Chapter C: The Training of Children 323 (3)

So that boys and girls who are preparing themselves for the duties of life should not aim simply at being as good as somebody else, but they should aim at being the best that it is possible to be in any chosen line of life or business. I have noticed in my short lifetime that there is a great tendency on the part of young people to cut short their education. Being able to shine in the intellectual and social worlds with the small attainments made in some college or normal school or industrial school, the average young negro man is content to stop with a diploma or certificate from one or another of these institutions. They will never realize what injury they have done themselves by so doing until it is too late. On the other hand, there is another large class of young people that stop short even before they have finished the course in even any one of the normal or industrial schools. They must go out to work; they know enough to make a living; what’s the use of so much education, anyhow? This is the way some of them talk. This is what some of them believe. Boys and girls, no man or woman with such low ideals will ever reach the topmost round of the ladder of fame. Such boys and girls will always play a second-rate part in the great drama of life. The boys and girls who are going to the front—the boys and girls who are going to have the leading parts—are the boys and girls who are willing to take time to prepare themselves. And preparation means hard work; and not only hard work, but hard and long-continued work. A person can learn a good deal in one year; a person can learn a good deal in two years; but nobody can learn enough in one or two years, or in three or four years, to make it at all likely that he will ever be sought by the great world.

Aside from the rudimentary training, it ought to take at least ten years to make a good doctor, or a good lawyer, or a good electrician, or a good preacher. Four of these years ought to be spent in college; and four in the professional school; and the other two ought to be spent in picking up a practical or working knowledge of the calling—whatever it may be. The young doctor obtains this practical knowledge in hospitals and in practice among the poor. The electrician obtains it by entering some large electrical industry or manufactory, in which a thoroughly practical knowledge of mechanical engineering and electricity can be secured. It is true that some men have become distinguished in these callings without this long preparation of which I have spoken; yet it is, also, true that they would have been better off—they would have been more likely to have become eminent—if they had taken the longer course. College is a little world which every one, other things being equal, ought to enter and pass through before launching in the great world.

XXVI.
SAMUEL C. ARMSTRONG.

Boys and girls, I wonder how many of you have heard of Samuel C. Armstrong—General Armstrong, the founder of Hampton Institute in Virginia? General Armstrong was one of the best men who ever lived, and he was the friend of all mankind. His special services were rendered in behalf of Indians and Negroes—the weaker races. You ought to go to Hampton Institute sometimes and see that place, and go over to the little cemetery in one corner of the grounds and stand uncovered by the side of General Armstrong’s grave. He died in 1892.

You ought to get the story of his life and read it. It will bear to you a thrilling message; for to read that book is to enter the presence of a man of magnificent courage and indomitable faith.

A general at twenty-six, with a brilliant war record behind him, the quality of his courage had been already proved; but the future was to test it far more severely. The responsibility for the experiment at Hampton was a terrible one, presenting problems which no nation had been called upon to solve before. He had to face isolation, ignorance, indifference, misrepresentation. At the best, after he had conquered prejudice and won friends for the work, he had to spend half his time begging for money, for he had to raise by personal efforts from fifty thousand to eighty thousand dollars annually for the current expenses. Yet in all that time and under all his burdens no one ever saw him discouraged. He used to explain his position by a story which he called his “rule of conduct.”

“Once there was an old colored man who could not be dissuaded from working at an empty ’possum hole. ‘Ain’t no ’possum in dat hole? Dey’s jest got to be, ’cause dey’s nuffin’ in de house fer supper’.” Or, as he used to tell his children, “Once there was a woodchuck. Now woodchucks can’t climb trees. Well, this woodchuck was chased by a dog, and came to a tree. He knew that if he could get up this tree the dog could not catch him. Now woodchucks can’t climb trees, but this one had to, so he did.”

He had to, so he did, was the motto of General Armstrong’s life. “Doing what can’t be done is the glory of living,” he once said. “For most people,” said one of General Armstrong’s friends, “an obstacle is something in the way to stop one from going on, but for General Armstrong it merely meant something to climb over; and if he could not climb all the way over, he would get up as high as possible, and then crow!”

When you come to read the story of General Armstrong’s life you will find that there is no finer picture in it than that of an evening when he spoke at a little suburban church far down a side street. It was a bitter winter night, with a driving storm of sleet, and when it was time for the meeting to begin the audience consisted of a score or so of humble people who evidently enough had no means to contribute, and a dozen restless boys kicking their heels in the front pew. Then “in the midst of the bleakness and emptiness rose the worn, gaunt soldier, as bravely and gladly as if a multitude were hanging upon his words. His deep-sunk eyes looked out beyond the bleakness of the scene into the world of his ideals, and the cold little place was aglow with the fire that was in him.”

Dangers, hardships, obstacles—upon these he had tried “his soul’s stuff” all his life, but here was another and a more difficult test. Triumphant in faith and unflinching in duty, he could meet even defeat in the spirit of victory.

XXVII.
HOW TO BE HANDSOME.

Do you want to be handsome? I’ll tell you how.

First, look well to your health. Eat regularly and simply, and take proper rest, in order to be healthy. Do not crowd the stomach. The stomach can no more work all the time, night and day, than a horse; it must have regular rest. The body must have proper rest also. Do not keep late hours. Go to bed early. If you have work which must be done, it is a good deal better to rise early in the morning and do it than it is to sit up late at night and work.

Secondly, good teeth are essential to good looks. Brush the teeth regularly with a soft brush morning and night, especially at night. Be sure to go to bed at night with clean teeth.

Thirdly, look well to the ventilation of your bed-rooms. No one can have a clear skin who breathes bad air. Fresh air is a preventive of a multitude of diseases. Bad air is the cause of a great many premature deaths.

Fourthly, cleanliness of the entire body is of vast importance. Some one has said that “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” and some one else has added, “And soap is a means of grace.” Handsome people not only eat regularly and simply; they not only sleep regularly and look well to proper ventilation; but handsome people will take regular baths.

Fifthly, more than all else, in order to look well you must wake up the mind and soul. When the mind is awake, the dull, sleepy look passes away from the eyes. Keep thinking pleasant and noble thoughts; do not read trashy novels or books; read books which have something good in them. Talk with people who know something. Be often in the company of those who know more than you do. Hear lectures and sermons and profit by them. If we listen and understand and heed, the mind and soul are awakened. So much the better if the spiritual nature is aroused. Sometimes a plain face is really glorified with the love of God and of man which shines through it.

Lastly, keep a strong and vigorous body by taking plenty of wholesome outdoor exercise, and do all the good you can.

Why not begin to grow handsome to-day?

XXVIII.
PATIENCE.

Patience is one of the marks of a high character. It might well be called the habit of closing the mind against disagreeable and annoying conditions. To acquire this habit so effectually as to hide even from one’s self any sense of suffering or offense from contact with such conditions is what the truly cultivated aim at. Life, it is true, is full of trying things, but to let the mind dwell upon them only serves to increase their offense to the feelings or the senses.

There are people, of course, who are incapable of self-concentration, and whose imagination, if left free to gad about, seems always to fix upon and exaggerate every element of disturbance. They live in what is called an elementary stage of moral discipline, and are perpetually fretting about things they cannot help. They are never able to shut down the will against any unpleasantness. They permit merely accidental conditions to exercise a kind of tyrannical sway over them, which, if their minds were once bent to the practice of putting up with things, would cease to present any annoyance whatever.

It is difficult, no doubt, to acquire this habit, but this is what patience means in its highest sense. It is spiritual endurance, and its chief power consists not so much in adding to the number of our joys as in lessening the number of our sufferings. It is, therefore, a mark of power over one’s self and a means of power over others. With patience the outward success or failure of a man is a small thing compared with that success which he has achieved within himself. And that kind of success—the success which enables a man to laugh at failure and rise superior to discouragements and difficulties—that kind of success is a means of help and inspiration to all those about him.

If we consider the works of nature we shall see that nature’s most beneficent operations are the results of patience. Anything which grows must have time, and the best things in the world are generally those things which demand the longest time for their growth and development. The rank and short-lived weed reaches its full development in the shortest possible time, but the oak, which is to stand for centuries, demands the sunshine and the storm of years before its strength is fully developed.

Now, boys and girls, one of the hardest demands which nature makes upon people (especially upon young people, full of strength and energy and ambition) is to wait for the results of growth. No man becomes instantly strong morally; he must grow into strength. However great his ambition and his zeal may be, no man becomes a scholar in a year. It takes time, and lots of it. No man reaches at a single bound the full development of his whole nature. He grows into strength. A good soldier cannot be made without war, nor can a skillful seaman be made on land.

So in the race of life we must fight hard for all we get and be patient. Whatever else may be true, or may not be true, only patient and continued efforts—not hasty efforts—lead to success.

Before me lies a block of wood. It is full of knots. It seems to me I can never split it. But I bravely make the attempt. The first blow makes little impression. The axe springs back with a bound. Again and again I strike. Then a tiny crack appears. A few more licks—and the block yields. I have succeeded. Can you tell me which blow did the work? Was it not the first blow and the last and all between? You have tried something and failed. Try again. If you fail, try once more. And on and on, keep trying until you win the victory.

XXIX.
THE BITER BIT.[4]

In the broad light of day a would-be highwayman sprang from the bushes that skirted the “Big Road,” and with a pistol pointed at Eli’s head commanded the wayfarer to hold up his hands. Without hesitation Eli obeyed, grabbing his hat from his head while his hands were making the ascent. Then he stood trembling, as if in great fear, and said:

“Lawdy, Boss, what is dat you got?”

The highwayman replied: “It’s a bulldog.”

“Kin he bark, Boss?” asked poor Eli.

“Certainly,” was the answer.

“Boss, I’ll give you a dollar des to hyeah dat dawg bark wunst,” said humble Eli.

“Bang!” went the gun, and the ball went crashing through the woods. Eli pulled out a silver dollar and handed it over to the would-be robber.

“Do hit ag’in, Boss,” said Eli.

A second, a third, a fourth, a fifth, a sixth time the dog barked, and each time Eli paid a dollar for the fun. When the revolver had been emptied the old negro asked pitifully:

“Boss, can’t he bark no mo’?”

On being assured that the dog could bark no more Eli said:

“Well, Boss, ain’t you got anuddah dawg?”

The robber said he was sorry, but he did not have another. Then Uncle Eli said, as he ran his hand into his hip pocket:

“Boss, I got one uv dem dawgs myse’f, an’ I ’spec’ I’ll let you hyeah mine bark some. Drap yo’ dawg, Boss, an’ drap hit quick,” he commanded as he pointed his gun at the would-be robber’s head. Down went the other man’s gun.

“Now drap dem dollars right ’long side uv dat gun. Be quick,” said Eli. Down went the dollars.

“Now you git, an’ don’t you look back. Step lively, an’ ef you das’ to look back you sho will hyeah sump’n impawtunt!”

XXX.
THE ALPHABET OF SUCCESS.

Attend carefully to details.
Be prompt in all things.
Consider well, then decide positively.
Dare to do right, fear to do wrong.
Endure trials patiently.
Fight life’s battles bravely.
Go not into the society of the vicious.
Hold integrity sacred.
Injure not another’s reputation.
Join hands only with the virtuous.
Keep your mind free from evil thoughts.
Lie not for any consideration.
Make few special acquaintances.
Never try to appear what you are not.
Observe good manners.
Pay your debts promptly.
Question not the veracity of a friend.
Respect the counsel of your parents.
Sacrifice money rather than principle.
Touch not, taste not, handle not, intoxicating drinks.
Use your leisure for improvement.
Venture not upon the threshold of wrong.
Watch carefully over your passions.
X-tend to everyone a kindly greeting.
Young people should read “FLOYD’S FLOWERS FOR COLORED CHILDREN.”
Zealously labor for the right, and success is certain.

XXXI.
EASTER MONDAY IN WASHINGTON.

The approach of Easter arouses delightful expectations in the hearts of the little children in the great city of Washington, the nation’s capital. On Easter Monday there is an event which places the day among the great holidays of the year. The United States government is drawn into the observance of the day because it furnishes the country’s greatest band to play the music and the government pays the bills. The president of the United States, whoever he may happen to be when the day rolls around, wins the gratitude of the children, for he lets them play in his back yard. The president’s back yard is called the White Lot; it covers many acres, and stretches from the back porch of the White House way out to the great white Washington monument, which towers for more than five hundred feet in the air a half mile away. The lawns of the White Lot are always green and inviting, and are covered with the prettiest flowers and trees that you ever saw. The ground is not low and level, except in spots. There are many little hills which serve to make it a beautiful place. Really the president’s back yard is a great big park.

Bright and early Easter Monday morning happy little groups of children may be seen proudly marching toward the White House. Their mothers and nurses or some grown-up sisters are with them. All the trolley cars are filled with them, coming from every section of the city. Their little tongues are very busy chattering about the pleasures that are in store for them. Some, whose memories stretch back over a long, long expanse of time, are relating some glowing incident of the year before, for those who are yet unacquainted with the joys that are to come. The little ones listen with open mouths and wide-open eyes, and hurry along all the faster.

I have been in Washington on two occasions at these great celebrations—once while the sturdy Grover Cleveland was president and once while the great and good William McKinley occupied the White House. In all my experience I have never seen anything that has made me feel prouder of my country than these feast days for the children; for, in the president’s back yard, all the children meet on a common level—children of all races and of all classes. Neither their father’s position nor their mother’s social standing concerns them. Two little strangers will meet and play and romp together as if they had been companions all their days.

All the little children carry with them little baskets and in the baskets are the prettiest Easter eggs that can be made. Some are painted and striped and spotted with bright colors; others are covered with silver and gilt paper. When the merry-makers get to the great big gates, where the policemen always stand, they march right through, because they know the policemen won’t stop them this time. The little fellows hold their heads high and feel very important, and the policemen smile as they pass by. The children keep coming and coming until by-and-by the lot is almost filled, all the way from the White House to the tall white monument, with laughing children—and with eggs! It would seem that there were no children left anywhere in Washington. The children are allowed to run on the grass just as much as they please for this one day.

If you go near one of the little hills or long banks you may hear one small girl say to another, “My egg’ll ’oll furver ’an your egg.” And the other small girl will answer, “No; mine’ll ’oll furvest.” And then they will start their eggs rolling down the hills and go racing after them to see whose egg goes the farthest.

Many of the boys throw their eggs along the ground like ninepin balls, and see whose will go the farthest. When they get tired of this they stand a little distance apart and roll their eggs against each other’s to see whose will break. There is another way that they try to break each other’s eggs. One holds an egg in his hand so that the top is uncovered, and another takes his egg and taps it gently against the first one. He keeps hitting a little harder and harder until one of them breaks, and the one whose egg doesn’t break is the winner.

Most of the eggs are boiled hard first, so that the children are not very sorry, after all, if their eggs do break, because they can eat them. And their mothers or nurses will give them crackers and salt to go with them.

In such a great crowd, where the children are allowed to run where they please, there are sure to be some little ones who will wander away from their guardians. All the little “lost” children, as fast as the officers find them, are taken to a small house in the center of the lot, and the mothers know just where to look for them. Often there are twenty or thirty little tots, all tired out, waiting to be claimed by their guardians.

On the highest mound of all there is a band—the United States Marine Band—and they play some of their nicest music on this day. So when the little ones get weary from running after their eggs they can go and watch the man pound the big bass drum, and listen to the music. Sometimes, while the music is playing, the president will come out on the back porch, high over all, and watch the festivities. A mighty shout, from old and young alike, always greets the appearance of the president. No wonder this is one of the big days for the little folks.

By-and-by all the eggs are broken or eaten, and then it is time for the tired and happy little fairies to go home.

XXXII.
KEEPING ONE’S ENGAGEMENTS.

What would happen if everybody should begin to-morrow to keep all his promises and fulfill all his engagements? I think it would make a new world at once. There is great need that the attention of young people should be called to the importance of keeping engagements. Much of the confusion and annoyance and trouble of this world would be done away with if people would learn to keep their promises. The oft-repeated excuse, “I forgot,” is not reasonable. If the memory is in the habit of playing tricks with you, then you ought to make notes of your engagements, write them down in some way, so that you will not forget them. Arnold of Rugby said: “Thoughtlessness is a crime,” and he was right. The great Ruskin has also uttered strong words in condemnation of thoughtlessness in youth. He said: “But what excuse can you find for willfulness of thought at the very time when every crisis of future fortune hangs on your decisions? A youth thoughtless! when the career of all his days depends on the opportunity of a moment. A youth thoughtless! when his every act is a foundation-stone of future conduct, and every imagination a fountain of life or death. Be thoughtless in any after years rather than now, though, indeed, there is only one place where a man may be nobly thoughtless—his deathbed. No thinking should ever be left to be done there.”

And, then, boys and girls should remember that promptness should always accompany the fulfilling of an engagement, otherwise the engagement is not really kept. A person’s time is a valuable possession, which should be respected by all. Who has not been exasperated by some one with apparent indifference keeping (?) an engagement a half or three-quarters of an hour late! And often a whole train of troubles will follow in the wake of tardiness. The punctual boy or girl in this life is the one who advances most rapidly. The punctual boy or girl will make a punctual man or woman. A promise-breaker, or one who is late in keeping his appointments, cannot in the true sense of the term be considered a first-class person.

XXXIII.
A MIDNIGHT MISHAP.[5]

Uncle Ned returned from his ’possum hunt about midnight, bringing with him a fine, fat ’possum. He built a glowing fire, dressed the ’possum, pared and split the sweet potatoes, and pretty soon he had the “’possum an’ ’taters” in the oven. While the meal was cooking Uncle Ned amused himself with his favorite old banjo. When the ’possum had been baked brown and crisp he took it out of the oven and set it on the hearth to give it time to cool. Mentally congratulating himself upon the glorious repast he thought soon to enjoy, he sat silently for awhile in the old armchair, but presently he was snugly wrapped in the arms of “tired nature’s sweet restorer—balmy sleep.”

It happened that two young fellows who were pretty well acquainted with Uncle Ned’s habits had been stealthily watching about the house waiting this particular chance. As soon as they were convinced that the old man was safe in the arms of Morpheus, they crept into the house and hurriedly helped themselves to Uncle Ned’s supper, including even the coffee and bread. When they finished the hasty meal, by way of attempting to cover up their tracks, they smeared Uncle Ned’s hands and mouth with the ’possum gravy and then beat a retreat.

After a time Uncle Ned aroused from his peaceful slumber. It is needless to say that he had dreamed about his supper. At once he dived down to inspect the viands, when, lo and behold, the hearth was empty! Uncle Ned steadied himself and studied awhile.

“Well,” said he finally, “I must ’a’ et dat ’possum; I must ’a’ et dat ’possum in my sleep!”

He looked at his hands. They were greasy. He smelt his hands. As he did so he said:

“Dat smells like ’possum grease! I sho must ’a’ et dat ’possum.”

He discovered grease on his lips. Out went his tongue.

“Dat tas’es like ’possum grease,” he said. He got up. He looked about the house. There was no sign of intruders. He rubbed his stomach. He resumed his seat, and, giving up all for lost, he said:

“Well, ef I did eat dat ’possum, hit sets lightah on my appertite dan any ’possum I evah et befo’.”

XXXIV.
FREDERICK DOUGLASS.

In 1893 the World’s Columbian Exposition, or World’s Fair, was held in Chicago in commemoration of the four hundredth anniversary of the discovery of America. A negro man, the Hon. Frederick Douglass, attended that exposition and delivered an address on negro day. Speaking of this great man’s visit the Advance, one of Chicago’s great religious papers, said:

“It was fine to see at the Congress on Africa the tall form and magnificent head of the grand old man, Frederick Douglass, now seventy-five years of age, perfectly erect, kindly, majestic, the ‘ancient fires of inspiration welling up through all his being yet’; affable to all; finding it still to be as natural to be eloquent as to speak at all; sympathetic to the core with the people of his own race, yet none the less loyal to the common interests of all the people of his country; neither blind to the obstacles in their path and the cruel social injustice and meanness to which they are often exposed, nor, on the other hand, unmindful of the friends they have in the South as also in the North, or above all to the over-shining care and purpose of God Himself, with the ‘far-off divine intent’ that so clearly takes in the future of both the American and African continents. Few Americans have had a more conspicuously providential mission than Frederick Douglass. And hardly anything in this remarkable congress was more eloquent or more convincing than his personal presence.”

Frederick Douglass was born a slave, and his life as a slave was one of peculiar hardship. Of it he himself says in his autobiography:

“I suffered little from any punishment I received, except from hunger and cold. I could get enough neither of food or clothing, but suffered more from cold than hunger. In the heat of summer or the cold of winter alike, I was kept almost in a state of nudity—no shoes, jackets, trousers, or stockings—nothing but a coarse tow linen shirt reaching to the knee. That I wore night and day. In the day time I could protect myself by keeping on the sunny side of the house, and in bad weather in the corner of the kitchen chimney. The great difficulty was to keep warm at night. I had no bed. The pigs in the pen had leaves, and the horses in the stable had straw, but the children had nothing. In very cold weather I sometimes got down the bag in which corn was carried to the mill and got into that. My feet have been so cracked by frost that the pen with which I am writing might have been laid in the gashes.” With regard to his food he said that he often disputed with the dogs over the crumbs that fell from his master’s table.

Now this man, born so lowly and surrounded by such circumstances, turned out to be in the course of time by hard work and self-application one of the most influential American citizens and one of the greatest orators that this country has ever known. Among other high offices of trust and responsibility, he was once marshal of the District of Columbia, recorder of deeds of the District of Columbia, and United States minister to Hayti.

He died February 20th, 1895, at his home in Anacostia, D. C., at the age of seventy-seven years. A monument to his memory has been erected in Rochester, N. Y., where he once lived.

What Frederick Douglass made of himself is possible for any American boy with grit. Every boy and girl in America should read the life of this pre-eminent negro and strive to emulate his virtues. His memory is worthy to be honored to the last day of time.

XXXV.
OUR DUMB ANIMALS.

Domestic animals—like horses, cats and dogs—seem to be almost as dependent upon kind treatment and affection as human beings. Horses and dogs especially are the most keenly intelligent of our dumb friends, and are alike sensitive to cruelty in any form. They are influenced to an equal degree by kind and affectionate treatment.

If there is any form of cruelty that is more reprehensible than another, it is abuse of a faithful horse who has given his whole life to the service of the owner. When a horse is pulling a heavy load with all his might, doing the best he can to move under it, to strike him, spur him, or swear at him is simply barbarous. To kick a dog around, to tie tin cans to his tail, or strike him with sticks, just for the fun of hearing him yelp or seeing him run, is equally barbarous. No high-minded man, no high-minded boy or girl, would do such a thing. We should never forget how helpless, in a large sense, dumb animals are—and how absolutely dependent upon the humanity and kindness of their owners. They are really the slaves of man, having no language by which to express their feelings or needs.

The poet Cowper said:

“I would not enter on my list of friends,
Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
Yet wanting sensibility, the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.”

Every boy and girl should be willing to pledge himself to be kind to all harmless living creatures, and every boy and girl should strive to protect such, creatures from cruel usage on the part of others. It is noble, boys and girls, for us to speak for those that cannot speak for themselves, and it is noble, also, for us to protect those that cannot protect themselves.

XXXVI.
A PLUCKY BOY.

The boy marched straight up to the counter.

“Well, my little man,” said the merchant, “what can I do for you?”

“If you please,” said the boy, “I came in to see if you wouldn’t let me work for you.”

The boy was not yet ten years old, and he was small for his age. But there was something in his speech, or manner that held the man’s attention.

“Do some work for me, eh?” said the man. “What kind of work could you do? You can hardly look over the counter.”

“Oh, yes; I can,” said the little fellow, as he stood on tiptoe and peeped over the counter.

Out of sheer curiosity the merchant came from behind the counter, so as to get a good look at the boy.

“Oh,” he said, “I see you’ve got copper taps on your shoes; I suppose your mother couldn’t keep you in shoes if they didn’t have taps on them!”

“She can’t keep me in shoes anyway, sir,” and the little boy’s voice hesitated.

“How old are you?” asked the merchant.

“I’m older than I look; folks say that I’m small for my age.”

“Well, what is your age?”

“I’m going on ten,” said Davie, with a look of great importance. “You see,” he continued, “my mother hasn’t anybody but me, and this morning I saw her crying because she could not find five cents in her pocket-book, and she thinks she must have lost it—and it was—the—last cent—that she had—in the world; and—I—have—not—had—any—breakfast, sir.” The voice again hesitated, and tears came into the little boy’s eyes.

“Oh, don’t cry, my little man; I guess I can help you to a breakfast. Here, take this quarter!” He pulled a quarter from his vest pocket and handed it to the boy. The boy shook his head.

“Mother wouldn’t let me beg,” was his simple answer.

“Humph!” said the merchant. “Where is your father?”

“We never heard of him, sir, after he went away. He was lost in the steamer City of New York.”

“That’s too bad. But you’re a plucky little fellow, anyhow. Let me see,” and he looked straight down into the boy’s eyes, and the boy looked straight up at him. Turning to the head man, after awhile, the merchant said:

“Palmer, is cash boy No. 5 still sick?”

“Dead, sir; died last night,” was the reply.

“I’m sorry; but here’s a boy you might use. Put him down in No. 5’s place. We’ll try him for awhile, anyhow. What is your name, my little man?” he asked, turning again to the boy.

“Davie Thomas.”

“Well, Davie, we’ll give you three dollars a week to start with; you come to-morrow morning and I’ll tell you what to do. Here’s a dollar of your wages in advance. I’ll take it out of your first week’s pay. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir; I understand, and I thank you, too. I’ll be back in the morning.”

Davie shot out of the store, and lost no time in getting home. The old creaky steps in the old ram-shackle house fairly sang with delight as the weight of the little boy hurried up them.

“I’ve got it, mother;” exclaimed Davie. “I’m a cash boy! The man’s going to give me three dollars a week, and he says I’ve got pluck, too; and here’s a dollar to get some breakfast with, and don’t you cry any more, for I’m going to be the man of this house now.”

At first the mother was dumfounded; then she looked confused; and then she looked—well, it passes my power to tell how she did look as she took Davie in her arms and hugged him and kissed him, the tears streaming down her cheeks. But they were tears of joy and thankfulness!

XXXVII.
A HEART-TO-HEART TALK.

“Henry, I asked you to remain after school a few minutes because I wanted you to help me rearrange the desks and furniture, but I had another reason for asking you to remain, and I think it is more important than the one I have just stated.”

The desks had all been arranged according to the teacher’s notion, and Henry Holt had gathered up his books to go home. It was then that his teacher, Miss Ada Johnson, addressed him.

“Won’t you sit down here a minute, David?” she continued. “I wish to speak to you a minute or two.”

David quietly took a seat. He was one of the largest boys in school, and had been giving an unusual amount of trouble during the day. In fact he had been a source of annoyance ever since the new teacher had taken charge.

“David,” the teacher went on, “I wonder if you realize how hard you have made it for me in school to-day? Is there any reason why we cannot be friends and work together? And I wish to be a friend to you, if you will let me. You could help me so much and you could help your schoolmates so much if you only would. I want to ask you if you think your conduct has been manly to-day? Has it been kind?”

David said nothing, but hung his head.

“I heard before I came here that you were an unruly boy. People say that you will neither study nor work, and some people say that you are a very mean boy. Some of these things may be true, David, I am sorry to say, but I want to tell you that you are the only hope of a widowed mother, and I want to say, also, that I think that you are breaking her heart.” The teacher’s voice faltered at the last words.

“I know that your father,” the low voice went on, “was a brave and noble man; and when I hear people say, ‘It is a good thing that Henry Oliver died before he knew what his son was coming to,’ I think what a pity it is that they cannot say, ‘How sad it is that Henry Oliver died before he could know what a fine, manly fellow his son would be, and what a stay and comfort to his mother’.”

The boy’s head dropped to the desk in front of him, and he began to sob. The teacher went over to him and said gently:

“You can be all this. It is in your power to be all that your father would have you, all that your mother would have you. Will you not turn over a new leaf now, not only in your behavior and work in school, but in your whole life as well?”

David raised his head.

“I am with you—I’ll do it, teacher,” he replied, a new resolve shining in his face. All that day he did some of the most serious thinking of his life. And he kept his promise.

The years have been many since then. The little teacher has long since passed to her rest, but David Oliver is a living monument to the power of a few searching words, the potency of a little personal interest and kindliness manifested at a critical time.

XXXVIII.
A GHOST STORY.

Uncle Mose, an old-time colored man, once said in a company of people who were talking about ghosts that he wasn’t afraid of any ghost that ever walked the earth.

“No, sah; not me,” he said; “I’se got my fuss time to be skeered uv anyt’ing dat’s dead.”

Whereupon Noah Johnson told Uncle Mose that he would bet him a load of watermelons that he couldn’t spend one night in the “Widder Smith’s house.” Now, the Widow Smith’s house was said to be haunted, or, in other words, it was filled with ghosts.

“Des name de night,” said Uncle Mose. “I’ll stay dar; no ha’nts won’t bodder wid me. No, sah; no ha’nts won’t bodder wid me, an’ yo’ watermillions is des ez good ez gone already!”

The details were arranged; judges were appointed; and Uncle Mose was to stay in the haunted house that very night. He got him some pine-knots to keep a good blaze in the old-fashioned fireplace, carried along an extra plug of tobacco, secured a large dry-goods box to be used for a chair, and then he set out for the house.

He made a blaze and seated himself on the pine box. For a time he sung a number of old plantation songs for his own amusement, as well as to keep him company. About midnight, feeling somewhat drowsy, Uncle Mose got up, took a light and went on a tour of inspection. He examined every room in the house. His search revealed nothing unusual. He wound up his search chuckling to himself:

“I sho is makin’ dis load uv watermillions easy. Noah Johnsing didn’t know who he’s foolin’ wid. I’m a man myse’f; I ain’t afeared uv nothin’—I ain’t!”

Down he sat on the box, and pretty soon he was dozing. It was not very long before he suddenly awoke. He was at once seized with strange and sudden fear. He was too frightened to move. Although he did not look around, he was conscious that there was another presence in the room. His hair stood on ends. He felt a cold chill run up and down his back. By that time he knew that the object in the room, whatever it was, was moving towards him. Still he did not move, because he could not. The ghost (for that was what all the people said it was) stood over Uncle Mose for a little while, and then quietly sat down on the box beside him. Uncle Mose looked straight into the fireplace, but his heart was beating like a runaway horse. The silence in the room at that moment was like unto the silence of death. Everything was still and solemn. Uncle Mose could almost hear his own heart beating. The ghost finally broke the silence by saying, with a loud sigh:

“Huh! Huh! There don’t seem to be but two of us here to-night!”

It was then that Uncle Mose looked around for the first time. As he did so he exclaimed:

“Yas; an’ f’um dis out dah won’t be but one!” And with that he jumped through the window, taking a part of the sash with him.

The judges had been waiting in the open air near the house, so as to watch the proceedings. They called to the fleeing Uncle Mose, as he passed them, and ordered him to stop. They said that they were all there and would protect him. But Uncle Mose, as he kept on running, hallooed back:

“I’ll see y’all later!”

He ran at the top of his speed for more than a mile, for he was well nigh scared to death. By-and-by, from sheer exhaustion, he was compelled to stop for a little rest. He was wet with perspiration from head to foot, and his clothes were as limp as a wet dishrag. But the poor old man had no sooner seated himself on a stone by the roadside than up jumps the ghost and sits down beside him once more.

“Huh!” said the ghost. “You seem to have made pretty good time to-night.”

“Yas,” said Uncle Mose; “but what I hase done ain’t nothin’ to what I’se gwinter do!” And up he jumped and lit out once more.

He had not gone far on his second trip before an old rabbit ran out of the bushes and took out down the road ahead of him. Uncle Mose hallooed at the rabbit and said:

“Git out uv de way, rabbit, an’ let somebody run what kin run!”

On and on the poor old man, almost scared to death, ran and ran. Perhaps he would have been running until now but for a very unfortunate accident. About five miles from the Widow Smith’s house he came in contact with the limb of a weeping willow tree that hung across the road. The poor old fellow, already tired out, was knocked speechless and senseless. Toward the break of day the judges, who had followed him, found him lying on the ground doubled up near the tree. Dim consciousness was slowly returning when they picked him up. They rubbed him, and walked him around for a little while, and soon he was able to move himself.

The first thing Uncle Mose said was:

“Tell Noah not to min’ ’bout dem watermillions. I stayed in dat house des ez long ez I could keep my conscience quiet. My ole mammy allus tole me dat hit wuz a sin an’ a shame to bet, an’ now I b’lieves hit!”

And to this day, boys and girls, if you want to see a really mad man, you just ask Uncle Mose if he ever saw a ghost.

XXXIX.
GOOD CHEER.

Everybody loves the cheerful boy or girl, the cheerful man or woman; and everybody ought to love such people. I wish all the boys and girls in America would organize one grand SUNSHINE SOCIETY, whose chief object should be the promotion of good feeling, good cheer, peace and happiness among all the people everywhere. But, first, a boy or girl, man or woman, must have sunshine in their own souls before they can communicate sunshine to others. And, boys and girls, it would greatly assist us in securing sunshine in our souls if we looked at our mercies with both eyes, as I might say, and at our troubles and trials with only one eye. What we enjoy in this world is always a good deal more than that which we do not enjoy; but we do not magnify our blessings sufficiently. We do not make as much of them as we ought. We do not rejoice because of them as we ought. We ought to keep daily a record of God’s goodness and kindness and patience and love. The Lord’s mercies are new every morning and fresh every evening; but we do not realize that they are so, because we do not stop to count them up; we do not think about them. If we stopped to weigh the matter I think we should find more in our lives to be happy about than to be sorry about. Our good fortunes always outweigh our misfortunes; and we should find it so if we only acquired the habit of remembering God’s goodness to us as well as the disappointments and sorrows and afflictions which are for us all.

Then we should study contentment. We should study to be content. We must cultivate the habit of being satisfied with what we have at present, and we should not worry about those things which we do not possess. Worry because of things they did not possess has made countless thousands mourn. Let us enjoy what we have. Let us make the most of what we have. And let us not worry about things which we do not possess. No matter how miserable our own lot may be, there is always some one whose lot is more miserable still. Worry kills more people than work. In fact worry unfits a man for work. The man who has learned the philosophy of being content in whatsoever state he is is the man who is and will be happy. One of the things in this world that pays a hundred-fold is contentment, and there is nothing that casts so much blight and mildew upon life’s fairest flowers as discontent.

Again, it would help us to keep cheerful if we kept steadily engaged in some work of usefulness. Let us go about doing good. Let us go about seeking opportunities of doing good. Doing good makes the heart healthy, and heart-health makes sunshine, happiness and good cheer.

A little thought will convince you, boys and girls, that your own happiness in this world depends very largely on the way other people bear themselves toward you. The looks and tones at your breakfast table, the conduct of your playmates, the faithful or unreliable people that you deal with, what people say to you on the street, the letters you get, the friends or foes you meet—these things make up very much of the pleasure or misery of your day. Turn the thought around, and remember that just so much are you adding to the pleasure or misery of other people’s days. And this is the half of the matter that you can control. Whether any particular day shall bring to you more of happiness or of suffering is largely beyond your power to determine. Whether each day of your life shall give happiness or suffering to others rests with yourself. And there is where the test of character comes. We must be continually sacrificing our wills to the wills of others, bearing without notice sights and sounds that annoy us, setting about this or that task when we would rather be doing something else, persevering in it often when we are very tired of it, keeping company for duty’s sake when it would be a great joy to us to be by ourselves; and then there are all the trifling and outward accidents of life, bodily pain and weakness, it may be, long continued, losing what we value, missing what we desire, deceit, ingratitude and treachery where we least expected them; folly, rashness and willfulness in ourselves. All these little worries which we meet each day may lie as stumbling-blocks across our way, or we may make of them, if we choose, stepping-stones of grace.

I want all the little boys and girls who read this book to be joy-makers, to be burden-bearers, to be among those who shall assist in filling the whole world with good cheer. It is our duty to cheer and comfort others; it is our duty to make the world not only better but happier—happier because better—for our having lived in it. To all the other beatitudes might well be added this one: Blessed are the cheerful people, for they shall inherit the earth.

XL.
LIFE A BATTLE.

Boys and girls, I want to repeat to you now some words which were delivered long ago by the Hon. Schuyler Colfax, a man who was once the vice-president of the United States. These words are wholesome, and should be read and considered by parents and school teachers and by children themselves all over our land:

“Above all things, teach children what their life is. It is not breathing, moving, playing, sleeping, simply. Life is a battle. All thoughtful people see it so. A battle between good and evil from childhood. Good influences, drawing us up toward the divine; bad influences, drawing us down to the brute. Midway we stand, between the divine and the brute. How to cultivate the good side of the nature is the greatest lesson of life to teach. Teach children that they lead these two lives: the life without and the life within; and that the inside must be pure in the sight of God as well as the outside in the sight of men.

“There are five means of learning. These are: Observation, reading, conversation, memory, reflection.

“Educators sometimes, in their anxiety to secure a wide range of studies, do not sufficiently impress upon their scholars the value of memory. Now, our memory is one of the most valuable gifts God has bestowed upon us, and one of the most mysterious. Take a tumbler and pour water into it; by-and-by you can pour no more: it is full. It is not so with the mind. You cannot fill it full of knowledge in a whole lifetime. Pour in all you please, and it still thirsts for more.

“Remember this:

“Knowledge is not what you learn, but what you remember.

“It is not what you eat, but what you digest, that makes you grow.

“It is not the money you handle, but that you keep, that makes you rich.

“It is not what you study, but what you remember and reflect upon, that makes you learned.

“One more suggestion:

“Above all things else, strive to fit the children in your charge to be useful men and women; men and women you may be proud of in after-life. While they are young teach them that far above physical courage, which will lead them to face the cannon’s mouth; above wealth, which would give them farms and houses and bank stocks and gold; is moral courage—that courage by which they will stand fearlessly, frankly, firmly for the right. Every man or woman who dares to stand for the right when evil has its legions, is the true moral victor in this life and in the land beyond the stars.”

These brave and true words were spoken by Mr. Colfax long years ago. They were true then; they are no less true now. Every boy in America should treasure them in his heart. Every girl in America should commit them to memory and make them the rule of her life. Mothers and fathers, school teachers and preachers, and all who have the care of the young in any way would do well to study these wise counsels and reflect upon them and strive to impress upon those for whom they are laboring.