condition that he would take care not to make the
emperor well. So he died, fifty-four years after the Deliverer came!
How wonderful to think that he, and his wife, and all those miserable
people, lived at the same time with the loving Jesus, who would have
made them happy in life and in death, if they would only have listened
to his words, and obeyed his teachings.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LUCIEN IN TROUBLE.
FOR that matter he was "always" in trouble. The first sentence he ever
remembered hearing about himself was that he was a "bad boy." His
father was dead, and his mother was dead, and Lucien thought his aunt,
who took care of him, believed that he ought to be dead. She "knew" he
was a bad boy. Lucien knew it too, and did his best to have the name
fixed to him. From morning till night, and really it seemed sometimes,
from night till morning, he was in mischief; real ugly mischief too.
It ended as such things so often end, in his doing something so
much worse than he intended when he began, that he found himself,
one miserable morning, under lock and key!—charged with stealing a
purse with gold pieces in it! Poor Lucien! Nobody would help him. His
miserable aunt was the only friend he had, if she could be called a
friend. She lived in a hovel, and worked out by the day, when she had
not been drinking too much bad wine to do so. It was in this way it
happened that Lucien was sent to Mettray. For he lived in France, and
in that country there is a spot where bad boys are sent, called "The
Mettray Homes." Lucien called it a prison, and cried all night when he
found he was really going there. He was only ten years old, poor boy.
I don't know that I can explain to you his surprise when he first
saw the Mettray Home. A lovely village green, beautifully laid out,
grass plats in the centre, flowers blooming, vines climbing, a pretty
church, and all around it the most charming cottages that Lucien had
ever seen. One, two, three, twenty of them. What a place for bad boys.
He had never been so close to nice homes before. There began Lucien's
first knowledge of a real home. For the first time in his life, he sat
down to a nicely spread table, beautiful white table cloth, carefully
prepared food, bouquets of flowers at either end of the table, beauty,
and comfort, and order everywhere. For the first time in his life
he went to bed at night in a small, white bed, most carefully made;
sheets and pillow-case most purely white everything about him sweet,
and clean, and orderly. He went alone into a bath-room, and had fresh
towels given him, and fresh clothes, and came out of it feeling like
a fresh boy. If this was a "House of Correction," Lucien began to
think that to be corrected was a very nice thing. Poor "bad boys!" A
great many of them are bad, because they have never been taught to be
anything else; never had any chances.
There were other things that Lucien had for the first time. A certain
hour for getting up, when a clear and joyful bugle call sounded and
immediately all the boys hopped up. There were forty of them in a home.
The very next thing after the hopping up came the kneeling down to
pray. Now Lucien had never knelt down to pray in his life; but when
he saw all the boys on their knees in front of the long rows of white
beds, what could he do but go on his knees too? What should he say? He
didn't know; but, for almost the first time in his life, he thought
about the God who made him, and resolved to ask one of the boys as soon
as he got a chance, what they said mornings, on their knees.
Next came the dressing. Then the bugle sounded, and they marched away
to wash, then to breakfast. What a day it was to Lucien, that first
one! He was set to work like the rest. During working hours, he worked
in the sweet-smelling fields; then the school bugle sounded, and he
actually went to school! No. Lucien did not know how to read! Nobody
had ever taught him.
There is just one thing about which I want to tell you. Lucien had not
been in that house three days, when he got into trouble. He saw on
the table of one of the teachers a queer-shaped, little gold pin. Now
he had never stolen anything in his life; yet here he was sent to the
house of correction for stealing! And, although it was the pleasantest
place he ever heard of, and he wouldn't go away for anything, still
they had no business to send him here for stealing; but, since they had
made him out a thief, why shouldn't he take this gold pin? So he took
it. In less than ten minutes he was sorry. And all the afternoon, he
watched for a chance to put it back in the teacher's room. No chance
came. When he heard the boys in his house talking about their chances
for getting the flag next time, he felt worse than ever. The flag, you
must know, was a mark of honor. It travelled from house to house, never
floating over those whose inmates were in disgrace from bad behavior.
Things looked as though Lucien would be the means of losing them the
flag.
"Halloo!" he said that evening, wandering through the house. "What does
this mean?"
It was a box of large size, and on the front of it in great, clear
letters was printed,—
"FOR THINGS LOST!"
"Why," explained Leon, "don't you know about that box? Some of the
fellows who haven't been here but a little while, take things that
don't belong to them, you know. Then they get sorry for it, and if they
are sorry enough to drop the things into that great box, not a word is
said about it. They give them a week to be sorry in."
"I don't need a week," said Lucien to himself. And in less than another
hour, the queer-shaped gold pin, was lying in the big box.
There is so much more that I would like to tell you about "The Mettray
Homes" and Lucien's stay there. I would like to tell you how he learned
the carpenter's trade, and when he became a man built fine houses,
earned much money, and every year sent a present to the boys in the old
home. Don't you think, he even hunted out the bad aunt, grown to be an
old woman, and took care of her until she died! Better than all the
rest, he learned "what to say" when the bugle called the boys to their
knees; and to-day he is a soldier of the Lord Jesus Christ. The home at
the left of the church is one in which he lived three happy years.
══════════
TWO CHRISTMAS BABES.
A GREAT many years ago there was a beautiful city, away over the ocean;
and it had a palace, large and grand, all furnished in gorgeous style.
And the people who lived there were grand. It is said they dressed in
purple and linen very fine, and rode in golden chariots, and their
horses were swift as the wind. And the people took off their hats, as
they went grandly by, and did obeisance. And they feasted daily, and
had men and women singers. And at night the great hall of the palace
was lighted with a thousand lights; and they danced to the sound of the
sweetest music. And the servants, gayly dressed, served the wines and
delicacies. And it was so, day after day.
It is said that on one beautiful evening, just before the old year died
away, and the new one took its place, a baby was born in that palace.
And the word went round, and the servants sang for joy, and the harpers
in the hall harped sweetly. It was a beautiful child, they said, with
eyes so blue and limbs so round, and dimpled cheeks. And dukes and
lords came with costly gifts. And sages said how great and good the
child would be. And they say the little one slept on a bed of rarest,
softest make; no breath of cold air came near him. As for his food,
some say 'twas almost like that of angels. And he grew to be a handsome
lad.
This may not all be true about him. But there we'll leave him for
twenty years or more; then you shall see him again, and say how
beautiful and good—or bad he is, and tell his name.
About that time, 1880 years ago (December 25), another child was born,
not far from that palace. But his parents were poor and far from home,
and the night settled down over the land. And they knocked at many a
door for a lodging place, but not a soul in all that city full, bid
them come in. Weary and sick, they begged a place in a barn from the
cold night and prowling thieves.
Ah, children! What if to-night some dear one of yours were turned out
into the cold, or shivering in some dark, lonely barn, upon a heap
of straw! You'd hurry to the poor sick one, and let her have your
soft warm bed? Some of you would, I do believe. If you knew where a
certain hungry child is, with his dying mother, alone in an attic in
this great city,—for friends they have none,—you'd go right there now;
you'd carry them something from your own mother's pantry, and your own
soft hand would wipe baby's tears away, and you would say to that sad
mother—"Come home to my house; we will care for you. Don't cry any
more."
Yes, I know you would. God bless you, dear child; may you comfort many
a sad heart, in Jesus' name, ere you go before the Great White Throne,
and He will say to you, "Come, ye blessed of my Father, for I was an
hungered, and ye gave me meat; athirst, and ye gave me drink; naked,
and ye clothed me; sick and in prison, and ye visited me."
But no one took that tired father and mother in and cared for them, or
watched with them that night, but the beasts that chewed their hay near
by.
Ah, yes! There were angels hovering round, and God looked on tenderly
when that babe was born and laid in the manger.
I know not if it had rosy cheeks like the other, and dimpled arms,
eyes as stars, and locks like ravens. No painter seems to have cared
enough for such a babe to paint it. Yet I suppose no child you ever
saw had face and form so fair, so pure, so sweet as his. Fine feathers
may make pretty birds, but handsome boys and girls are those who walk
in God's commands blameless. And you should have seen this holy child,
with mother and father, at home. Ah! Find me the boy, the girl, that's
beautiful at home; there's your treasure, there's a belle indeed.
Well, so he grew; and I cannot tell how many sad souls he soothed, how
many hungry mouths he fed, how many sick and suffering ones he healed.
I cannot tell the thousandth of all the blessed things he said and did;
this church could not hold the books about them.
But one night, while he was praying in a garden all alone, a band of
wicked soldiers came and bound his blessed hands, and led him off to
prison. And base men swore false things about him. So he was condemned
to die like an awful murderer. And then they mocked him, and cut his
quivering-flesh with whips, and spit into his sweet, sad face; and,
last of all, they drove sharp spikes through his hands, and then hung
him thus upon the cross, and a cruel soldier drove an iron spear into
his side, and his head and hands and body streamed with blood; and
all the while a thousand wretches went mocking by. So he suffered as
never any suffered, and after a few hours, he died in great agony, yet
praying for those wicked men to the last.
But who do you suppose let all this cruelty come? Who commanded the
Babe of Bethlehem, when he became a man, to be crucified?
It was no other than the handsome lad we saw twenty years before. He
was a man now and a ruler. He was Pontius Pilate. He crucified the Lord
of Glory. Shall I say that one babe killed the other? How dreadful the
thought!
But this is Christmas or Christ-mas. It comes, not from that grand
palace, but from the birth of Bethlehem's Babe in that lonely barn. And
this Babe, this Jesus, has friends and bitter foes to-day. There are
but two sides. Every one is for him or against him; on Jesus' side or
Pilate's side; Christian, or a crucifier of Christ. You cannot have a
real happy Christmas and New Year and, not be on Christ's side. Are you
his? When did you begin to be his? Are you getting all ready to meet
him, when he comes again, not in that Bethlehem barn, but in the clouds
of heaven, with all the holy angels?
══════════
WHAT SUNGA THINKS.
THE Rev. Joseph Reading, who is a missionary in Africa, writes home
some curious and interesting things about the people there. One native
named Sunga comes often to see him, and the other day gave him this
queer account of something that he seems to believe happened.
"A long time ago," said Sunga, "a woman belonging to our tribe, had
a fine plantain garden, and she found that her plantains were being
stolen. She decided to watch for the thief and try to catch him. One
day, to her great surprise, she saw some women come down from heaven
and begin to pick her plantains! She was a brave woman, and rushed in
among them, catching one, but the rest flew away! This one she took
home with her, and married her to her brother, and that brother was a
grandfather or great-grandfather of Sunga!" Think of it!
Mr. Reading says that one of the misfortunes of missionary life in
Africa is, that missionaries must often travel on the Sabbath. When the
churches at home are ready to give them their own mission boats, then
they can anchor on Saturday and keep the Sabbath. But when they have
to travel on trading-vessels, they are, of course, in the hands of the
captain, who runs his boat on Sunday as well as on other days. Another
misfortune I should think was mosquitos. Mr. Reading writes about lying
awake all night, and going "slap! slap! slap!" In the morning, the
report was, that a French priest on board the vessel had been eaten up
by the creatures! This, Mr. Reading said, was not "quite" true! For he
saw him standing near the engine, a very sad and discouraged-looking
man. Some one spoke to him in the Mpongme language, and asked what was
the matter; and he answered: "O, the musticks! the musticks!"
Mr. Reading has a little bit of a girl named Lizzie. She is afraid of
thunder and lightning, and as they have very severe thunder storms in
Africa, she is often very much frightened. One night, there had been an
unusually severe storm; little Lizzie after being very quiet for a few
minutes, said, "Mamma, when I go up to heaven, I mean to ask Jesus to
stop thundering!"
I wonder how the Pansy boys and girls would enjoy life in Africa?
Mr. Reading says that one Sunday which he spent not long ago at a
station called Angala, the women were in great trouble because the
wild elephants had come in and torn up their gardens! During the few
days that he spent there, a hippopotamus, a buffalo, several wild
pigs, and two "manati," were killed! What the last named creatures
are, I do not know, but it is game of some sort. Africa is a very
curious country—worth studying about. The people living there are worth
thinking about, worth working for, praying for. Perhaps some one who
reads this bit about them, will yet go to that far-away land to help
teach them the way to heaven. Who knows?
══════════
MARY BURTON ABROAD. [Cont.]
_LONDON, August 18—._
"NOW, my dear, for the conclusion of that story about the monument.
Where did I leave off? O, I remember, I had just reached the second
flight of stairs. At their top is another platform, of granite and
marble, and all around the four sides are statues of great men;
artists, and scholars. One hundred and sixty-nine statues of life size!
Think of it, Lollie! Raphael sits gazing at his sketch book. Michael
Angelo is leaning on his chair. Then there are Titian and Rembrandt,
and Rubens, and Hogarth, and Murillo, and O, ever so many artists.
Wonderful geniuses they all were. On another side the poets are
gathered: Homer, Milton, Shakespeare, and all the rest of them; then
the great musicians, Beethoven, Mozart, and the rest. On the north side
are figures of great builders. Cheops, and Hiram of Tyre, and all those
old, old men, who lived, it always seemed to me, before the world was
made at all!
"On the four corners of the last platform are four figures which
represent Manufacture, Agriculture, Engineering, and Commerce. How can
they represent such things? Well, listen: There is a woman with her
hand resting on a piece of machinery; in front of her another with
compasses in her hand; and another has a cog wheel; then there is a
man at work, with tools of different kinds scattered around him; all
these in marble, remember. Then another figure is directing a man at
his plough, and beside her sits a woman with her lap full of corn; a
shepherd boy stands near, and his sheep are all around him. At last
you reach on the centre of this platform a lovely house, open on all
sides (O, it is like a church tower), held up by lovely pillars and in
the niches, is more statuary, in bronze, eight figures, each seven and
eight feet high. One is 'Astronomy;' she is holding a globe, and has a
head-dress of stars. Medicine has a cup in her hand, and a serpent at
her side. I suppose there is brandy or alcohol of some kind in her cup.
Physiology has a cunning, little baby in her arms, and a microscope
in one hand. In this lovely spot is the statute of Prince Albert. Of
course we have reached the actual monument now; though I guess I didn't
tell you so. It rises from the centre of that platform I told you of,
where all the great poets and artists are. It is one hundred and eighty
feet high.
"Away at the top of the house where Prince Albert sits, are more
statues, eight feet high. They are perfectly lovely! One is Faith, with
a cross; another is Hope with an anchor; Charity has a burning heart;
Humility has a taper lighted, and there are ever so many more. Then,
above them are eight angels, made of gilt bronze. They are clustering
around the foot of a cross, which crowns the monument.
"Here are the words which are on the monument.
"'QUEEN VICTORIA AND THE PEOPLE
TO THE MEMORY OF ALBERT, PRINCE CONSORT,
AS A TRIBUTE OF GRATITUDE
FOR A LIFE DEVOTED TO THE PUBLIC GOOD.'
"Now I have reached the end of the description of the monument. Don't
you think it must be a wonderful thing? Think of spending over five
hundred thousand dollars for something to mark a grave! Doesn't it seem
strange? 'What did Prince Albert do, anyway?' I asked. And uncle Horace
laughed, and said he married Queen Victoria. But auntie said she didn't
think that was fair, he did a great deal more than that. He was a man
who believed in public improvements, education, and humanity, and did a
great deal for the culture of the people."
[Illustration]
AH HOI.
A TRUE STORY, BY THETA.
HE was just twelve years old; a ragged little fellow, curled behind a
big coil of ropes on the deck of a ship.
The great, beautiful vessel, laden with silks and teas and spices, had
just set sail from the harbor of Shanghai.
The boy was leaving home and friends, yet there was not a tear in his
eye. He was glad to go. In fact, Ah Hoi had put himself on board that
ship without leave from anybody, not even the captain, and now he kept
still as a mouse, fearing lest somebody should come and put him ashore.
Nothing good, as a general thing, can come of a boy's running away from
home; but Ah Hoi's home was such a dreary, filthy hut, and his father
and mother were such wretched people, who cared not so much for him as
your father and mother care for Ponto or Bose.
He was cuffed and kicked about from morning till night, and it was no
wonder that when he found himself sailing away over the blue sea, his
heart gave a great bound of joy.
[Illustration: SAILING AWAY OVER THE BLUE SEA.]
He soon made friends with the captain, and the sailors were kind to
him. They amused themselves teaching him to speak English, and trying
to pronounce the funny sounding words he taught them of his own
language.
In the cabin on the table was a Bible, and Ah Hoi picked out the
letters and learned them. It was not long before he could read words
of three or four letters. One of the old sailors took a great deal of
pains with him, and was constantly giving him words to spell, so that
he learned very fast, and began to read by slowly spelling out the
words. He read in the Gospel of John, because the sailor said that was
"good easy reading." In the third chapter, he found a wonderful verse,
and it was this:
"For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that
whosoever believeth on him should not perish, but have everlasting
life."
For a long time back something had stirred within the heart of this boy
over the sea, and made him long for something better and different. It
had begun to seem foolish to him to pray to paper gods, and his father
had to whip him to get him to do it.
The words of that verse took hold of him, and he read more about the
Son of God, and then he began to pray that God would teach him.
The dear Lord heard him, for He always hears and answers such a prayer.
He sent the Holy Spirit to his heart, and he understood what he
read; and then he believed that the Lord would save him just because
that verse said that He would save "whosoever" would believe on Him.
"Whosoever," said Ah Hoi, "means me. I do believe that means me, too;
then I am saved now, because He said so."
And now all the day long his heart sang for joy; he read eagerly every
word about Jesus, and he was the only one on board the great ship who
prayed.
By and by they arrived in Boston, and the captain went to report the
ship to its owner.
When the business was finished, the captain said: "I have brought back
with me a little Chinese boy that you will be interested in; he is
smart as steel, and a good little fellow as well."
"Send him up to me," said the gentleman.
It would make too long a story to tell all he said to Ah Hoi, but it
was soon arranged that he would take care of him, and send him to
school at once.
And now Ah Hoi was happy. He was hungry for knowledge. He proved to
be a faithful student, and a loyal soldier of Christ. The same kind
friend sent him to college, and then to the Theological Seminary, for
there was nothing in all the world Ah Hoi wanted so much to do, as to
be fitted to tell his own people about how God loved the world, and the
wonderful thing that he did for them because he loved them.
Just as he had nearly finished his studies, a grand embassy arrived
from his own country. They wanted him to travel with them in England
and France, and he did so, because he wanted to improve every
opportunity for getting good and doing good.
And now, returned from his travels educated, with polished manners and
brilliant talents, whoever would have supposed that this could have
been the forlorn little ragged heathen boy that slipped on to the ship
that night in the darkness at Shanghai.
Some gentlemen desired him to stay in America, and they offered him a
fine position with a good salary, but he said:
"No, gentlemen, I am determined to preach the gospel, and where could
he do so much as in his own country, and who could so well tell them
the story of the love of God, as he who understood the language, and
knew more about them than a stranger ever could."
So back he went, and he worked with all his heart and soul, and the
Lord blessed him in his work, for this very day he is at the head of a
college in his own land, training young men to preach the gospel.
————————————
THEIR TREASURES.
HUNDREDS of years ago, in one of the countries of Germany, there was
war. Two leaders, named Konrad and Welf, with their soldiers, met in
battle at the foot of a hill named Weinsberg. On the top of this hill
there was a beautiful castle. You know how the Germans used to build
their castles? Perched up on such high hills that one looks at the
picture in amazement, and wonders how the people ever reached them or
got down again. For instance, here is a picture of Wildenstein Castle.
[Illustration: WILDENSTEIN CASTLE.]
Well, at the foot of a castle that was something like this (only the
hill was not so steep) the two armies fought. Konrad's soldiers won
the victory, and they surrounded the castle and called on the people
hiding there to surrender. They were told that only the men should be
made prisoners, that the women might go quietly away, each taking any
treasure that she could carry. By and by, word came from the castle
that they had accepted the terms, and would surrender. So General
Konrad drew his soldiers in array on either side to leave a path down
the hill for the women and children to pass.
Then what do you think they saw? Each woman had her greatest treasure
on her back, tugging down the hill; and behold, the treasure was a
husband or a father or a brother! They had obeyed the direction, and
were carrying away what was dearest to them.
[Illustration: THE WOMEN OF WEINSBERG.]
General Konrad was so pleased at their sharpness and bravery, that he
at once gave orders that the men were free. Then he sent the women back
up the hill to get their "next" dearest treasures.
The name of the hill was changed, after that, to Weibertrue, which in
German means Woman's Truth. Nearly seven hundred years afterwards, a
beautiful building was put on that same hill, to be used as a home for
good and noble women who were poor. None were received there but those
who had done some good, brave, unselfish thing for other people.
I read this story to a little boy and said to him: "What would you take
as your dearest treasure, my man, if you had to choose one thing and
leave all the rest?"
"I would tie papa and mamma together," he said, his eyes shining,
"and call you one treasure, and take you both." Then, after a little
thought, he added: "But people's very best treasures are inside of
their hearts, where they keep Jesus, and no soldiers could make them
leave 'him' behind. 'Could' they?"
Dear little people, do you carry Jesus "inside your hearts?"
————————————
MARY BURTON AT HOME.
THERE had been an all-day bustle about the Burton kitchen. Mary had had
no chance, and, indeed, no desire, to write her "foreign letter." On
this very day her uncle and aunt and cousin Ethol were expected to make
their first visit since they returned from Europe. That of itself made
bustle enough, but it didn't begin to be all that was going on. Before
this letter telling of the coming of the travellers was received,
it had been planned that Mary should have a nice little birthday
tea-party. The guests were all invited. Lollie, of course, and Mr.
Burnham, the teacher, and Stacey Livermore, beside half a dozen others;
in other words, everybody who was in the history class, beside Lollie
who wasn't in.
Of course the party had to go on, if the travellers "were" coming,
though Mrs. Burton went around looking a little troubled, and wished
that everything didn't come at once. However, Lollie came over early.
After tea, when things had settled down a little, an eager group
gathered around Ethol in the parlor, ready to ply her with questions.
She had been "abroad," and every boy and girl in the history class
wanted to go, and wanted to hear about Europe. So they began:
"Of course, you went to Scotland?"
"Oh yes," said Ethol. "We were there three weeks, and we went
everywhere, and saw everything; though I don't think much of Scotland.
It doesn't begin with Paris."
"How does the Scott Memorial look? Is it handsome?"
"The Scott Memorial? Let me see! I've forgotten where that is. Oh, yes,
I remember, in Glasgow!"
Then did Stacey Livermore and his particular friend George Hudson look
at each other.
"Is that so, Mary?" asked Stacey, looking over to Mary Burton.
"Why, no, Ethol; you mean Edinburgh," Mary said, her cheeks growing red
for Ethol's sake.
"Oh, yes," said Ethel. "One gets things mixed up so after being
everywhere. It is in Edinburgh."
"Which Edinburgh is it, old or new?"
And, behold! Ethel didn't know, and Mary Burton had to be appealed to
again. Neither did she know how tall it was, nor how much it cost, nor
whether it was of marble or granite, and finally confessed that she
could not recall it at all.
"On the whole," said Stacey Livermore, who was an old acquaintance of
Ethol, and seemed to think he was privileged to be rude, "I guess we'll
have to let Mary tell us about it. It seems, after all, that she is the
one who has been abroad."
Ethol's remembrance of Windsor was even worse; and she didn't go to
Stratford-on-Avon at all; in fact, didn't know what the boys meant
when they asked her about it. Royal Albert Hall she had seen, and the
Prince Albert monument, of course; but she did not remember about the
statuary, and when asked to describe just how England and France and
Italy were represented, answered that she didn't know what they meant;
there wasn't a word about any of those countries on the monument. Then
two or three of the boys laughed, and appealed to Mary, who, of course,
could hardly avoid answering their questions. About the Bethnal Green
Museum, Ethol had not so much as heard.
Mr. Burnham came over to their side presently.
"What are you young people doing?" he asked them.
And of course Stacey Livermore was ready with an answer.
"Why, we are hearing about Europe. It seems Mary Burton and Lollie
Adams have been abroad, and they are telling Ethel and us about things."
"How is that, Miss Ethol?" Mr. Burnham said. "Stacey is getting names
mixed, isn't he?"
But Stacey was too quick for her. "No, sir, it's all a mistake. We
were told that Ethol had been all over Europe, and that she would tell
us lots of things. But come to find out she went with her eyes shut,
and Mary here, stayed at home, and kept hers open, and it makes a
difference."
"Stacey thinks because I don't know all about those horrid monuments,
and museums, and things, that I haven't seen anything," Ethel said,
with a very un-grown-up pout on her pretty face.
Then did Mr. Burnham, discovering the trouble, sit down with them, and
wisely ask such questions as he felt certain would draw out Ethol's
knowledge.
Sure enough, she "had" seen things about which she knew, and though
she had not looked at them carefully enough to describe them well, and
though both Mary and Lollie had to be appealed to, to add facts, still
they got on much better, and were all ready for Mr. Burnham's gentle
hint.
"You see, young people, Europe is a large country; there are a great
many things to see. It would be absurd to expect one who had been
abroad but a year, to know all about foreign countries. Quite as absurd
as to suppose that those who stay at home know nothing about them."
"But, after all, sir," said Ethol, speaking respectfully, "don't you
think people have to 'see' things before they can know so very much
about them?"
Mr. Burnham smiled, as he told her that one of the best books ever
written about Europe, was written by a blind man, who, of course, saw
nothing.
Still, she insisted that while people might find out some things by
studying, you could tell in a few minutes' talk which knowledge came
out of books and which came from seeing.
"I should know that you had been all over Europe," she said,
confidently, "by the way in which you speak of things."
Then Stacey Livermore clapped his hands, and Mr. Burnham's niece Helen
laughed; for both of these knew that he had never been abroad in his
life.
"The fact is," said Mr. Burnham, "we have to discover that we don't
know much of anything, before we are ready to learn; and sometimes
it takes half a lifetime to discover that. Still I like the plan
wonderfully that some of this class have been carrying out, that of
studying up foreign countries, and writing about them. If you had only
gone a little farther, and opened correspondence with Ethol, and kept
each other posted, what a mutual benefit you might have been. You could
have used her eyes to see with, and she could have used yours."
Then every one of these young people looked sorrowful, and realized
that here was a lost opportunity.
"Why didn't we think of it?" said Stacey.
And Mary thought, but did not say, that the reason she had not
thought of it, was because she had been so jealous of Ethol and her
opportunities, that it blinded her eyes.
————————————
[Illustration]
BRIBES.
"JUMP up, Dickie, do, there's a good boy!" said poor patient Agnes, as
Dickie lay on the floor and kicked and roared.
"I 'won't' get up! And I 'ain't' a good boy!" snarled Dickie, and he
kicked at the piano, and roared louder than ever.
"That last is true, anyhow," said his older brother, from the sofa
where he was lounging.
Then Agnes said: "Please don't, Henry, you make him so much worse; and
I can't do anything with him when he gets in one of these spells, and
mamma is away. Dickie, dear, if you will get up this minute and be a
good boy, I'll give you a great big orange."
"I want two oranges and a bunch of grapes," said Dickie, stopping his
roaring long enough to consider.
"Very well; jump up then, and I'll get them."
So Dickie jumped up.
"The Empress Agnes," said brother Henry; "I declare, the 'name' is all
right, too; look out for yourself, my empress; the story had a bad
ending."
"What story," said the kilt-suited boy of six.
"The story of the Empress Agnes, and her son Heinrich. Your sister is
the empress, and you are Heinrich."
"Tell about them," said this young "Heinrich."
"Why, when he was five years old, his father died. And his mother, the
empress, had more than she could do to manage him and the nobles too;
she used to hire them to behave themselves, just as Agnes hires you
with oranges and grapes, only, instead of those things, she gave them
money and land. They grew worse and worse, just as people always do who
are hired to do right, and by and by they resolved to take the little
boy away from his mother, and refuse to obey her any more. So when he
was about thirteen, they invited him and his mother to a beautiful
island to spend some weeks. Then they asked Heinrich to take a ride in
a boat, and he was no sooner in, than they started for the main-land,
leaving his mother and her maids all alone on the island. Heinrich
tried to jump overboard and swim back to her, but he was caught. Those
were the very people she had coaxed and hired to do right; doing as
wicked a thing as they could."
"I wouldn't have done it," declared Dickie.
"I don't know about it. You think you wouldn't, but you see people who
are never good unless they are hired with oranges and things, never
amount to much."
[Illustration: HEINRICH IV. CARRIED OFF.]
"What became of Heinrich?" said Dickie.
"Oh, Heinrich grew up to be a bad man; a 'very' bad man; and he had
plenty of trouble, just as bad men are sure to have."
"He wasn't the one that they coaxed to be good," said wise-eyed Dickie,
who, though a naughty boy, was a quick-witted one.
"I'm not sure of that. If he had a mother who did not know any better
than to try to hire her nobles, don't you believe she managed her
little boy in much the same way?"
"'My' mother doesn't," said Dickie, and he took his grapes and oranges
and went off to the front porch to watch for her home coming.
"Henry," said Agnes, "do you think I hurt Dickie by trying to hire him
to be good when mother is away?"
"I shouldn't wonder if you did. The Empress Agnes certainly injured her
boy in some way. Dickie minds mother without bribing."
"Mother is good herself," said Agnes, gravely.
[Illustration]
A "GREAT BIG MONUMENT."
THEY leaned over the library table, and looked steadily at the picture.
"What a great big monument!" said Tommy. "I wonder where it is, and
what it is made of, and what they put it there for? I wish there was
always somebody to tell about pictures."
"If Ellis wasn't writing, he could tell," said Mamie.
[Illustration: MONUMENT OF VICTORY.]
Ellis was the big brother; he had been gone for more than a year.
Fortunately for him, both Tommy and Mamie were still a little shy.
Ellis looked very busy with his writing, still Tommy ventured.
"Ellis, won't you tell us where there is a great big monument; first a
square thing, and then a round thing, and then a smaller round thing,
very high, and a woman standing on top?"
"Remarkable explanation!" said Ellis, going on with his writing. "I
ought to know in a moment, but strange to say I don't."
The children looked astonished.
"No name to it, my boy?"
"Yes, there's a name," said Tommy, dolefully. "It is a 'monument,' but
we knew that before. 'Monument of Victory,' it says, but that don't
tell anything."
"Doesn't it!" said Ellis, sudden light breaking over his face. "Now
there is where we differ; I think it does."
"What?" asked both children at once, eagerly.
"Well, among other things it tells me that the monument is nearly two
hundred feet high."
The children looked amazed.
"And that the woman on the top is forty feet high."
"Oh, my!" said Mamie, but Tommy looked unbelieving.
"That can't be, you know," he said, gravely, "'cause Goliah was a giant
and he was only eight feet high; and there wouldn't be any house built
ever, that a woman forty feet high could get into."
Ellis laughed.
"I stand corrected," he said. "I mean that the 'figure' of the woman in
'marble' is forty feet high."
"Oh!" said both children. "Where is it?"
"It is in a big city across the water—a very big city—a city that has
wonderful buildings, churches and museums and schools, and it has
grand parks and beautiful drives; the name of one of them is 'The
Koniggratzerstrasse.'"
"Oh my!" said both the children.
"And what is the monument for?"
"It is in honor of great victories that the soldiers had, only a few
years ago; some of them not much more than ten years ago."
"Ten years is a long time," said Mamie.
"Who is that on top?" asked Tommy.
"That person on top is 'Victory.'"
"Did she lead the army?" Mamie asked.
And her big brother answered, that he was inclined to think she did.
But Mamie wanted to know the name of the city.
"I'm trying to have you guess it," said Ellis.
"Tommy, my boy, you ought to know, you study geography."
He gave two or three items about the city, that might have been called
broad hints, but Tommy didn't know. Moreover, he didn't seem to be
thinking much about that.
"A great big monument of Victory!" he said gravely. "I'd like to be
'Victory' and have one built for me. Father said Victory meant the same
as overcome. Mamie, do you know the verse on our card. 'To him that
overcometh, will I grant to sit with me in my throne?' I s'pose that's
the monument. I guess I'll try for it."
"I would," said Ellis, speaking as gravely as Tommy. In his heart he
knew that Tommy was ahead of him. He was "not trying for it."
"But 'I' want to know the name of the city," declared Mamie.
"It is where big brothers are sometimes sent to school," Ellis said.
"It's Berlin!" said Mamie, in triumph.
————————————
A "SIZAR."
I WONDER if you know what that word means?
"Something about, size, I guess," says the boy at my side. And he
is half-right, since the word was once used to express the smallest
quantity of anything that could be measured.
But this man was a sizar, and he is certainly not small-sized. No, but
he was once a student at Cambridge University in England, and Sizar was
the name they gave to those who had to work for their board, and were
helped by others. He was only sixteen when he entered this college, but
I think he must have been a good scholar, for he made friends among
scholars. You can see by his dress that he must have lived a good while
ago.
[Illustration]
In fact, it is a little more than three hundred years since he went
to college. Think of it! And here we are talking about him to-day! Ah
well, he was a poet. I wonder if any of the PANSY young people have
yet heard of a poem called "The Faerie Queene." This young man whose
picture I show you, is the author of it. I am not sure that you would
care to read it yet awhile, but I presume some of you will, one of
these days, be studying it, and rejoicing over its beauties.
It is a long poem, in twelve parts, and each part is supposed to
represent some virtue. That delightful book, "The Story of English
Literature"—which book you are reading if you belong to the C. Y. F.
R. U., as I hope you do—has a few verses from one of the poems, in the
"Faerie Queene," entitled "Una and the Red-Cross Knight." I will copy
a verse for you. "Una," you should understand, though the name of a
person, means "Purity." And the "Red-Cross Knight" meant "Holiness."
"A lovely lady rode him fair beside,
Upon a lowly ass more white than snow;
Yet she much whiter, but the same did hide
Under a veil that wimpled was full low,
And over all a black stole she did throw,
As one that inly mourned; so was she sad,
And heavy sat upon her palfrey slow;
Second in heart some hidden care she had,
And by her in a line a milk-white lamb she led."
I suspect there are several words in that verse that you will not
understand. Here is a chance for the big brothers and sisters to help
you.
The author of this famous poem was a friend of Queen Elizabeth's, and I
suppose she gave him a good deal of money for it. In fact, she was one
of the characters in the poem.
"Upon a great adventure he was bound,
That greatest Gloriana to him gave,
(That greatest, glorious queen of fairy-land.")
Those lines are from the same poem as the verse quoted above, and
"Gloriana" was the poet's name for Queen Elizabeth.
I suppose you think he was a very happy man, honored and rich and full
of joy. I wonder if there could be found a life that would read, all
the way through, like that? Certainly this man had his trials. While he
lived in Ireland, there was a sort of war among the poorer classes, and
the poet's house was burned. He and his wife escaped alive, but their
baby was burned to death! If he had much money, he must have lost it
all at this time, for he died shortly after in London very poor.
I wonder if you know the poet's name? Or if not, I wonder how many of
you will set to work to find it out, and when he was born, and when he
died. And I wonder how many other curious and interesting facts about
the great man you will discover?
————————————
CAMELS.
IT was a copy of this picture that the "Searchers" of Miss Palmer's
school found on the blackboard one morning. The "Searchers" were twelve
girls who belonged together by right of being the best scholars in the
little school. Once a week a picture of some sort was put on the board
for them, and exactly a week from that morning, they were expected to
be able to give a good deal of information about the picture.
[Illustration: THE "SEARCHERS'" SUBJECT.]
"A camel!" said Susy Blaine. "What is there to find out about such a
looking creature as that, I wonder? He has a hump on his back, and the
ugliest face in the world, and that is all there is to say about him."
"Wait a week, Susy," said Miss Palmer, "then we will hear from you
again."
Sure enough they did. Susy was the first to speak:
"The camel has very queer nostrils, made in the shape of slits that
can open and shut whenever he pleases, and when they are crossing the
desert, and there comes a storm of hot sand, they close their noses so
that they cannot smell it, and so escape much of the danger."
"They have little horny spots on their breasts and limbs, so they can
kneel down and lean on their breasts, and have heavy loads packed on
their backs without hurting them." This was Alice Howell's discovery.
"Their great big humps are just made of fat, and when there is a
famine, and they can't get enough to eat, they live a long time on the
strength that is in their fat humps." Carrie Jones said this, and the
girls laughed. Carrie was so fond of eating, that it seemed the most
natural thing in the world for her to look into the camel's way of
managing it.
Then the cross-eyed girl who sat next to Carrie had a word to say:
"There is a good deal in the Bible about camels. Job had six thousand
of them; and Pharaoh gave a great many to Abraham; and the men who
bought Joseph and took him to Egypt had a lot of them; the hair under
their necks and on their legs, made into cloth, is what John the
Baptist wore."
"They are very strong," said Annie Williams. "Some of them can carry as
much as a thousand pounds on their backs, and travel fifty miles a day,
and they can go for three days without drinking a drop of water."
Then the girls laughed again, for Annie Williams was always asking to
get a drink of water.
"Sometimes the camel is very useful in finding water," said Delia
Parker, taking up the story just where Annie left it. "Their long queer
nostrils serve them so well, that they can smell water before their
masters see any signs of it; and the leading camels will break their
halters, and tramp off to the nearest well in as direct a path as
though they had been to it often."
"They are very meek and patient animals," gentle little Fanny White
said.
But her bright-eyed sister said: "No; they were only stupid. They
didn't know enough to keep in the right road, and if they once got
turned out, they didn't know enough to go back, and they didn't care
anything for their masters; but they knew enough to get awful angry at
them, and when a camel-driver had offended one, he put his clothes down
before it, and then got out of the creature's way; and the camel would
toss the clothes around in a perfect rage, seeming to think his enemy
was inside of them."
Now, these last "searchings" seemed to contradict each other so greatly
that a most eager discussion followed. All the "Searchers" wanted to
talk at once, and Miss Palmer had some trouble to quiet them enough for
Edith Miller to speak. It was her business to give one thought which
had grown out of hearing this talk about the camel.
When she had a chance, this was what she said: "Miss Palmer, I guess we
would know that God made the camel, from the strange way in which he is
made, with ears and nose and legs, and even a 'hump' fixed so that it
will help him to live in just the country in which he is found."
Now I think that was an excellent thought. Don't you?
————————————
VENICE.
HOW do you all think you would like to live in a town where the people
use boats for horses? It is said that in Venice there are two horses
in the Zoological Gardens, exhibited as curiosities! The people all go
riding on the Grand Canal. This beautiful canal is a very crooked piece
of water. It is described as looking like a letter S made backwards.
All along its shores there are beautiful buildings, the Church of St.
Mark's being one of the most elegant. This church stands on the public
square, which is a sort of market-place, where prominent buildings are,
and where a great deal of business is done.
[Illustration: THE CHURCH OF ST. MARK'S.—ON THE PUBLIC SQUARE.]
The square is five hundred and seventy-six feet long. It is also called
the Piazza. I cannot describe the beautiful church to you, because you
would hardly understand the strange words which architects use. But
those who have sailed past it on the canal and looked up at its beauty,
say that it is very lovely. It is built of brick, covered, or perhaps
inlaid, with delicately-colored marbles. Above the doorway are statues
of four horses who were very famous in history. Suppose, on the next
rainy afternoon when you don't know what to do with yourselves, you
coax the older brothers or sisters to tell you about those four horses?
Don't suppose that the Grand Canal is the only one that the people of
Venice have to ride on. On the contrary, there are one hundred and
forty-six little ones; only the Venetians do not call them canals, but
"Rii." Their boats are not built like ours but are very queer-shaped.
Here is a picture of several of them slipping around on the Canal
Orfano.
[Illustration: THE CANAL ORFANO.—A STREET IN VENICE.]
Still, the people are not obliged to go always in boats. They can
take walks, for the bridges are as plenty, in fact, plentier than the
canals; there are no less than three hundred and six of them. Then,
between the houses, there are narrow lanes called "calli," where the
people can pass. I think I should rather go on the canals, however.
It just occurs to me that perhaps some of the Pansies, or their fathers
and mothers, have been in Venice, and can tell us something interesting
about the beautiful city. If that is the case, don't you think they
ought to be unselfish enough to do so? Let us ask them. "Dear people
who have traveled abroad, won't you please write to the 'PANSY,' and
tell us about the city where the horses are boats, and the streets are
water?"
[Illustration]
"LUTETIA."
SUCH a flutter as the boys and girls of Mr. Prescott's class were in!
They had been given what they called a riddle, and as yet not one of
them had guessed it. It was simply a word, about which they were each
to write a paper to be read at the Wednesday exercises. The word was
"Lutetia." Not one of the thirteen knew what it meant.
"It is a girl's name!" Alice said, tossing back her curls. "I suppose
she was some horrid queen, or princess, who wore millions of dollars
worth of diamonds, and let her subjects starve."
But the others exclaimed against this. It wasn't spelled right for
the name of a woman. Fanny Lewis was sure of this, for her own
grandmother's name was "Letitia." Who should know better than she, how
to spell it?
So they wondered and argued, and looked in the dictionary in vain, and
groaned over Mr. Prescott's horrid rule that none of them should ask
their elders.
"How are we to know things if we can't ask our fathers and mothers, or
our big brothers home from college?" Kate Briggs wondered.
"Books are the fellows to ask," said Stevie Brooks.
So they asked all the books they could think of, that would be likely
to know, and learned nothing. Wednesday morning came, and the class
were ready—for fun. Every one of them had made up a story about
"Lutetia," and put it on paper, and each of them meant to declare to
the best of their knowledge it was the original story. One had made her
a queen, another a nun, another a wonderful old grandmother, another a
gipsy fortune-teller.
Nora Williams, the youngest girl in the class, and, if it must be
confessed, the most unpopular (I don't know for what reason, unless
because she wore faded, ill-fitting clothes, and thick boots), had been
out of school for a week and only appeared again on Wednesday.
[Illustration: OLD PARIS, FORMERLY CALLED LUTETIA.]
Somebody asked her if she had her paper ready for the afternoon.
"Yes," she said. "She met Mr. Prescott on the street and he told her
the subject, but she hadn't more than a dozen lines, she hadn't had
time to study it out."
Nobody was intimate enough with her to ask what she had found to study,
so they contented themselves with giggling, and wondering what her
dozen lines were about. It so happened that her name was the last one
called, and she sat in wide-eyed wonder, while the rest of her class
read their queer, made-up stories, written as though they were true.
"Mine isn't at all like the others," she said doubtfully to Mr.
Prescott as she went to the platform, "it's just the truth."
Then she read: Simply a statement that "Lutetia" was just a huddle of
mud huts, and nobody knew it was going to be wonderful. Then she told
a little bit about the city after it received its new name, how the
river Seine wound around, and made two islands named "La Cite" and
"St. Louis;" and that it was on the St. Louis side that poor little
forgotten Lutetia set up its mud huts.
[Illustration: "HOTEL DES INVALIDES."]
Then she said just a word or two about the wonderful "Hotel des
Invalides" built for poor and wounded soldiers, and large enough to
hold eight thousand of them at a time. Only a very little did Nora know
about "Lutetia," it is true, nor about Paris either, for that matter,
but the beauty of it was, as Mr. Prescott said:
"That little was the truth, and could be added to, whenever Nora had a
chance to learn more."
"How in the world did she find it out?" wondered the rest when they met
to talk it over. They decided to ask her.
"Why," she said, "mother sent me on an errand to Dr. Carter's, and I
waited in the library while the doctor wrote a note for me to leave at
the office. And I saw an Encyclopedia there, and I happened to open it
at Paris, and I happened to see the name 'Lutetia,' and there I found
all I know."
Nora was still for a few minutes, and then, with her eyes very bright,
said:
"I don't know whether I ought to say the rest or not; but I don't know
as it is quite right to say it all 'happened.' I didn't know what to
write, and I had no books to help me, so I prayed about it every night
and morning, and I think maybe God let the Encyclopedia just open to
just that place."
Some of the boys laughed, and one of them whistled, and another said,
"You're a queer chick!" But some way, they all liked Nora better, after
that.
————————————
MONEY AT INTEREST.
THERE was once in France a great artist named Ary' Scheffer. One day
he was painting the portrait of a beggar in great rags, and with every
sign of poverty about him. A gentleman who was a friend of the artist
sauntered in, to look at his work, and felt so sorry for the miserable
beggar, that he slipped a small piece of money in his hand, which the
beggar accepted, with earnest thanks.
Ten years afterwards, the gentleman received in a letter, a banknote
which was worth in our money about a thousand dollars. The letter
explained that the writer was the man who had been sitting for his
portrait as a beggar. It was a fancy of his to appear in that dress,
although he was not a beggar.
The money which had been so kindly given him by a stranger in the
belief that he was in need, had been taken care of by him, during the
ten years, and had amounted to the sum of one thousand dollars; which
he now returned with grateful thanks.
The name signed to this most astonishing letter, was: "Baron James de
Rothschild."
How many of the PANSY boys and girls are acquainted with that name, and
can tell us anything about the one to whom it belongs?
————————————
AN OLD STORY.
ONE day, a long time ago, a little boat started out on a quiet sea to
take a party of friends to a spot where no people lived, so they could
rest; for they had been hard at work.
Very little rest they got! There was a minister with them that the
people were very anxious to hear. What should they do but go hurrying
after the boat from all directions, crowds and "crowds" of them—men,
women, and children! They were in such a hurry that they forgot to take
anything with them to eat! But the minister, who was sorry for them as
soon as he saw them, began to talk, and had so many wonderful things to
say, that they stayed all day listening. At last it began to grow late.
The minister's special friends, who had come in the boat with him, said:
"Don't you think these people better go home, or go to some of the
villages around here, and buy some bread? It is getting towards night,
and they haven't brought anything with them to eat."
Said the minister: "You give them something to eat."
But the friends said: "Why, how can we? Shall we go and buy bread for
them? It will take as much as thirty dollars worth."
Said he: "Go and see how much bread you have with you."
So they went away; but in a few moments they were back again: "We found
a boy," they said, "who has five little barley-cakes with him, and two
little fishes; but what good would they do, for this great crowd of
people?"
Said the minister: "Invite the people to sit down on the green grass."
[Illustration: THE LAKE BY WHICH THE PEOPLE WERE FED.]
So they went around inviting the great company to take seats. It was in
the month of April, and in that part of the country, April is a month
of flowers, and they were growing in wild beauty all around, and the
grass was very green and beautiful. The people gathered in groups, a
hundred in this one, fifty in that, and when all were seated, how many
do you think were there? Why, five thousand men! and, besides them, a
great many women and children. Just five little cakes and two fishes
for their dinner. Not more than two hungry people could eat.
Then the minister asked a blessing, and began to break the cakes, and
give them to his friends to pass to the company.
They passed among the rows and rows of people, each taking a piece
of the bread—they called it bread, though it was made in little thin
cakes—and when they had passed all they had, they went back to the
minister for more, and passed it, and there was bread for all those
people! More than that, after supper they began to gather up the bits
of bread and fish that were left—yes, there was certainly some left?
How much, do you think? Twelve wicker baskets "full!"
Did you ever hear a stranger story than that! Very soon after the
supper, the minister advised his friends to go back over the lake, and
said he would stay awhile. They wanted to stay with him, but he urged
their going. The truth was, he wanted to be alone to pray.
So they left him, and went on the water. It was a beautiful little
lake. When it was calm, it looked like the picture.
But on this night, there came up a terrible wind. The men worked hard
with their oars, but the waves dashed around them, and the wind kept
blowing their boat in a different direction from where they wanted to
go, and they could not get on at all.
This went on for hours, and though they had not more than seven miles
to go across the lake, by three o'clock in the morning they had not
gone more than half way. Think how tired and frightened they must have
been! Then something happened to frighten them still more. In the midst
of that stormy water, with the waves tossing up in fury all around
them, they saw a man walking.
Then they began to cry out in fright, and one said to another: "It is a
ghost."
Then the man spoke to them. He said: "Don't be afraid, it is I." They
knew his voice; it was the dear minister with whom they had been all
day.
Then one of the men, whose name was Peter, wanted to see if he could
walk on the water. So he asked the minister if he should come, and he
said, "Come."
And Peter started very bravely; but, oh dear! what a wind there was!
And no sooner had he begun to think how nicely he was getting along,
doing such a wonderful thing, than he felt himself sinking. Then he
cried out: "Save me!"
[Illustration: WALKING ON THE WATER.]
Instantly the minister held out his hand, and caught him, and Peter was
safe.
After that, they went to the boat, and as soon as the minister stepped
in, the wind stopped blowing, and it was perfectly easy to row to
the land. But the men were so astonished, they did not know what to
think. If you had just seen more than five thousand people fed with
five little thin loaves of bread, and each had had enough, and twelve
baskets full of food had been left, do you believe you would have been
astonished at "anything?"
The way that lake looked in a storm was very much as shown in the
picture. You can see Peter holding out his hand to be saved.
I dare say you know the name of the lake, and the name of the rest of
the people in the boat, and the name of the minister.
————————————
[JULIUS CÆSAR.]
OH, dear! I don't know but you are tired of all these wicked people.
Here is just one more, a handsomer man than some at whom we have
looked, but I am not sure that you will like him any better. His name
is Julius Cæsar. If you study history, you will find that he set up a
beautiful woman named Cleopatra, as Queen of Egypt.
Do you know how she introduced herself to him? She was determined to
see him, and finding that she could get a chance in no other way, she
rolled herself inside of a great roll of carpeting that was to be
carried to his room, and so got a chance to talk with him. He is the
man who sent that famous message to the senate, to announce a victory
in battle: "I came, I saw, I conquered."
[Illustration: JULIUS CÆSAR.]
The people were very proud of Julius Cæsar for his bravery, and for
what they called his "goodness." At one time they planned an image of
him to be carried in a procession of their gods. It was he who planned
that the years should be three hundred and sixty-five days and six
hours long, and he helped to plan the arrangement of the extra day
which belongs to "leap year." He seemed to have a high opinion of
himself, for he changed the name of one of the months from "Sextile" to
"July," because his own name was Julius. At last, he was killed by one
who had pretended to be his friend. How sad it is to think that over
almost none of these graves could have been written: "I know that my
Redeemer liveth."
I wonder if, hundreds of years from now, the lives of any of you will
be written, and it will have to be said of you that you lived and died
without the Lord Jesus for your friend and pattern?
————————————
[SPREADING THE BIBLE.]
IN Brazil there was a young missionary named G. W. Chamberlain. He was
stationed in the city of San Paulo, and he went one day on a journey a
hundred miles or more from San Paulo, telling the people about Jesus;
preaching, talking, singing, working as hard as he could in those
villages where no missionary was stationed. There he met Henrique
Gomes, an old man. He had thirteen children; all of them came out to
hear Mr. Chamberlain preach.
When the meeting was over, Henrique Gomes turned to the preacher, and
fixing his eyes on him, asked in a slow voice: "Young man, where was
your father, that 'my' father died without the Bible?"
Isn't that an awful question? Do you think if you should live to be an
old man, or woman, and die, leaving children, that one of them will
ever be asked: "Where was 'your' father, that he let 'my' father die
without knowing about the Bible?" Oh, hope that it may be said of you:
"He was spreading the story of the Bible in every place that he could
reach."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: BIRDIES THREE.]
BIRDS. BY INA WOODS.
MARGIE stood at the window a few minutes, watching her cousin Allan
leaning out of the chamber window, then she rushed to the door and
cried merrily to him:
"Why, Allan Munroe, I thought you knew enough to come in when it
rained! What in the world are you looking at?"
Allan laughed good-naturedly, and rising, shook the drops of the summer
rain-storm from his sleeve, as he replied—
"I was watching the birds, in that tree. There has been a fuss; a
regular family fuss!
"They have talked it all over, and I have heard every word that they
said.
"Look at that cross little piece who has gone out of the nest and
seated herself on that limb!
"Did you ever see a sourer face on a bird? She doesn't like the stuff
that the nest is built of. She thinks her father and mother had very
poor taste to pick out such rough bits of old hay and straw.
"She thinks it is a very dismal sort of a home, at the very best. The
trouble with her is, she has heard about silk and velvet. When you and
Helen were finishing your pin-cushion out here under the trees this
morning, she heard you talking, and she has made up her mind that the
only thing fit to build a nest of is silk, or velvet, or both. But
that one perched on the edge of the nest, said that the stuff was well
enough, but a meaner tree than that on which it was built she thought
it would be hard to find. She would have liked the one on the other
side of the house a great deal better. This was the windy side, too,
and if there was any rain, they always got it; and for her part, she
was sick and tired of such a home, and would like to go South this
minute instead of waiting till fall. Now you might suppose that one of
them would be kind of polite and good-natured and try to cheer up the
others, but it is no such thing. That one all fluffed up in a heap in
the nest, is puckering her bill together and shedding tears because
she is afraid this rain will drive all the worms under ground and her
father and mother will not be able to bring them a bite of fresh meat
for their supper, and she is so faint now she doesn't know what to do!
Aren't they a lovely family?"
"What a funny boy you are!" was Margie's answer. "What makes you think
that all the birds and bugs and flowers are talking together and you
can hear what they say?"
"I don't know," answered Allan, following his cousin into the house,
as the rain began to fall faster. "It always seems as though they were
talking; they look so to me."
"I wonder what you would hear the lyre bird say if you should see a
real live one?"
"The liar-bird! Never heard of him! What is he called that for? Does he
tell lies?"
Then Margie shouted with laughter.
[Illustration: LYRE BIRDS.]
"Did you never hear of a word spelled l-y-r-e?" she asked him. "That is
the kind of lyre I mean; and the bird is just lovely. Isn't it queer
that I was looking at a picture of one when mamma sent me to see where
you were?"
"Never heard of him," said Allan. "Tell a fellow about him. Where does
he get his name?"
"Why, from his tail, the loveliest thing! Twelve long feathers, looking
just like lace-work, or no, like lovely delicate ferns, and then there
are two—feathers, kind of—on the outside of these, that curl around at
the top, for all the world like that lyre that Mr. Patterson keeps in
his music-room. You remember it, don't you?"
"Where do you go to find such a bird?"
"Well, if I really expected to find one, I suppose I should have to go
to New South Wales, but I can show you his photograph, and you'll see
if his tail doesn't form a perfect lyre."
"Can't say much in favor of his feet," declared Allan, gazing at the
picture which Margie spread before him.
"No. Aren't they horrid? Great, spread-out, scratchy things. But oh,
that lovely tail! How I should like to see one! They are very shy,
though, and timid. And, Allan, don't you think they can mimic other
birds! Whatever they hear sung, they can sing. What do you suppose they
say to one another?"
"I don't know. Perhaps they talk about their tails; and dispute, like
enough, as to which is the longest, and most like a lyre. Or maybe
they can't agree as to which bird to imitate the best. I dare say they
have something to argue about. All birds seem to scold a great deal.
No, I'll tell you! The old fellow rejoices that he was made so much
prettier than his mate. Look at her! She hasn't any tail to speak of."
"I guess," said Margie, "they sometimes wonder together why all their
feathers were painted in such delicate colors, and their dresses made
of such soft, fine, velvety stuff, when they are only birds, after all.
I wonder at it, anyhow. I'll tell you what I think, sometimes, Allan.
It seems as though God must have so many beautiful thoughts that he
couldn't find places enough to put them all, and so just 'had' to dress
the birds."
"You're a queer chick!" said Allan.
Then he settled himself to reading a careful description of the lyre
birds.
————————————
WHERE I WENT, AND WHAT I SAW.
I WENT to a lovely Christian home. There are so I many of them in
Brooklyn! But this one gave me special pleasure. The gentleman and
his wife have been abroad for a long time, and they brought home
many treasures. Some of them were on their dinner-table, lovely
foreign-looking dishes, with delicate vines and flowers painted
on them. The handle of each coffee-cup was a butterfly. Each of a
different species, charmingly painted in red and gold and purple.
And, what do you think—there was a fly in the cream-pitcher! I tried to
quietly brush it away when the hostess was not looking, but I couldn't.
Can you guess the reason why? In every room of that pretty little gem
of a house there was something to admire, and something that I am sure
you would like to hear about, if I only had time.
But of one spot in particular I want to tell you. The "Christ-Room,"
they call it—a small bright room, with a carpet of just the right
pattern and color to harmonize, and yet not take your attention from
more important sights. And hanging all about that room are lovely,
rare engravings of Christ. There is one called "The Shadow Of The
Cross." It pictures Jesus in the carpenter's shop, the old-fashioned
tools lying about him, shavings curling in heaps at his feet; a little
in the background, in another room, is Mary, kneeling before the
chest in which she kept the costly gifts brought by the wise men, and
"pondering" over them, as the Bible said she did. What can she think
that sad-looking, hard-working man has to do with these beautiful
treasures? Why were they brought to him? Jesus is pictured as raising
his arms and spreading them out, as if in great weariness and sorrow,
and the sunlight falling on him makes an outline of the cross on the
wall at his right.
There are many other lovely copies of the work of great artists who
must have loved to think about the Saviour. Under one of them hangs a
picture in colors, that gave me great joy. It was a flower gathered
from every Nation—the National emblem, you know, forming a bouquet
which the owner said he loved to hang under that picture, as a reminder
that all the nations of the earth should yet bow down to King Jesus.
But the most wonderful spot in the room was a shaded corner, where
stood, done in marble, a statue brought at great expense from Rome. How
wonderful it was. The dear hands spread out as if in blessing, and eyes
looking tenderly down on the people.
My dear Pansies, I wish you could see that statue; I think it would
make you realize better that Jesus is really and truly a man, and that
he was once on this earth and will be again. I find I cannot describe
it to you, after all, I thought I could when I began. But it was the
wonderful look of love and power and sweetness on the face that made
it so beautiful a thing; and how can I describe those? Let me tell you
what to do: As you study the Sabbath school lessons that we are having
now, all about the life of Jesus on earth, go into some quiet corner
and shut your eyes, and "think" a picture.
Imagine you see Jesus standing in a house, with the crowds of people
around him, while they bring to him a blind man, a sick man, a sick
child, and with a touch, he cures them. Think it all out; learn some of
the sweet words he said, and imagine you see his face while he speaks
them. It will help you.
Meantime, there was one beautiful picture, a copy of which I can show
you. This is taken from one that hangs in a picture gallery in Dresden,
and is called "Madonna De San Sisto." I suppose you know, Pansies,
without my telling you, that this is a picture of the child Jesus and
Mary his mother. The original painting which hangs in the Dresden
gallery was done by the great artist Raphael—possibly you may have seen
in some art gallery, works of his, although not familiar at the time
with the name of the artist.
[Illustration: MADONNA DE SAN SISTO.]
Now, I wonder how many of the Pansies know any thing about him!
LAURA'S PLANS.
ALL turned "upside down!" That was the way she expressed it. I don't
know that I can tell you how disappointed she was. For half the year
she had been planning to go to uncle Harper's for vacation. It was
only thirty miles away, not much of a journey, to be sure. That is,
I suppose it wouldn't be to you; but Laura, you see, had never been
thirty miles from home in her life, and to take a trip on the cars of
even that length was something to talk and think and dream about. Now,
all in a minute it was upset.
"My dear. I am sorry for your disappointment," her mother had said.
"But you can't go to uncle Harper's this year; it will not be
convenient for them to receive you."
That was every bit she knew about it; her mother had not explained at
all. And though she said she was sorry for the disappointment, Laura
could not help thinking that she did not "look" disappointed at all.
[Illustration: LAURA WAS CONSIDERING.]
"She would have missed me a good deal, I suppose," said poor Laura to
herself with a sigh. "But oh dear! Something always has to happen when
I am going anywhere! I don't believe I shall get a ride on the cars
until I am an old woman. Why couldn't uncle Harper's folks, have 'made'
it convenient for me! It is too bad."
A great many unhappy hours she gave herself brooding over her
disappointment. How did it all end?
It was two weeks before Laura found out why it wasn't convenient for
her to go to uncle Harper's to spend two weeks. Then she did. And the
reason was, uncle Harper and all his family were going to California,
and Laura was to go with them! Thirty miles indeed! Think of the miles
and miles that she rode in palace cars, day and night! I could write a
volume about her delightful experiences, and I am by no means sure that
I will not do it, some day, but just now I want to give you an extract
from a letter which she wrote to her mother.
"O mamma, mamma! If you could see the wonderful trees under which I
have been sitting all the morning! One of them measured eighty feet
around, and another was ninety, and some were a hundred. They are all
named. Three trees close together are called 'The Three Graces.' When
a tree is only six hundred years old, they call it 'young.' Mamma,
it doesn't seem even to me, that I can be telling you the truth, but
I saw nine people, on horseback, ride into a tree this very morning;
only think of it! And we call our elm in the back yard large. People
have lived in some of these trees. One of them was named 'The Miner's
Cabin.' There was one named 'New York,' and another 'Pennsylvania;'
both of these measured one hundred and four feet around.
"Mamma, you know you can count the rings of the trees, and tell how old
they are. Uncle Harper counted on one tree this morning nine hundred
and seventy rings, then he lost his place, but he says he is sure he
did not get more than half way up. Each ring stands for a year. Can you
imagine a tree that is almost two thousand years old?
"After I came home, I read a letter from a woman who had been right
here in this place, and she says if anybody wants something to compare
the big trees with, if he will take a parsnip seed and go and stand
before Trinity Church, he can say to himself, that out of a tiny speck
like that seed, grew a tree that shoots up one hundred feet higher than
Trinity steeple, and that was five hundred years old when Christ was
born in Bethlehem.
"Only think of it! I wish He had been in California and stood under
these trees, so I could go and stand in the very spot. On one of the
largest trees in the grove where we were this morning, is a marble
slab, and on it in gold letters, this verse: 'The glory of God is
revealed by his works.' Isn't that a true verse? I couldn't help
thinking what a wonderful God to make such giants grow from such little
seeds, and keep them living on and on for so many years. Mamma, this
morning while I sat looking at the wonderful things all around me, I
remembered how I fretted because I could not go to uncle Harper's and
spend two weeks, and here I am in California to spend three months. I
don't believe I will ever fret over things again."
But I am afraid that Laura will forget all about that resolution the
next time she feels like fretting.
————————————
ONE OF HIS NAMES.
BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.
Never a boy had so many names;
They called him Jimmy, and Jim, and James,
Jeemes and Jamie; and well he knew
Who it was that wanted him, too.
The boys in the street ran after him,
Shouting out loudly, "Jim! Hey, J-i-m-m!"
Until the echoes, little and big,
Seemed to be dancing a Jim Crow jig.
And little Mabel out in the hall,
"Jim-my! Jim-my!" would sweetly call,
Until he answered, and let her know
Where she might find him; she loved him so.
Grandpapa, who was dignified,
And held his head with an air of pride,
Didn't believe in abridging names,
And made the most that he could of "J-a-m-e-s."
But if papa ever wanted him,
Crisp and curt was the summons "Jim!"
That would make the boy on his errands run
Much faster than if he had said "My son."
Biddy O'Flynn could never, it seems,
Call him any thing else but "Jeems;"
And when the nurse, old Mrs. McVyse,
Called him "Jamie," it sounded nice.
But sweeter and dearer than all the rest,
Was the one pet name that he liked the best,
"Darling!" he heard it whate'er he was at,
For none but his mother called him that.
—_St. Nicholas._
[Illustration: GOOD-NIGHT.]
[Illustration]
HAMBURG.
SUPPOSE we take a trip to Germany and stop at Hamburg for some candy
and a few flowers! Where is Hamburg? Well, it is one of the largest
free cities in Germany, and is on the River Elbe, perhaps seventy-five
miles from the German Ocean. I presume you can find it on your maps
much quicker, and perhaps more pleasantly, than we can reach it by
steamer.
One of the curious sights you would be likely to see there, is women in
their queer dresses, doing all sorts of work that in our country men
do. It is said that in many cities of Germany the women travel up and
down ladders all day, carrying mortar to the workmen. Then, you know,
they work in the field, and clean the streets, and keep the car-tracks
clear, and in fact do almost any sort of work that we are accustomed to
think belongs to men.
[Illustration: HAMBURG MARKET WOMAN.]
I don't suppose carrying fruit and flowers around is very hard work;
especially when the women have sense enough to hang the weight from
their shoulders, as this one in the picture has done. Wouldn't you
like to smell her flowers? They are lovely, I dare say. Hamburg is the
place for flowers, even in winter; they take great delight in their
greenhouses.
Besides, you know it is the place where they make the most delicious
candies in the world. At least they think so, and I am afraid you would
agree with them so entirely that you would have but little money left
for your mission bands, if you were often to meet a Hamburg market
woman on the street, with a basket of fruit in one hand, and a basket
of sugar plums in the other.
Let me see, what else are the German women famous for? Oh, I know,
knitting. One lady who has been there says it is as natural for them
to knit as it is to breathe. And the market woman in the "Fleisch
halle," or market, who cuts and trims you a nice steak, as soon as it
is weighed and laid in your basket, if another customer is not at hand,
whisks out her knitting and works away for a few minutes.
More than that, they teach the little girls, indeed, almost the
babies, to knit. This same lady says she has seen children playing
hide-and-seek, and at the same time making the shining needles fly! How
should you like to play and work at the same time? I wonder if they
all knit "backwards?" There was once a German girl who lived with me,
and who was very fond of knitting; but she always turned the length
of stocking which was knitted, from her, and knit "inside out," as a
little girl said who watched her.
"What makes you knit inside out?" she asked Rita.
But Rita shook her yellow head, and laughed her good-natured laugh, and
explained that "she" thought it was American who knit "inside out;"
"she" knit "right," the house-mother had taught her years and years ago.
I believe since you are in Hamburg, that you better go to one of the
hospitals. The large one can take care of eighteen hundred people at
once, and it is said they are well-taken care of. Wouldn't you like to
walk through a village like that and speak a pleasant word to the sick
ones, and leave a flower here and there or a picture or a smile?
Still, it doesn't seem as though the Hamburg people could like their
homes very well, for I have heard that in the last eight or ten years
as many as three hundred thousand people have left there, and most of
them come to the United States! I wonder if we are doing all we can to
make their home here a happy one?
I wonder if you know any German girl or boy whom you can help in any
way, and if so, what you are doing to make him feel that this is the
best country in the world, and that Jesus Christ is his Saviour?
————————————
INDIA.
SHALL we take a journey to that far-away country, and see what we can
find? A queerly-dressed woman is our first sight. At least, she looks
queer to us. But in her own home she appears like the rest of the young
women. In fact, she is very much dressed. Notice the embroidery on her
dress, and the string of pearls, or ornaments of some kind, around her
neck. Never mind if she is barefooted; that is the fashion! Pay special
attention to the ring in her nose, with its string of jewels: this
marks her as quite elegant.
"What a horrid fashion," says a little girl at my elbow.
I think so myself, but how the little girl can is a mystery, for
looking closely at her, I discover that she has holes pierced in
her two delicate ears, and rings inserted, with jewels on them. Why
should not the Hindoo lady think a ring in her nose as becoming as the
American lady's rings in her ears?
Besides, in some of her fashions the Hindoo lady agrees with our ideas
of beauty; she has a ring on each finger of one hand, and her bracelets
are certainly larger and heavier than any that we wear. More than that,
if you look closely, you will discover that she wears rings on her
toes! Why not?
"If rings on the fingers are pretty," she reasons, "then why shouldn't
rings on my toes be pretty, too?" And on they go.
Here is the carriage in which our fine lady takes her morning ride. She
has on her out-door dress now. I think myself it is less becoming than
the one she wears at home. How the driving is managed is more than I
can understand. What if those animals should run away? Though, to be
sure, they look as though such a daring thought as that never entered
their heads.
[Illustration: AN INDIA TURN-OUT.]
Perhaps my lady is going to visit the Jain Hospital. That, you must
know, is a very large hospital in Bombay, for animals. Horses, and
dogs, and cats, and monkeys, and crows, and vultures, and all sorts of
animals, are received into this hospital, fed, and bathed, and tended
with the greatest care. The sick ones are dosed with medicine, and
looked after in every way as we look after our sick people. The outer
court is kept only for cows; these have the best rooms and the best
care, for you know the Hindoos think they are sacred animals.
It is it very curious sight to go through this strange hospital. Think
of the money, and time, and care spent here. When you meet a horse
limping around with a wooden leg, and a sheep with bandaged eyes, and a
bald-headed monkey done up in liniment, you are half inclined to think
the Hindoos the kindest-hearted people in the world. The truth is, we
Christians might learn something from the poor heathen about kindness
to animals. Still, there are two sides to the question.
What do you think of taking more care of horses, and dogs, and cats,
than of human beings? Do you know that in India, animals, even tigers
and serpents, are held so sacred that the forests are full of them, and
hundreds of little children have been destroyed by them? How much such
people need to learn about the great God who made our bodies with such
care, and who considers them so beautiful that he is willing to call
them his temples.
————————————
AN OLD STORY NEWLY TOLD.
THERE was once a home where a mother sat all alone. Her hands were
folded, and she was looking into the fire; her face was very sad, and
every once in awhile she would put up her hand and wipe away a tear.
She was thinking about her one little boy. He was not laid away in the
grave, where so many mothers who sit and cry, have seen their little
boys laid. If he had been, this mother thought she would not have
cried; she thought that trouble would have been easier to bear than
hers. Her little boy was insane with a dreadful kind of insanity, such
as we who live in this country know but little about. Her son could not
speak, could not hear; and he was constantly in danger; for sometimes
the insane feeling in him would throw him down on the ground and roll
him over; sometimes he would fall into the water, and sometimes into
the fire! He had to be watched all the time, and then his friends could
not keep him from being cut, and torn, and bruised.
Not a happy moment did this poor mother see. Do you wonder that she
cried? On this morning of which I tell you, the father had taken his
son to another town, where was stopping a great Doctor of whom they had
heard some wonderful things. The father and mother had talked it over,
and though they felt almost sure that their boy's trouble was too great
for any one to do him any good, still they decided to try it. So now
the mother waited. She had almost no hope of any help, and her tears
would keep coming.
Now let us follow the father. Think how disappointed he must have felt
when he reached the town and was told that the Doctor was not at home!
To be sure he had very little hope, but still, he longed to see the
Doctor for himself.
There were other doctors there, friends of the famous man. They had
cured many people who were thought to be too sick to be helped; so the
father went to them. And they tried hard to help the child, but failed.
Then the people who were enemies to the great Doctor, laughed about it,
and said he could not do every thing, it seemed.
Just then, when the father felt very sore and sad, and was thinking
how he would have to take his suffering child home again, who should
come down the street but the great Doctor himself! He saw the crowds
of people, some of whom went to meet him, and he heard them asking
questions of his friends. Then he began to question, and the father
told his sad story; he described how dreadfully his son suffered; how
he had been so ever since he was a very little boy, and in what danger
his life was, and how disappointed he was because these doctors with
whom he had been talking, could do nothing.
Then the great Physician said: "Bring him to me."
Just then the child had one of his worst fits of suffering; he fell on
the ground, rolled over, and the froth came out of his mouth.
"Oh!" said the father. "If you can do 'any thing,' have pity on us, and
help us."
And the Doctor made a strange answer. He said: "If you can believe that
I can help you, it will be possible to do it."
With that, the father burst into tears, and said, "I do believe; help
me to believe it more."
The Doctor bent over and spoke; and in a moment more, he took hold of
the boy's hand and helped him up, and behold, he was perfectly well!
Only think how his father must have felt!
Imagine them a little later going home, talking together as they had
never been able to talk before.
Think of the mother standing at her door, watching for their coming;
she wonders if her poor boy will be able to walk home, and whether he
has suffered very much to-day, and whether it can be possible that
the Doctor will have given the father a little hope that he can do
something for him.
Hark! There are steps coming. That sounds like the father's step, but
he is talking with some one, and her son cannot talk, cannot hear what
is said to him.
They come nearer; she strains her eyes to see. It is certainly her
husband and her son. But who can the father be talking with? There is
no other person in sight.
Suddenly they catch sight of her, and the boy rushes forward. A moment
more, and he is in his mother's arms: "O mother, mother!" he says.
"Think of it!"
"He is well!" says the father, coming forward. "Perfectly well! That
blessed Doctor cured him in a moment; and he says the trouble will not
come back to him any more!"
Can you imagine what that mother said? How she felt? Do you think she
loved that Doctor?
Dear Pansies, you have each, in your house, a book that has this story
in it. I wonder if you can find the book, and the place, and read it
for yourselves. I wonder if you know that great Doctor, and if he has
ever done any wonderful thing for you?
————————————
MEINRAD.
I VENTURE to say that not a Pansy among you is acquainted with him, yet
he lived, poor old man! a great many hundred years ago, in beautiful
Switzerland. Once his home was on the shore of the beautiful Lake
Lucerne. He had a quarrel with the world, however; he said it was "out
of joint, and he didn't know how to set it."
So what did he do but build a cell up on a mountain, and live there
all alone the rest of his life! He tried to be a good man, too, as far
as he knew how. The people of Switzerland seem to have loved him. A
beautiful abbey was built where his cell used to stand; instead of the
battered wooden cup out of which he used to drink, the people use a
golden one, trimmed all about its sides with jewels.
In the abbey grounds there is a splendid fountain built of marble and
set with jewels. And this fountain has fourteen different spouts from
which people may drink, as these are doing in the picture. Each spout
is carved in the shape of a bird, or fish, or beast, of some sort.
[Illustration: PILGRIMS AT EINSIEDELN.]
I suppose you think that the people drink from these fountains because
they are thirsty and want water! No, it is because they believe that
the water will not only cure all their aches and pains, but will save
their souls! This is what they are taught by priests and nuns who live
in the abbey.
No one seems to be wise enough to know just which spout should be used,
so each person thinks he must drink from them all, for fear he should
happen to miss the very one that might cure him! It is said that during
a single year, there have come one hundred and fifty thousand people
who have made long journeys on foot, to drink of this water, in the
hope of being cured.
Oh dear, oh dear! Has no one ever told them of the verse: "In that day
there shall be a fountain opened for sin?" Nor how it was opened for us
all, when Jesus came and shed his blood that we might be cleansed from
sin? Nor how he promised: "I will give unto him that is athirst, of the
fountain of the water of life, freely?" Nor how he said he would lead
them all "unto living fountains of water, and wipe away all tears from
their eyes?"
What shall be done for the hundreds and thousands who still travel over
that hard road, and try those fourteen streams and are never cured
either of pain or sin? Who will help explain to them that there is a
fountain that flows freely for them all; that they need take no long
journey to find it, and there is no price to pay, because "Jesus died
and paid it all?"
————————————
A DISCUSSION.
"FORE I'd wear any thing around my neck that little ugly bugs had
made!" This was what Annie Merrill said to her friend Kate Burns.
She was cross, you see, and wanted to say something disagreeable. She
curled up her little nose in a dreadful way as she said it. Besides,
I am afraid she was just a little bit envious of the lovely coral
necklace which Kate was twisting now with her thumb and finger.
Kate's eyes grew very large, and she said: "I'd like to know what you
are talking about! 'What' is made of bugs?"
"You are; or your old necklace was, that you are so proud of. It grew
in the ocean, too; and there's lots more of it. I could have a great
big house all made out of it, if I was only out there."
"Why, Annie Merrill! My coral necklace was bought in Boston at one of
the big stores; it didn't come out of no ocean, and there never was a
bug on it in the world!"
Then did Kate Burns, who knew just a little more than her small friend,
fairly double up her fat little body, and scream with laughter.
"She says it came out of a store!" she shouted. "She thinks it wasn't
'made,' nor nothing; it just started right up out of nothing, and put
itself on the shelf in the store. Oh, what a little goosie! It is 'all
over' bugs, I tell you. It was alive, once, and growing on a rock in
the ocean. I guess I know; I've got a great big piece at home; my uncle
Horace sent it to me away from the Pacific ocean."
It ended in their both becoming quite angry, and pouting awhile, and
then sort of half making up, and going to Miss Harper with their
troubles.
Then did Kate Burns hear wonderful things. How that her coral necklace
was made by little bits of creatures who had their home in the water,
and who worked so steadily and so hard that they actually built
islands, and closed up channels through which ships wanted to pass!
That the many strange and beautiful shapes in which the coral was
brought were not made by cutting and carving, as Kate had supposed, but
by the little creatures themselves. She heard, too, that when they were
alive and at work on their lovely branches of coral, they looked very
much like flowers growing under water.
[Illustration: A CORAL STEM.]
"What 'is' the coral, anyhow?" asked Annie Merrill, at last.
She felt very meek, having heard a great deal that she did not know
before.
"Why, dear," said Miss Harper, "it is really a kind of lime."
"Oh, my!" said Kate. A "kind of lime" did not sound to her like any
thing very grand.
"It is real pretty, anyhow!" declared Annie, slipping her arm around
Kate's waist.
"Yes," said Miss Harper, "and very wonderful. Think of such beautiful
forms being made by little bits of creatures, away out of sight under
the water. You will both like to study all about coral, I think, when
you are older. It will help you to understand what a wonderful being
God is."
"But to think of little bits of creatures making my necklace!" said
Kate Burns.
[Illustration]
MADE OF STRAW.
NOT the people, but their cloaks, or mantles, or whatever it is proper
in Japan to call them. Just little wisps of straw woven together in
a most ingenious way. I should not be surprised if the young ladies
learned to do it, instead of making tidies as many of our ladies do,
and found it quite as useful work.
Really, I think they might be quite pretty; at any rate, they are said
to serve as a fine protection from the rain. Look at our picture of a
man in what is called his "rain-coat," made of straw, you see.
[Illustration: STRAW GOODS SO COMMON IN JAPAN.]
Yesterday I passed a little old cottage in the country, with a thatched
roof. It reminded me of these straw goods so common in Japan. You
notice that our man needs no rubbers, for the reason that he walks on
footstools. He has very coarse blue stockings on, and then these little
stools bound to his feet. I read of a boy who thought it a very nice
fashion, for when the man was tired with walking, he could take the
footstools off and sit down on them. I want you also to notice his hat.
In fact, it is the hats of these people in which I am most interested.
They are made of bamboo, and serve as sunshade and umbrella.
[Illustration: A RAIN-COAT.]
What the Japanese would do without the bamboo-tree, I hardly know. It
is really one of the most useful trees they have, as well as one of the
prettiest. How would you like to have a tree started in your dooryard
which would grow two feet and a half in a single day? Yet some of the
bamboos do just that. They have to hurry, you see; for they get their
entire growth in a very few months, and some of them are as high as
eighty feet. Then they have lovely feathery leaves, and the stems or
branches on which they grow shine as if they had been varnished.
Now for some of the uses of this good tree.
Do you like asparagus? I suppose if you were in Japan and were to have
a dish of the soft, juicy stems of the young bamboo-tree served up to
you, you would think it the nicest asparagus you ever ate. Besides,
these same stems salted and eaten with rice, or preserved in sugar and
eaten for sauce, or cooked in vinegar and served as pickles, are very
nice indeed. After the shoots are too old and tough for these purposes,
they fill with a juice that the Japanese think highly of as medicine.
By and by the stems grow strong enough to serve as bottles and
water-buckets. In some places, they are even used as cooking-dishes.
You will understand from this that the stems are quite hollow. The old
trees are used for building houses, for masts of vessels, for all kinds
of tools, for arrow shafts, for umbrella handles, for walking-sticks,
for furniture of all sorts, and for almost any thing that you can think
of. It seems to me sometimes, the most wonderful tree that God has made.
Don't you like to think of him as having planted it in that far-away
country, and let it grow in its great height and wonderful beauty to
teach the natives a silent lesson of his power and love and care? Isn't
it a sad thing that they actually use some of this beautiful wood in
making little hideous-looking creatures which they call "house-gods,"
and which they set on the shelves of their living-room and offer rice
to? Shouldn't you think that the great waving leaves of their own
bamboo-tree would tell them a different story from this? A little girl
once looked steadily at an idol that a missionary had brought home to
show her, then turning from it to the great glowing moon which was then
flooding the earth with light, she said, "I should think they would
know that it took a better God than that to make the moon!"
So I wonder that they do not see in their beautiful bamboo-trees a hint
of God. Do let us hurry with the story before many of them grow too old
to learn it.
————————————
WHERE I WENT, AND WHAT I SAW.
I WENT down to the shore of the Atlantic Ocean. Among other pictures
that I saw, was this one which I show you. Two pretty girls, in fresh
summer dresses, seated on the sand, having first spread an afghan over
it, a large Chinese umbrella doing duty to protect them from the sun,
the morning paper in hand. At a little distance, Nannie, working on a
sand fort, on the centre of which she is planting the Stars and Stripes.
[Illustration: PEOPLE I SAW AT THE SHORE.]
Carl has spread himself full length on the sand, letting his shovel and
pail tumble around by themselves, while his sister Millie undertakes to
cover him with the clean, sparkling sand.
Are these all the people I saw at the shore? Oh dear, no! There were
hundreds and thousands of them! Walking the piazza, sitting in the
pavilions, bathing in the surf, playing in the sand—talking, all of
them.
While I stand watching, there pass before me two little girls, neatly
dressed in sailor suits. They have no shovels and pails, no books to
read, no bathing-suits under their arms, no sketch-books in hand.
They stop directly in front of Nannie—not to talk, but to hand her
something.
"Will you have one?" the taller of the two says pleasantly, and she
leaves in Nannie's outstretched hand a card.
"What is it?" ask Carl and Millie in a breath.
And Carl discovers that he is not buried in sand at all, but rises on
his elbow.
Nannie reads the card:
"You are invited to the Children's Meeting, held in the Second Avenue
Church every morning this week at nine o'clock. We have pleasant times.
Will you come?"
"Isn't that queer?" says Nannie. "'I' don't want to go to meeting, do
you? I came down here to play."
"But then a fellow doesn't want to play 'all' the time," says Carl.
"Maybe they have real nice meetings; let's go see."
A little more talk, and they all three decide to go to-morrow and see
about it.
There comes a young man with his hands full of circulars. He halts
before the young ladies, drops one of them, and is gone. It reads:
"Young People's Meeting at the Temple in the Grove, this evening at
sunset. We shall be glad to see you."
A new kind of circular this. These young ladies have had circulars
inviting them to concerts, to lectures, to operas, to theatres, to
almost every thing you can think of in the way of entertainment, but
they neither of them remember a printed invitation to a young people's
meeting in the temple before.
"Let's go!" they say in a breath.
I suppose they went. I know the children went to their meeting the next
morning, and had a good time. In fact, I think one of them decided,
that morning, a question which will be sure to give her a good time
always, no matter where she lives, or what happens to her. I don't
suppose the two little girls who invited her know that she went. I
don't suppose the young man knows that his invitation did any good.
But you and I remember "One" who knows all about it.
————————————
YEARS AGO.
QUEER-LOOKING house, isn't it? Ah! But if you were travelling in
Germany, and should go to Frankfort, you would see many queer houses
and strange sights. There is one thing, however, which makes all
thoughtful people, boys and girls as well as men and women, take a
second look at this picture. It shows us the house where the man named
Martin Luther once lived.
[Illustration: THE HOUSE WHERE MARTIN LUTHER LIVED.]
Are you acquainted with him? No, but you want to be; of course
the Pansies want to know all that is to be known about everybody.
Therefore, let us talk about him for a few minutes, just to get
ourselves started. In the first place, it is a long while since he
lived, almost four hundred years since he was born! You may know he was
a man worth remembering, else why should people be talking about him
to-day, and be so well acquainted with him as most all persons are?
"I suppose he was the son of a great king," said a little fellow with
whom I was talking the other day.
Not a bit of it! His father, Hans Luther, worked in the mines; an
honest, industrious man, but not a great one. His son Martin was a
good scholar when a boy, and as he grew to be a man, gave up the idea
of studying law, and decided to become a priest in the Roman Catholic
Church. I suppose he was twenty-two or three when he entered a convent
and became what is known as a monk. I have not time to tell you about
that; you must study it up. If he had been content to stay a monk all
his life, believing just as the others did, I don't suppose you and I
would ever have heard of him.
But the truth is, Martin Luther loved to study the Bible. He was not
contented with merely reading it, but wanted very much to understand
it. He tried hard to be satisfied with the religion that he had, but
it seemed to him that it was full of mistakes and sins. He went as
a pilgrim to Rome, and crawled up the long staircase at St. Peter's
Church on his hands and knees, which the Romish Church taught him was
a good thing to do, and would atone for a great many sins, but all the
time he kept repeating a verse he had learned from the Bible: "The just
shall live by faith." And he could not understand what good it could do
him, or how he showed any faith by crawling up these stairs.
I should have told you that before this journey to Rome was taken, he
had become a professor in the University at Wittenberg.
There came a day when Martin Luther made up his mind that something
which his Church had done was very wrong, and that he must tell people
that he thought so. This something was nothing more nor less than the
priests selling the right to do sinful things! Did you ever hear of
such a strange idea? As if you should go to your pastor and say: "Dear
pastor, I want to tell a lie; will you sell me the right to do so?"
And he should say: "Oh, yes, my dear child! Pay me a dollar, and I
will give you the right to tell one lie, for which you will never be
punished." This is very like what the Church to which Martin Luther
belonged did. They called it "selling indulgences." No wonder that
Luther thought it was wrong, since he had been reading the Bible so
much!
[Illustration: MARTIN LUTHER CARRYING HIS THESES.]
Here is a picture of him as he went one day at noon to nail on the door
of the church ninety-five reasons why selling a right to commit sin was
wrong, promising to prove to people who would come to hear him, that he
was right. These ninety-five reasons were called "Theses." Now, when
you hear any person talking about Luther's theses, be sure you do not
think as I did when I was a little girl, that the man meant to tell us
something about Mr. Luther's cheeses, and lisped so that he could not
speak the word! For the reason why they are called theses, suppose you
ask mamma; I haven't time to tell you.
Oh, what trouble they made for poor Martin Luther! All through Germany
the people heard about them, and began to think, and study, and talk.
The Pope at Rome turned against him, and ordered him to be turned out
of the Church. But first he was sent for to go to the city of Worms,
and meet the great men there, and be examined as to what he believed,
and be given the chance to say that he was sorry, and that the Church
was right and he was wrong. But this, the grand man would not say, not
even to save his life, which was in great danger.
"My conscience is held captive by the word of God." This was part of
his answer.
[Illustration: CASTLE AT WARTBURG.]
Now he began to have a great many enemies, and it was not safe for him
to travel anywhere, because the Church would not own him as belonging
to her, and would not punish any person who chose to kill him. His
friends were sadly afraid that he would not get back safely from Worms.
In fact, they had reason to think that at one place along the road,
he would be arrested, and perhaps killed. So they sent a party of his
friends disguised as enemies, who took him by force to the Castle at
Wartburg. Here is a picture of it, on the mountain.
Here, in the tower, a prisoner among his friends, he had a quiet time
translating the New Testament into German. What do you think his
enemies said when they waited and watched for him, and found that he
had suddenly disappeared, where they could not find him? They said
that Satan had met him on his way home, and carried him off out of the
world, so he could do no more harm! Think what a foolish thing that was
to say! For, if the Roman Catholic Church was right, and he was doing a
wicked thing in trying to injure it, should not you think that would be
exactly the work that Satan would have liked him to do?
Here is a picture of the grand old man, sitting in the castle tower
among his books. I am glad to think that he had a quiet, pleasant time
there.
[Illustration: LUTHER AT WARTBURG.]
He wrote many books, about four hundred in all. After a while, he gave
up trying to be a Roman Catholic entirely, and married, which you know
the Roman Catholics think is wrong for ministers to do. His wife's
name was Catherine; she, too, had been in a convent, and escaped from
there in a barrel! They had six children, and there are many beautiful
stories told about the whole family.
He translated the entire Bible into the German language, and this
is called the most wonderful work of his life. When he was about
sixty-three years old, he died.
I have now introduced you to this good man, who has been in heaven more
than three hundred years. I think you will like to read and hear about
him after this, as you have opportunity.
Perhaps some of you will write and tell me some interesting facts that
you have found about him, or his wife Catherine, or his children, John,
Martin, Paul, Elizabeth, Madeline, and Margaret.
[Illustration]
GOING TO SCHOOL.
NOT a girl, nor yet a boy, but a pigeon.
Now you can't mean that pigeons have to go to school?
Yes, but I do, and what is worse, they have to begin when they are
only a few weeks old. Ah, but they don't have to study arithmetic,
and grammar, and history, nor even geography, though they are great
travellers. Their duty is simply to learn to find their way home again
after being carried away from it.
The poor little creatures are put into covered baskets, and taken at
first not more than half a mile from home, then let into the air, and
away they fly. If they come home again in a short time safely, they
are considered bright little birds worth being educated. So the next
time they are taken farther, and then still farther, until it is found
that they can hurry back home again, even though they have been taken a
thousand miles away.
[Illustration: TAKING A LESSON.]
Therefore they are very useful, for letters of great importance can
be tied to their legs or wings, and they will take them safely across
mountains, oceans, and deserts, straight to the old home. In the days
when railroads and telegraphs had not been thought of, imagine what
a comfort it was to have a little winged telegraph who could travel
thirty miles an hour, and who would be sure to go by the shortest road,
and without any loitering by the way. The only thing the sender had to
be careful about, was to wet their poor little feet in vinegar, so they
would keep cool, and not want to hop into the first water they came to,
and so soil the letters they were carrying.
No, I am wrong; there were other things to be careful about; some
of them will make you sad. In the first place, the very best
carrier-pigeons were the mothers of little birdies at home; for of
course this made them in a great hurry to get home. Then they had to be
shut up in the dark without any food for at least eight hours before
they started on their long journeys. Also it was not safe to keep them
away from home for more than two weeks, else they might not get back
quickly. But when these rules were carefully followed, one could hardly
have a surer and safer messenger.
[Illustration: FAITHFUL LITTLE MESSENGERS.]
Faithful little birds! They neither played by the way, as I have heard
of some messengers doing, who were not birds—nor did they read the
notes sent by them, and gossip about their contents with other birds
whom they met.
It is very plain to me that there are people in this world who might
learn a lesson from the carrier-pigeons.
How do they find the way home? A large book on bird history that I
have just been reading, says that nobody knows, but I think that is a
mistake. I'm sure I know: it is because God tells them.
HOW THEY MADE OUT.
"I DON'T know," said the wife Margaret, "how we shall make out, but we
can't let the child starve."
She looked with very kind eyes into the blue ones of the little girl
who trotted back and forth with her as she made ready the simple
supper. Margaret was the house-mother in a German home, where money was
scarce, and even plain food to eat was not very plenty.
A stranger had come along the street, stopped at the door, and asked if
he might have some supper with the family. Margaret was never good at
refusing people, especially if she thought they were tired and hungry.
So she asked him in, and thought within herself that she could go
without a potato to-night, and let him have her share. He was watching
the yellow-haired little girl who followed her around, which made
Margaret speak the sentence with which this story commences.
"Then she isn't your own child?" asked the stranger.
"No!" Margaret explained that she was the child of a poor neighbor who
died a few weeks before, leaving nothing for the little girl, and no
friends for her to go to.
And the father and she said to each other: "So long as we have bread,
we cannot see the child starve."
So they had taken her in. It was hard work, and they didn't know how it
would end; but she was a dear, loving little girl, and they couldn't
bear to think of having to send her away.
"And can't you manage to keep her?" the stranger asked. "You have none
of your own, I suppose."
"Oh dear, yes!" And the house-mother laughed over his queer mistake.
None of their own! Why, there were Hans, and Martin, and Jonas, and
Margaret her name-child, and Melchor, the father's name-child, and
all the rest; ten in all. As nice children as ever anybody had in the
world, and as fond of little Gretchen here, as she was herself.
Sure enough! When supper was ready, they all trooped in. What a little
army of them! And how clean their faces were! Their light hair neatly
combed, and their patched and worn clothes looking as though each had
been as careful of them as possible.
At the supper-table, each one of them looked out for Gretchen. She
had the largest potato, carefully pealed by Margaret, the mother's
name-child; and Melchor put a bit of butter on it, though he ate none
on his own. The stranger saw all this, and a great deal more, though
he seemed to be talking with the father and mother. Soon after supper,
he walked away, thanking them before he went for the nice rest and the
nice supper he had had with them.
It was only the next day that a soldier in full military dress rode up
to the little house, and asked for the house-mother, and gave her a
great, solemn-looking letter which made her tremble as she broke the
seal.
Oh! What do you think that letter said?
Why, that the man who had taken supper with them the night before
was so pleased with all the ten children, and with Gretchen besides,
that he had decided to make them each a little present of one hundred
dollars, which present would be paid to them each year while they
lived! Eleven hundred dollars a year, because a strange man who took
supper with them was pleased with their kindness to him, and their
unselfish care of the orphan Gretchen!
That sounds like a "made-up" story, doesn't it? And yet it is true.
The letter was signed Joseph, Emperor of Austria. And he was the
stranger who had eaten potatoes with them the night before.
His whole life is full of such quaint and pleasant stories as this. He
delighted in visiting people in a plain dress such as other common men
wore, and then surprising them afterwards by letting them know that he
was the Emperor.
[Illustration: THE EMPEROR DELIGHTED IN VISITING IN A PLAIN DRESS.]
I have given you on this page, a picture of him when he astonished a
ploughman who knew him, by taking hold of the plough and showing the
old man how to work it.
There is also an account of how he went to a miserable hut one day,
where was a little baby who that evening was to be baptized. He asked
to come and be the little one's godfather. The parents, who thought him
a nice-appearing young man, agreed to it; so in the evening he came.
But he had put on his royal dress, and was ablaze with jewels; so the
astonished people recognized him as their Emperor.
Ah! I wonder if you know what all this makes me think of? Do you
remember who laid aside his crown, and his royal dress, and left his
throne and came to us, and became not merely a common man, but a weak
little baby—not simply to amuse himself and give us pleasure, but to
save our souls?
Years and years he stayed away from the palace and the crown. He was
scorned, mocked, spit upon, whipped, hated, crucified—all for us. Some
day we shall see him in his glory, with the royal dress blazing with
jewels, the crown of gold on his head. Will he remember us then as
those who received him here? He is watching our actions, whether they
are unselfish and loving, or hard and hateful. Is he getting a reward
ready for us? The reward is not a hundred dollars a year; it is a home
in the palace; a seat on the throne. It is to be introduced to his
Father as brothers and sisters; it is to reign with him forever and
ever.
LITTLE LUDWIG.
A QUEER, old-fashioned piano, with straight legs and plain case. No
such grand one as there is in your parlor, on which your baby can play.
Still little Ludwig in his father's arms, loved to make music on it.
I didn't see him, but I've heard about it, how his bits of fingers
would rattle over the keys, pounding on this one, and touching that
one softly, and really, even when he was a baby, picking out those
which chorded well. Still, I fancy, he grew tired of it sometimes, and
snatched at the music, and tore long strips from it, or perhaps pitched
the music-book on the floor. That is, if he were not afraid of his
cross father.
For cross he was, though very proud of his son Ludwig, who could
actually play tunes before he was five years old.
Not a very happy boy was Ludwig, musician though he was. In the first
place, his father was very poor. No, I ought to put that in about the
fifteenth place; for very poor people are often very happy ones. In the
"very" first place, then, his father drank too much liquor.
"How much liquor is too much?" I asked a boy.
"Do you mean liquor that has alcohol in?" he asked me. And when I
nodded my head, he tossed back his yellow curls and said, "The leastest
bit of a drop is too much."
I agree with him. Well, Ludwig's father drank many drops, and was
cross, oh, so cross! People nearly always are cross who drink too much
liquor, and was poor, yes, very poor. And that kind of poverty which
comes through drinking liquor is hard to bear.
But he was very proud of his boy Ludwig, and, as I said, when the baby
was only five years old, he could play the piano beautifully.
[Illustration]
After this, he began to take music lessons regularly of very great
teachers, the greatest that there were in the world, and studied, oh,
how hard! and grew every year more famous until the time came when it
was said of this once baby Ludwig: "He is the greatest musician there
is in the world."
Then something very sad happened to him; he noticed it for a long time
before he said a word to anybody, but at last other people began to
notice that Ludwig was growing deaf. How can a deaf man write wonderful
music, or make musical sounds! This was what Ludwig wondered, but he
studied away, and played away, and when he had become so deaf that he
could not hear a sound from his own music, one night, after playing one
of his pieces at a wonderful concert where were thousands of people,
one of the singers took him by the shoulders and turned him around to
the audience, so he could see them waving their hats and handkerchiefs,
and know what a storm of applause they were giving him.
[Illustration: BEETHOVEN]
Poor, lonely, sad Ludwig! A hard childhood, with a cross-tempered
father, to be shut out at last even from the lovely sounds that he
could make as no one else could. Have I told you "where" he lived? It
was in the city of Bonn, Germany. Have I told you "when" he lived? It
was more than a hundred years ago. In fact, it is over fifty years
since he died, but then he did not live to be an old man. He was not
yet sixty years old when he went away from this world which was such a
silent, sad world to him. He never had any little child of his own; he
never had a wife. There was a good deal about his life that makes one
sorrowful to think of, yet he was the greatest musician that has ever
lived. I wonder, oh, I wonder if he knew Jesus!
What does all his greatness matter now, unless he sings in heaven, and
can hear the music there?
Have I told you his last name? Here is a picture of the baby Ludwig
after he became a man; above it is his name.
————————————
LITTLE ELLIE.
NAUGHTY little Ellie sitting perched on the highest part of the garden
fence. She was only four years old, it is true, but she knew how to be
good and how to be naughty. This morning she was naughty.
Herbert had the care of her, and he was nine. For awhile he was
patient; he wanted Ellie to come to the woodhouse and he would swing
her.
But Ellie wouldn't; she wanted to go down-town and buy a whistle, and
that, according to mamma's word, she couldn't do. The consequence was,
she didn't want to do any thing.
Herbert offered to take her over to the bridge to watch the swans, but
she said she was tired of the old white swans; she didn't think they
were pretty a bit.
She was willing to be put on top of the shed, so she could walk up the
roof and look down into the chimney, but this Herbert would not allow.
So she sat on the fence-post and sulked, and said Herbert "was a cross
old thing, and she didn't love him a bit; so there!"
At last Herbert lost all patience, and went over and sat down on the
end of a bench with his hands in his pockets, and wished it was time
for Ellie to go to sleep.
Pretty soon Ellie grew tired of her perch and concluded to get down.
She tried several times, and once almost lost her balance. Then she
called out: "Come help me down, right away!"
But Herbert sat as still as though he were deaf, and Ellie tried again.
"Herbert!" she wailed. "I'm sorry I was naughty; won't you come and
help me down?"
But behold Herbert himself was cross!
"You called me a cross old thing!" he said in an injured tone. "And now
you may get down from the fence the best way you can."
And he arose with his hands still in his pockets, and walked away.
Then did Ellie cry in good earnest. Hardly time for two tears, however,
before the piazza door opened, and mamma came and lifted her from the
fence, saying to Herbert as she did so:
"You would never do for a Moses, my son." What "could" she have meant?
————————————
AN OLD STORY.
A BLUE-EYED, rosy-checked, fair-haired boy. His work lay all day among
the hills and valleys where his father's sheep wandered. His business
was to watch them; to see that no wolf came and stole away one of the
young lambs; to see that none of the flock strayed away; to bring them
all safely home at night.
[Illustration: THE SHEPHERD BOY.]
On this day the boy would have liked to have been at home. There was
company in his father's house, a white-haired old minister, and David
the shepherd boy would have liked well to have heard him talk. However,
he did not expect to have a chance; he was the youngest of the family,
and of course it was foolish to expect that the old minister would care
to see him, or that his father would allow him to leave the sheep.
Meantime, his brothers were very busy, and eager getting ready to see
the grand old minister. He had asked to see every one of them. The
truth was, he had come to their father's house on a very important
errand. He was to choose from the sons one to fill a high office. I
suppose he told father, and the brothers were astonished when they
heard that they were all called for.
"What do you think he wants of us?" they said to each other, while they
made ready.
David's oldest brother was a tall, handsome man, and I think it very
likely he expected to please the old minister. "He cannot help seeing
that I am much finer-looking than any of the rest," I suppose he told
himself. And then he went to thinking that if there should be any
vacant office, and the minister had been sent to select one to fill it,
he stood a better chance of being chosen than any of the others. To
tell you the truth, the old minister thought that very thing, wise as
he was, the moment he looked at the tall, handsome man.
"Ah!" he said to himself. "I think this must be the very one."
But he was something better than a wise man, he was truly good; so good
that he listened always for the voice of God in his heart, and at that
moment God spoke to him:
"No," he said, "look not on his countenance, or on the height of his
stature; because I have refused him: for the Lord seeth not as man
seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh
on the heart."
So the tall, finely-formed man passed on, and the next oldest came in
and was introduced and stepped back, for the minister, following the
voice in his heart, knew that "he" was not the one. In this way the
brothers passed, one by one. And at last, the minister asked:
"Are here all your children?"
"Why," said the father, "my youngest boy isn't here; he is away on the
hillside taking care of the sheep."
"Send for him," said the minister; "we will wait for him."
Then what a hurrying across the fields there was! I don't know which
brother went, but perhaps it was Eliab, the tall, handsome one. I think
he may have been a little bit vexed with the way things were going. I
can fancy he spoke rather crossly:
"David," he may have said. "David, hurry up, father has sent for you;
the minister wants to see you. He has all the family there waiting, and
will not sit down to eat until you come."
Then I think David was very much astonished, and said:
"Why! What can he want of me, do you suppose?"
Then it may be that Eliab answered sharply:
"How do I know? He 'wants' you, and my father said you were to come as
soon as possible, and that is enough."
So I fancy I can see them hurrying over the fields, and I think David
waited only to wash his rosy cheeks, and brush his yellow hair, then he
went in, eager, happy boy that he was, to see the minister whom he had
wanted so much to know.
Do you know that the moment the white-haired old minister saw him, the
voice of God told him that here was the one chosen for the high office?
Do you know that the shepherd boy was actually called from watching the
flocks to be king over a great nation?
I think it more than likely that you have heard this story before, and
that in fact you know a good deal about David. But I am never tired of
thinking over all the wonderful little steps that he took to the throne.
[Illustration]
THE LITTLE GLEANER.
BY BERTHA A. ZEDI WINKLER, IN "ZION'S HERALD."
IT was a warm, sultry midsummer day in Germany. A little girl had
just thrown down a bundle of fagots and was wiping the big drops of
perspiration from her sunburnt face, when an old, cross-looking woman
hobbled to the door of the hut with a bag in her hand.
"There, Wanda, don't dally around so much; hurry off now to the wheat
fields! The summer is nearly over, and you have not gleaned half what I
expected," croaked the old woman peevishly.
"But, Tante, you always expect more than I can get. I gleaned it
whole bushel more this season than last, and I have gone over all the
fields; it is useless to look again," remonstrated the little girl
reproachfully.
The woman made an ugly grimace, flourished her big stick threateningly,
and threw the sack at the child's feet, exclaiming in a shrill voice,
"Don't dare to come home until this is full! Do you think I can keep
you for nothing."
Wanda was an orphan, and Tante Miller, whom the authorities appointed
as guardian with only a small remuneration for that office, missed no
opportunity to let the child feel the bitterness of her dependence.
No one had ever tried by kindness to win Wanda's heart; so, unloved
and unloving, the forsaken, neglected little orphan grew up with an
habitual frown on her childish face and a look of sullen, suppressed
wrath in her dark eyes, until the villagers, indifferent to her welfare
from the first, regarded her as a wild, unruly oddity.
Wanda picked up the bag sullenly and turned away toward the fields. But
once out of sight from the hut, she turned and shook her little brown
fist defiantly.
"You can just look for me now, Tante Miller, for I'll never, never
come back!" she exclaimed in tearful wrath, and loud enough to startle
the birds in the underbrush, and cause a young lady to turn her head
towards her in surprise.
"O, Wanda, what was that?"
With a guilty start, Wanda turned to the speaker.
It was Olga, the pastor's daughter, and the only person who had ever
spoken kindly to her.
"I—I—mean to run away. Tante Miller can get her own fagots and take
care of her own geese after this," sobbed Wanda, fairly breaking down
beneath the sympathy and tender caresses of the young lady.
"Hush, Wanda; don't talk that way! Remember the old lady is afflicted
with rheumatism, and it makes her cross. Promise that you will come
next Sunday to the pear-tree in the orchard. I will be there to read
you those beautiful stories from the Bible. Will you?"
"I'll try, if Tante Miller is not too rheumatic to keep me in again."
Wanda's eyes sparkled as they seldom did; and with the memory of Olga's
kiss upon her brow, she started for the fields fully resolved to try
and fill her bag with gleanings to soften Tante Miller's aches and
possibly her heart.
But when she arrived on the stubble fields and searched in vain for
some stray ears of wheat, her heart began to fail her again. The
greater part of the wheat was already garnered, and the fields which
the owners had not gleaned themselves Wanda had gone over before.
Still she persevered, stooping for every straw which had the slightest
show of an ear.
The hot rays of the noon-day sun streamed down on poor Wanda's back.
Hunger and thirst began to make their presence felt, but Wanda still
persevered in her tedious task.
"If I'm not to come home until this is full, I may as well stay out
here till next summer," she said to herself, shaking the handful of
ears in her bag.
Her eyes swept over the broad expanse of stubble fields, in only one of
which the sheaves stood piled together. Thither she directed her steps,
only to be disappointed as she drew near and remembered that she had
been gleaning there a week ago.
[Illustration: A STORM WAS BREWING IN THE HAZY AIR.]
To add to her discouragement, thick black clouds came rolling up from
the distant horizon; a storm was brewing in the hazy air, and soon all
chance of filling the bag would be lost.
She walked round and round the piles of sheaves. Faint with hunger,
parched with thirst, and the ugly vision of Tante Miller's big stick
before her eyes, a wicked idea suggested itself to Wanda.
"Only a handful from each sheaf, and the bag would be filled," she
argued, as she looked at the tempting ears swaying in the rising gale.
Wanda stood trembling and irresolute, casting furtive glances around
her. "Only a few handfuls; the rich man would never miss them."
She reached out her trembling hands and touched the wheat. "Tante
Miller would then surely let me go next Sunday to see Olg—"
She stopped her own thoughts. "What would she say to this?" Olga's own
words of a week ago, "Flee temptation," were ringing in her ears.
Her hands dropped to her side. A deep blush of shame mantled her cheeks
as she suddenly turned and ran as fast as her little feet could carry
her, through the field and down the hill, never once looking back until
she reached a small stream.
After quenching her thirst and bathing her burning temples, a great
weight rolled from Wanda's heart. A smile of triumph lit up the young,
and now almost angelic face as she looked back in the direction of the
wheat fields. Brave little Wanda had conquered; she could well afford
to look back now.
"I guess I had better pray for Tante's rheumatism right now, for she'll
have it worse than ever if I don't bring any gleanings," Wanda said to
herself gravely as she knelt down to pray:
"Dear Olga's Father—she says you are my father and everybody's father,
but I guess she is wrong, for other people are so bad, and I don't
belong to anybody but Tante Miller—I pray you send an angel to stop
Tante Miller's awful aches so that she will let me go next Sunday to
hear Olga read your beautiful book. Amen."
The distant rumbling of thunder and the black clouds overhead caused
her to rise hurriedly, intending to start for home. But suddenly
remembering that she had left the bag in her fright beside the tempting
sheaves, she quickly retraced her steps.
When she arrived on the spot, a new fear seized upon her. Neither sack
nor sheaves could be found, though the damp spot plainly indicated
where the piles had been.
"No gleanings and no bag! Tante Miller will surely kill me now," sobbed
Wanda in despair, as the big tears rolled down her brown cheeks.
Sharp flashes of lightning, followed by heavy peals of thunder, now
filled the air. Wanda, blinded with tears and trembling with terror,
started in a wild run she knew and cared not whither—anywhere except to
Tante Miller.
Unknowing, she reached the highway. A rough voice from a canvas-covered
wagon drawn by a team of oxen, hailed her.
Wanda at once recognized the owner of the wheat fields she had just
left, and a fresh hope animated her as she eagerly inquired after the
lost sack.
"Yes, your bag is here. Jump in, little girl, I want to talk with you
presently."
Wanda, too much absorbed in the recovered articles, which she clasped
tight in her hands, did not notice the strange, harsh voice of the
peasant.
But when they arrived at the barn in a torrent of rain, and Wanda
opened her lips to thank him for his kindness, his grasp tightened
unpleasantly on her arm.
"Now, just hold on, little one," exclaimed the peasant gruffly; "how
came this bag so near to my sheaves of wheat?"
"I wanted to glean there," was Wanda's trembling explanation.
"No, you didn't!" thundered the peasant, now fairly enraged at what he
thought a deliberate falsehood. "I allowed you to glean in my field
last week, and gave you a big handful besides. You wanted to steal, you
ungrateful little thief!"
"Yes, I did want to steal," confessed Wanda, watching the effect of her
words with the coolness and indifference of despair.
"And why didn't you?" asked the peasant, seeing that the bag was still
empty.
"I ran away."
"H'm! My coming frightened you, eh?"
"No, my conscience did. It cried awful loud."
"Your conscience! Well, Tante Miller deserves credit, then, for her
good training of you."
"No, she don't," interrupted Wanda sharply, fearing lest the credit
should be misplaced. "It's Olga who told me about my conscience."
"What, the pastor's daughter?"
"Yes," replied Wanda, proudly; "she reads to me every Sunday under the
pear-tree out of her God's book. And she lets me pray to Him, and told
me he was my God too, but then, I think she only says that because I
haven't anybody."
The peasant looked at the little waif with moist eyes. At length he
asked,—
"If you come home with your empty bag, what will Tante Miller say?"
"Nothing. If the angels didn't hide her big stick, I'll get that across
my back. And if they didn't stop her rheumatism, she won't let me see
Olga next Sunday, and that is the worst."
The peasant deliberately filled Wanda's sack with wheat and handed it
to her.
"Now take it home, and tell Tante Miller that Hans Yakob said if she
will let you go every Sunday to see Olga, he will give her another
bushel at threshing-time."
The sky was clearing rapidly as Wanda hurried home with her precious
load and her message from the richest peasant in the village.
The following Sunday, Tante Miller's own hands helped to dress Wanda
for her visit to the pastor's' daughter.
But this was not all. Later in the season, when threshing-time was
over, Wanda attended the merry harvest festival no longer as the
poor neglected orphan, running errands for the people, but in Olga's
company, as the adopted daughter of rich Hans Yakob.
"LETTER FOR ME, SIR?"
MEN, women, children, rich and poor, black and white, are hurrying into
the post-office, and pressing close up to the delivery window. Some are
expecting letters from distant friends.
That old man you see standing nearest the window has been coming for a
long time. He gets nothing, yet keeps coming.
He had a son once, whom he brought up very tenderly. He was an only
child and was dearly loved. But the boy had a bad companion who led him
astray. Once, he enticed him into a saloon and to drink. He was carried
back to his father drunk.
Do you wonder the poor father was heart-broken, and that he spoke
severe words.
But the boy instead of being ashamed and begging his father's
forgiveness, became very angry, and after a little, gathered all he had
into a bundle, and without a word of farewell, slipped away one dark
night, where, no one could tell.
When the father awoke the next morning and learned that his boy had
gone, his grief knew no bounds. He wrote letters in all directions
and put notices in a great many newspapers about his lost son. And he
travelled many hundred miles in search of him. But all to no purpose.
He thinks he is somewhere in Mexico. Poor old man! In the last few
months, he has grown gray very fast. I don't think he will come here
many more mornings asking for news from his lost Henry. Death will come
and take him to the arms of Jesus, I trust, and maybe then he will get
some good word about his wandering boy.
How are you treating your parents and your Heavenly Father?
Standing next to this old man is a boy nine years old. His mother has
sent him to see if a letter has come yet from his father. Not long ago
this father joined the army and went a thousand miles away to the West
to fight the wild Indians.
But not a word has come from him. Many battles have been fought with
the savages, and the papers say that some of the soldiers have been
shot down.
Sometimes the soldiers wander away from the camp and while every thing
seems so safe around them, suddenly the crack of a rifle is heard, and
a bullet from an Indian gun speeds through the soldier's heart.
Or maybe he finds his way to a saloon and becomes drunk, and quarrels,
and is killed, and his friends far-away at the East, expecting some
day to welcome back a brave soldier, hear no more from him. I suppose
whisky kills a great many more than war.
I am so glad this dear child does not know what dreadful thing has
happened to his father, or his face would not be so sunny.
Next to this child is a lady. She is richly dressed and seems very
cheerful. She is laughing and talking with the gentleman near her. She
tells him she expects good news from her husband who is in Europe. But,
see! there comes a letter for her, and there's a black border about it.
She turns pale and trembles, and can hardly command herself enough to
break it open. I wonder what it says; she has hurried away weeping and
groaning.
And now the crowd presses on. The clerk says to this one and that,
"Nothing for you!" "Nothing for you!" "Pass along there!" "Don't block
up the way!"
But there comes a rough-looking man. Wonder if he really expects any
one will write him a letter.
Yet the clerk hands him out one, large and handsomely addressed. How
astonished the man is. He blushes and shuffles away to a corner by
himself, and after trying a long time, he brings forth a great fine
parchment. But, poor man! he can't read. He looks around the room for
help. His eye rests upon me.
"Sir, will you be so kind as to give me the meaning of this paper? I'm
a poor man without education, sir."
I take the large letter. It is from Europe, written by a lawyer, and
it says that one of this man's relatives has died and left him five
hundred pounds.
————————————
A QUEER KIND OF SALT.
BY PARANETE (_aged_ 9).
THEY had been gathered around uncle Dick, who had just come back from
the Old World.
The children all thought this a very queer name, all except Mary, the
eldest, who thought she knew a little bit more than anybody else. She
told her mother in triumph, that she "got ahead of Lucy Jones the other
day, in geography, on the question: 'What is the Old World?'"
And little five-year-old Rose said that she "Fought it was queer it
s'ould be older'n any ovver one; s'e dessed zis world was mos' sixty
years old!"
But to go back to my story. Mamma came in and said:
"Children, you must go to bed now. I declare, if Rose isn't asleep
already over the statue of Milton!"
So with their thoughts full of Milton, they reluctantly went to bed,
and I am led to suppose that they dreamed of Milton that night.
The next day at dinner they had corn-beef.
"Oh, dear!" said mamma. "This meat has too much saltpetre in it. I
declare, I will never buy of that meat-man again!"
After dinner, the children gathered around uncle Dick.
"Uncle," said Willie, getting up on uncle's knee, "what was that mamma
said the meat had too much of in? Salt—"
"Why, Willie Lathrop!" exclaimed Mary. "It is saltpetre. You ignorant
boy; I'm ashamed of you!" Mary was very much ashamed of Willie
sometimes, and "sometimes" he had reason to be ashamed of her.
"What is saltpetre, then, Mary?" said uncle Dick.
"Why, wh-y, wh-y—it's saltpetre. That's all I know."
"Then you see that after all you don't know so much," said he.
Perhaps this was unkind, but he did not mean it to be so.
"Do tell us about it," said the children, all except Mary, she had gone
over in the corner of the sofa.
"Well," continued uncle Dick, "when I was in India, it lay all over the
ground like the snow here in winter, (only not so thick) in some parts
of the country— kind of salt. When tasted, it has a cooling, but bitter
taste. About an inch of the earth is taken up and put in large tanks
something like that you saw at Long Branch last summer (only not near
so large) full of water, and soaked there. The water is then taken out,
and the saltpetre is found in the bottom of the tanks. The most that
we use comes from the East Indies. It is sometimes called nitre. In a
great many places it is also found in caves."
"Well, now," said mamma, who had come in during the conversation,
"that's something I never knew before."
"Nor I either," said Mary.
"But you know a little more about it than you did awhile ago, don't
you?"
This from uncle Dick.
"How queer!" said Freddie and Willie.
JOSEPH AND RICHARD.
TWO boys about whom I think you will like to hear. Great friends they
were, and schoolmates. If you had lived a few years earlier, and had
been sent to London to school, you might have attended the school known
as the "Charterhouse," and sat beside Joseph and Richard. I wonder if
you would have liked them?
[Illustration: RICHARD STEELE.]
They were very unlike each other. Joseph was a quiet, handsome,
well-behaved boy, who always had his lessons, always did very
nearly what was right, and always took a prize, sometimes two or
three of them. But poor Richard was forever getting into trouble, a
good-natured, merry boy who did what he happened to think of first,
"just for fun," and sometimes spent hours in bitter repentings
afterwards.
Yet in spite of their being so different, as I told you, the two boys
were great friends, and in vacations, Joseph used to take wild Richard
home with him to the minister's house; for his father was a clergyman.
Well, the years passed on, and the two boys became young men and went
to college together. Perhaps you think you will hear now that the
fun-loving boy became a great scholar, and the sober Joseph grew tired
of study! Not a bit of it; they kept just about as far apart as when
they were children. Joseph was a scholar and a poet; Richard slipped
along somehow, contriving to study very little.
Why am I telling you about them? Why, because I know you like to get
acquainted with people, and these are not boys put into a story—they
actually lived, and were just such persons as I have been describing.
It is time you heard their full names: Joseph Addison and Richard
Steele. Stop just here and look carefully at their pictures. Yes, they
lived a good while ago, their style of dress would tell you so much.
It is a little more than two hundred years since they were born. If you
want to be very particular about it, I might tell you that Richard was
born in 1671 and Joseph in 1672.
When they were quite through with school life, among other things that
they did, they published together a paper called "The Tattler." I
suppose you never saw a paper quite like it. "Mr. Isaac Bickerstaff"
was the imaginary name of a person, who, according to this paper,
went everywhere and saw every thing and told his story in "The
Tattler" to amuse and instruct other people. After two years the two
friends changed the name and style of their paper. They called it
"The Spectator," and in it a delightful man was made to visit all the
interesting places in and about London, and elsewhere, and tell the
most interesting things that took place.
I suppose there never was a newspaper so eagerly watched for as the
"Daily Spectator." You must remember that, daily newspapers at that
time were very new and strange things. And indeed this was more like
a story book than a newspaper, only "The Spectator" went among real
people, and told just what they said and did.
Joseph Addison wrote a great deal for this paper, and by this time,
the scholarly boy had become a great man; his writings were very much
admired. Indeed, to this day, scholars love to read Addison. When I
was a little girl, I remember seeing a copy of "The Spectator," which
my father had among his treasures, and he used occasionally to take it
out, and read bits of it to me, explaining why certain things in it
were so witty, or so sharp, and I remember thinking that "Sir Roger"
(one of the people whom "The Spectator" went often to see) was the
nicest man who ever lived. I did not understand at the time that he was
an imaginary man that Addison and Steele had created.
[Illustration: JOSEPH ADDISON.]
There is ever so much I would like to tell you about these two men.
How, after a couple of years, they changed their paper again, calling
it "The Guardian;" how, as the two men grew older, the difference
between them kept growing. Joseph Addison being the scholarly
gentleman, and Richard Steele being the gay, good-humored, thoughtless,
selfish man, always getting into debt, and looking to Addison or some
one else to help him out. But I have only time to introduce them to
you. When you begin to study English literature, you will find a good
deal in it about these two friends and the great difference there was
between them.
Sometimes I wonder whether anybody would have remembered Richard Steele
at all, if he had not been a friend of Joseph Addison. Yet there was
a good deal in him to like, and he might have made a splendid man, I
suppose.
"Poor Dick!" his friends used to say of him, but they always spoke of
Addison with respect.
It is easy to get the name of being a very wild boy in school, always
doing mischief; but it is not so easy to be the first scholar, and
by and by one of the finest writers of the day.
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