Chapter L: S. Leary, (2)

I wish all the boys and girls who will read this book would make the reply of Frances their motto: “What I cannot tell my mother is not fit to know.” Stick to this rule through thick and thin, and you will avoid many of the snares and pitfalls by which many of your companions and playmates sink into shame and sin. Don’t read a note that you would be afraid to have your mother read. Don’t look at a picture that you would be ashamed to have your mother see. Don’t speak any word, and don’t allow any to be spoken to you, that you would not like to have your mother hear. A girl’s best friend is her mother. A boy’s best friend is his mother. And, boys and girls, be very sure that if a thing isn’t fit for your mothers to know it isn’t fit for you to know.

LXVI.
THE RIGHT WAY.

Henry Oliphant always considered himself lucky whenever he was able to get a ride on the street cars without paying for it, or get a glass of soda water or be admitted to some public place, where an admission fee was charged, without paying the price. He was bragging one day to some of his boy friends that he had not paid anything to witness the school exhibition the night before. Frank Sewall was brave enough to chide him for having done so. Frank was a plain-spoken boy, and Henry didn’t like what Frank had said. He thought what he had done was all right, while Frank had said that it was all wrong. Anyhow, Henry decided to get his father’s opinion on the matter.

“Father,” he said, when night had come, “I got in the hall last night for nothing.”

“How was that?”

“I just walked by the doorkeeper and he didn’t ask me for any money.”

“Did the doorkeeper see you?”

“Well, father, that was his business; he was put there for that purpose; he ought to have seen me.”

“But I asked you, Henry, whether the doorkeeper saw you. I want you to answer that question.”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Do you think he saw you?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Well, Henry, if he had seen you, don’t you think he would have asked you for your money or a ticket?”

“I guess so, father; but he didn’t ask me for anything.”

“Well, now, Henry, you know that a charge of ten cents was made at the door, and that no one had a right to enter who had not paid the ten cents. You did go in without paying. Now, whether the doorkeeper saw you or not, do you think that that was quite honest on your part? Was that the right way for you to act?”

“Well, I would have paid him if he asked me. I wasn’t the doorkeeper.”

“I guess the man who stole our wood last week would have paid me if I had seen him and asked him; but we called that stealing.”

“But, father, I did not take anything from the doorkeeper.”

“Who gave you the money with which to pay your admission?”

“Mother.”

“Where is that money now?”

“I have it; but I didn’t take it from the doorkeeper.”

“But you kept it from him, Henry. It belongs to the doorkeeper. He gave you its value. My son, the right way is, whenever you buy anything, whether it be a ride or a glass of soda water or permission to see a concert, whenever you buy anything you ought to pay for it. If you don’t you are no better than a common robber. You must go to-day and give Mr. Hall that ten cents.”

LXVII.
KEEPING FRIENDSHIP IN REPAIR.

I sometimes think that boys and girls, and even old people, are often careless in the matter of their friendships—not careless in the matter of selecting friends, though I am sure there is room for improvement along that line—but careless in trying to keep the good friendships we have already formed. We ought to keep our friendships in repair. Perhaps you think that our friendships are not things which need to be kept in repair. How foolish it is to think so! Does a garden need to be weeded? Does an old fence need to be kept in repair? Do we paint our houses only once in a century? What about the musician—does he not need to keep in practice? Supposing that you never kept your muscles in repair by constant use or exercise—how long would you be strong or healthy? And do you think that your friendships, because they are in a way intangible—you cannot see them, handle them or taste them—do you think that they grow and thrive of their own accord, and, therefore, do not need to be kept in repair? Slights, snubs, angry words, unpleasant conduct, long-continued lack of association, long-continued lack of familiar intercourse, and coldness, even where the meetings are periodic—these things, boys and girls, will kill the warmest friendship and choke the tenderest love. So we ought to be careful to keep our friendships in repair. If we had no friends in this world, no playmates and companions, no kindred spirits into whose keenest sorrows and highest joys we entered with deep and full sympathy, and who did not enter into our sorrows and joys in the same way—if we had no friends in this world, with all of its wealth and splendor, we should not desire to live very much longer. But to have friends and to be friendly goes a long way towards making the world a beautiful and blessed place to live in.

How, then, may we keep our friends? Easy enough—by cultivating them; and we cannot keep them in any other way. We should take time to be friendly. Little notes, little presents, little visits, little social entertainments, little kindnesses—these things, and things like them, go a great way in cementing our friendships, in tying people to us, as it were, with hooks of steel. We should not neglect these means of keeping our friendships in repair. Always give your friends a cordial welcome in your homes, and at your little children’s parties; let them feel, make them feel, that their coming adds to your pleasure without increasing your burdens. Don’t be selfish and narrow; be broad-minded and liberal. Keep your friendships in repair, and then see if you do not find your horizon broadened, your life sweetened, and the weary weight of this sad old world lightened.

LXVIII.
LITTLE ANNIE’S CHRISTMAS.

Christmas morning came.

Daylight was just peeping into the room.

Poor little Annie, the cripple, awoke and turned her eyes towards the corner where she had hung her stocking the night before.

Surely, she thought, as she watched it, there could not be very much in it, because it didn’t seem to be any larger than it was when she had hung it up. After awhile she crept slowly to where it was.

She did not take her crutches, for fear she would disturb her mother, who slept in the same bed with her. It was hard for her to move around without her crutches, but she persevered and finally she reached her stocking.

She put out her thin little hand and felt it. Yes, there was something in it! Then she put her hand inside and took out something which seemed round and soft. She took it out and looked at it. It was a little cake. Poor little Annie smiled, and put her hand back into the stocking. This time she found something which was done up in paper. She opened the paper and found a whole dozen of gumdrops. How brightly her little eyes flashed! She was only six years old and she had never had so much candy at one time in all her life.

By-and-by her mother awoke. She raised her head and saw Annie’s happy face. “Poor girl,” she thought, “how happy I would have been to have bought something else for her, but I wasn’t able. I hope she will be happy with what she has.”

“See, mother,” cried Annie, “I have twelve gumdrops and a cake. We will eat half of the gumdrops to-day and save the other half for to-morrow. You’ll eat three and I will eat three.”

“No, Annie,” said her mother, “you must eat every one by yourself.”

Annie smiled, but did not say anything.

Little Annie’s mother was a widow, and she was very, very poor; there were many times when they had only a little dry bread and water for the day’s food. For this bright Christmas season there were many things besides food which she would like to have bought for her poor little crippled child; but she did not have any money to pay for playthings or toys.

After breakfast on this Christmas day Johnny Ray came to see them. He brought with him a good thick shawl for Annie’s mother and four pairs of warm stockings which his mother had sent for Annie, and, also, a large package of nice candy.

Little Annie’s mother cried for joy.

Little Annie was too happy to speak. She had never dreamed of having so much candy at one time!

LXIX.
THE VELOCIPEDE RACE.

One bright day Archibald mounted his velocipede and rode out into the long green lane, where he could ride for a long distance without interruption. He had left his coat in the house because he knew that riding would make him very warm.

When he reached the lane the velocipede moved along so smoothly that Archibald was very happy. By the time he had gone nearly a half mile he was tired and stopped for a rest.

Pretty soon he heard a noise coming from behind, and he wondered what rider it might be on the same track that beautiful spring morning. He looked up and saw John Smith coming, riding a large velocipede and going as fast as he could.

Archibald quickly mounted his wheel and started on a swift run, trying to overtake the flying John. Before they reached the end of the road they saw Clara Hempton, standing by the fence with her little velocipede. Clara watched the boys as they flitted past. She thought that she could keep up with John, but she was not sure that she could ride as fast as Archibald.

While she was meditating Archibald cried out:

“Clara, you wait until we finish this race, and then we three will go back together.”

Archibald reached the end first, but John was not very far behind.

When Clara reached them Archibald said:

“Now we will all have a fair start and see who will reach the other end first.”

So they all started on a line. Archibald knew that he was the largest and could go the fastest, but, as he had won the other race, he did not ride this time as fast as he could. He thought this was the right way to give the others a fair chance.

Clara and John reached the other end of the lane at exactly the same time, with Archibald a short distance behind them.

John and Clara were greatly delighted because they had won the race from the big boy, Archibald. Archibald was pleased because they were pleased. This was not the only time that Archibald had proved that he was a good and kind boy, and that he was thoughtful of little children younger than himself.

From this little story of the velocipede race many other little boys and girls may learn a good lesson, I hope, that will do them good all through life.

LXX.
FAULT-FINDING.

Faults are the easiest things to find in all this world. A fault is something that can be found without looking for it. And I guess no little boy or girl in all the world knows anything that is easier to find than something that he or she doesn’t have to look for. Well, faults are things that we can find without looking for them; so faults are the easiest things to find in all the world. Yet, boys and girls, the habit of fault-finding, or the habit of finding fault, is one of the worst habits that anybody could form. It does nobody good, generally speaking. Besides it stamps the person who is so easy to find fault with everything and everybody as being a mean, low, envious, evil-hearted person. It is a good deal better to look for something to praise than it is to look for something to blame. Yet there are some people—some little boys and girls—who are so constituted that they do not see any good in anything. When it is cold, it is too cold. When it is hot, it is too hot. They don’t like “vici kid” shoes; they want patent leathers. The singing at church or Sunday school last Sunday was just horrid. Old Mary Jones ought to be taken out of the choir. The preacher preaches too long, or the deacon prays too loud. The school teacher isn’t any good—I can beat him drawing myself. So they go on from day to day, finding fault with everything and everybody. Nothing pleases them; nothing delights them. If by any chance or mischance they should get to heaven they would, I believe, find fault with the way the Lord has arranged things up there. They are miserable people to have around—these good-for-nothing, lazy and trifling fault-finders. If you try real hard, boys and girls, you can find something good in everything and in everybody. That is one reason why we do not always see the good in people or things—we don’t look for it. We can find out what is bad—can find out the bad things without looking for them, but if we want to see the good things we must be on the lookout for them. If we are on the lookout—if we make up our minds that we are going to see the good, and only the good, we are always sure to find it.

There was an old woman once who was noted for being able to say something good about everything and everybody. She was never heard to speak evil of anything or anybody. Once upon a time a gambler died in the city where she lived. He was a miserable sinner, and nobody liked him and nobody had a good word to say for him, even after he was dead. Aunt Maria, the good old lady, went to see him after he had been put into his coffin. The people who were present wondered what good thing Aunt Maria could possibly say about the dead sinner. Aunt Maria entered the room and walked around on tiptoe. After awhile she raised her head and said:

“Friends, I tell you, he makes a mighty nice looking corpse.”

LXXI.
THE PURITANS’ SABBATH.

If all the little boys and girls in America to-day knew how the people in the New England states were compelled by law to keep the Sabbath day I think they would realize how much better it is to be living in these days and times than to have lived in those.

The laws concerning the keeping of a New England Sabbath were very severe—that is, before the Revolutionary War, when what was called colonial rule was in force.

No manner of work was allowed to be done; no visiting, no playing, no gaiety of any kind was permitted; just think, boys and girls, it is said that one man was brought to trial and fined for kissing his wife on a Sabbath morning.

Slowly and solemnly, just as if they were going to a funeral, the families all walked to the meeting house on Sundays, some of them having to walk many and many miles.

On reaching the church the men took their places on one side of the house and the women on the other—they didn’t allow men and women to sit together. The children, also, had to sit by themselves, and there was a man appointed to keep them quiet. This man carried a long stick with a hard knob at one end and a little feather brush at the other. The feather end of this stick he would use to tickle the faces of the men and women who might chance to get sleepy and go to nodding during the preaching. The other end he used on the children.

I guess this poor man must have kept busy all the time, for the sermons were very long, lasting for whole hours. Sometimes a man would begin a sermon in the morning and preach up to dinnertime; the congregation would then go out for dinner, and come back and sit for hours during the afternoon to hear the sermon concluded.

The men carried their muskets to church with them, so that they might have them ready in case of an attack from the wild Indians.

The meeting houses were not warmed even in very cold weather; the people thought that in some way it would make them better Christians if they bore such discomforts without a murmur. Of course we know better now, and wouldn’t think of doing such a foolish thing.

After a time the people began to carry hot bricks and stones to keep their hands and feet from freezing, and by-and-by they carried foot stoves. These stoves were little tin boxes, with holes in the side, a cover, a door, and handles with which to carry them. In these boxes were put live coals and in that way the fire would last throughout the sermon.

I fear many and many a little boy and girl dreaded to see Sunday come, for, as a rule, it was a long, dreary day, and I am sure that they must have been glad when it was over.

I know you must be glad that people no longer have the idea that Sunday should be such a dismal, sober day; and I believe that our Heavenly Father is much more pleased to see the children spending the Lord’s day happily in their homes with their mothers and fathers, their little brothers and sisters.

Of course no Christian boy or girl even now believes in making Sunday a day of riot and fun; and no Christian man or woman believes in having the saloons open on Sunday anywhere. But most of us are away beyond the old Puritan idea of sadness and gloom for the Sabbath.

Next Sunday, boys and girls, when you enter your pleasant Sunday school rooms and find your schoolmates and teachers so glad to see you, and where everything is bright and pleasant, think of those poor little children who had no books and cards and no pretty songs and who were made to pass the whole day without even being allowed to laugh.

LXXII.
THE DEVIL ON AN EXCURSION.

I wonder how many boys and girls have ever witnessed a cyclone—a great big hurricane of wind and rain, of lightning and thunder, that just knocks down all the trees and takes the roofs off all the houses.

It is a terrible thing, the cyclone is!

The other day one came to our town. We could look up into the sky and see coming, from afar, a great big black cloud that looked for all the world like a balloon—a great big balloon, ever so large. The wind was blowing at a rapid rate, the dust flying, and everybody was frightened.

The roof was lifted off the school house, a church was blown down, many houses were unroofed, and men and beasts were alike hurled right and left. I do not think anybody was killed but a great many were frightened nearly to death.

The cyclone took one poor little boy and landed him in the midst of a mud puddle. The little fellow stretched out stiff and stark, as if he had been killed. An old man ran up to the edge of the ditch and said:

“Isaac, is you dead?”

Isaac said nothing, but his eyes, were rolling in their sockets. The old man asked again:

“Isaac, is you dead? ’Cause ef you is dead d’ain’t no use uv my comin’ in dar to try to git you out.”

This time Isaac grunted, rolled his eyes, and asked:

“Where is he, Uncle Reuben?”

“Whar’s who?” asked Uncle Reuben.

“The devil,” said Isaac.

“He done gone,” said Uncle Reuben, “he done clean gone; but you bettah git up f’um dar!”

“I can’t,” said Isaac. “I can’t; I’m ’most dead!”

Uncle Reuben studied a short while. He was planning what to do next. He didn’t want to go into the mud and water and get his clothes soiled in trying to rescue the little boy. By-and-by Uncle Reuben threw up his hands, looked up the big road and said:

“De goodnis gracious! I see dat ole cycloom cornin’ back ag’in. He look blackah and wussah dan he done befo’. Run, Isaac, run!”

You ought to have seen Isaac jump out of that hole. He got out hallooing, and he ran and hallooed for nearly a quarter of a mile. Uncle Reuben hallooed after him to stop, but it did no good. The poor little fellow was well nigh scared to death.

A few days after the cyclone Uncle Reuben was telling some of his friends about the occurrence. Among other things he said:

“Little Isaac wasn’t ready fur Judgment—dat’s all! He wasn’t ready! W’en a man’s ready to go to judgment, he ain’t ’fraid uv nothin’. No, sah; he ain’t ’fraid uv nothin’. Isaac wasn’t ready, an’ he hallooed an’ squealed jes like death done struck him. Mens, I tell you, dat ole cycloom jes ’tuck de roof off’n ev’ybody’s house. Look like ev’ybody’s house he come to he dip down an’ say, ‘Take yo’ hat off to me; don’t you see me cornin’; ain’t you got no mannahs?’ Den he’d strike ’em an’ take deir hats off hisse’f. He took de roof off’n de cullud school house an’ he took de roof off’n de white school house. De cycloom ain’t no respectah uv persons—he sho ain’t. W’en little Isaac done come to his senses an’ done got clean ovah his fright, I ax’d him what a cycloom was. He told me dat a cycloom wa’n’t nothin’ ’tall in dis worl’ but de debbil on a flyin’ ’scursion. The mo’ I think ’bout it, the mo’ I b’lieve dat boy was right. De cycloom sho is de debbil on a ’scursion, an’ w’en de debbil is a-ridin’ you’d bettah lay low.”

LXXIII.
RANDOM REMARKS.

In the olden times parents used to rule their children, but in these days and times there are many people who believe that the children rule their parents. So many misguided parents in these days and times believe in sparing the rod and spoiling the child. Boys don’t get many whippings at home nowadays, and if a boy happens to get a good flogging at school it will cause a big row, and sometimes cause the teacher to be threatened with arrest. Whenever my teacher used to whip me I was always afraid to mention it at home for fear of getting another. I heard a man say the other day: “Never whip a child; raise your boy on love and kindness and reason!” Yes; and when that boy is twelve or thirteen years old somebody will have to go to him and talk to him and try to persuade him not to whip his father or mother.

I was at church the other day and I saw two boys about ten or eleven years old. After service they lit their cigarettes and went marching off as big as Trip. A man of the old school looked at them for awhile, and then, turning away, he said:

“I just wish I could have my way with those boys for about two minutes.”

I didn’t say anything, but deep down in my heart I sympathized with the old man, and felt that both of the youngsters ought to have had a good whipping.

Some girls are almost as bad as some boys. Girls are most too fast in these days. As soon as they get their dresses to their shoetops they are gone. They go crazy over their clothes, for they think that they must keep in the fashion. They read too much trash, for they think that is the way refined and cultured people do. Old-fashioned modesty is at a discount. The girls don’t wait for the boys to come now—that is, many of them don’t; they go after them. I have seen some girls running around in these new-fashioned night gowns, and they call it a Mother Hubbard party. If their mothers don’t allow them to go with the boys they will slip around and meet them somewhere anyhow. And where they are allowed to go with the boys they generally go to extremes. What business has a little girl—ten or twelve or fourteen years old—to be locked-arms with a little stripling of a boy, going home at night from church or some social entertainment. It always disgusts me whenever I see it. Worse than a mannish boy is a womanish girl. What business has a little girl, or a larger one, to allow a man to throw his arm around her waist in the round dance? It is immodest, to say the least, and there is not a good mother in the land who approves it. A girl who goes to a promiscuous ball and waltzes around with promiscuous fellows puts herself in a promiscuous fix to be talked about by the dudes and rakes and fast young fellows who have encircled her waist. Slander is very common, I know, especially slander of young ladies; there are not many young ladies who escape it; but the trouble about it is that it is not all slander—some of it is the truth.

In the olden times when folks got married they stayed married, but nowadays the courts are full of divorce cases. The land is spotted with what are called “grass widows,” and in many a household there is hidden grief over a daughter’s shame. Why is it? What causes it? Lack of proper training and care of the young. Habits are great things—good habits or bad habits. If girls are reared to clean their teeth and keep their fingernails clean they will keep them clean all their lives. If boys are reared to chew tobacco and smoke they will never quit. The same about loving and courting and getting married. Much depends upon training, upon habits. Young flirts make old flirts. Young devils make old devils!

LXXIV.
BENJAMIN BANNEKER, THE NEGRO ASTRONOMER.

The little colored boys and girls of America should be proud to know, as I suppose the little white boys and girls will be surprised to learn, that the first clock of which every portion was made in America was made by a colored man.

The colored children will also be glad to know, I think, that among the earliest almanacs prepared for general use in this country were those which were published for several years by this same colored man. His name was Benjamin Banneker. I have found a good and true account of this wonderful man in The Atlantic Monthly for January, 1863. I am going to give a good portion of that account in this book, because I believe every colored person in America should be acquainted with that man’s history. The account says:

“Benjamin Banneker was born in Baltimore County, Maryland, near the village of Ellicott’s Mills, in the year 1732. There was not a drop of white man’s blood in his veins. His father was born in Africa, and his mother’s parents were both natives of Africa. What genius he had, then, must be credited to that race. When he was approaching manhood he went, in the intervals of toil, to an obscure and remote country school. At this school Benjamin acquired a knowledge of reading and writing, and advanced in arithmetic as far as ‘Double position.’ Beyond these rudiments he was his own teacher. Young Banneker had no books at all, but in the midst of labor for a living he so improved upon what he had gained in arithmetic that his intelligence became a matter of general observation. He was such an acute observer of the natural world and had so diligently observed the signs of the times in society that it is very doubtful whether at forty years of age this African had his superior in Maryland.

“Perhaps the first wonder amongst his comparatively illiterate neighbors was excited, when, about the thirtieth year of his age, Benjamin made a clock. It is probable that this was the first clock of which every portion was made in America; it is certain that it was purely his own invention as if none had ever been made before. He had seen a watch, but never a clock, such an article not being within fifty miles of him. He used the watch as a model for his clock. He was a long time at work on the clock,—his chief difficulty, as he used often to relate, being to make the hour, minute, and second hands correspond in their motion. But at last the work was completed, and raised the admiration for Banneker to quite a high pitch among his few neighbors.

“The making of the clock proved to be of great importance in assisting the young man to fulfill his destiny. It attracted the attention of the Ellicott family, who had just begun a settlement at Ellicott’s Mills. They were well-educated men, with much mechanical knowledge, and some of them Quakers. They sought out the ingenious negro, and he could not have fallen into better hands. In 1787 Mr. George Ellicott gave him Mayer’s “Tables,” Ferguson’s “Astronomy,” and Leadbetter’s “Lunar Tables.” From this time astronomy became the great object of Banneker’s life, and in its study he almost disappeared from the sight of his neighbors. He slept much during the day, that he might the more devotedly observe at night the heavenly bodies whose laws he was slowly, but surely, mastering.

“Very soon after the possession of the books already mentioned, Banneker determined to compile an almanac, that being the most familiar use that occurred to him of the information he had acquired. To make an almanac then was a very different thing from what it would be now, when there is an abundance of accurate tables and rules. Banneker had no aid whatever from men or rules; and Mr. George Ellicott, who procured some tables and took them to him, states that he had already advanced very far in the preparation of the logarithms necessary for the purpose.

“The first almanac prepared by Banneker for publication was for the year 1792. By this time his acquirements had become generally known, and among those who were attracted by them was Mr. James McHenry. Mr. McHenry wrote to Goddard and Angell, then the almanac-publishers of Baltimore, and procured the publication of this work, which contained from the pen of Mr. McHenry, a brief notice of Banneker. When his first almanac was published, Banneker was fifty-nine years old, and had received tokens of respect from all the scientific men of the country. Among others, Thomas Jefferson, then Secretary of State under George Washington, wrote him a most flattering and complimentary letter. In his letter Jefferson said, ‘Nobody wishes more than I do to see such proofs as you exhibit, that Nature has given to our black brethren talents equal to those of other colors of men, and that the appearance of a want of them is owing only to the degraded condition of their existence both in Africa and America.’

“Banneker continued to calculate and publish almanacs until 1802.

“Mr. Benjamin H. Ellicott, who was a true friend of Banneker, and collected from various sources all the facts concerning him, wrote in a letter as follows: ‘During the whole of his long life he lived respectably and much esteemed by all who became acquainted with him, but more especially by those who could fully appreciate his genius and the extent of his acquirements.’

“Banneker’s head was covered with a thick mass of white hair, which gave him a very dignified and venerable appearance. His dress was invariably of superfine drab broadcloth, made in the old style of a plain coat, with straight collar and long waistcoat, and a broad-brimmed hat. His color was not jet black, but decidedly negro. In size and personal appearance, the statue of Franklin at the library in Philadelphia, as seen from the street, is a perfect likeness of him.

“Banneker died in the year 1804, beloved and respected by all who knew him. Though no monument marks the spot where he was born and lived a true and high life, and was buried, yet history must record that the most original scientific intellect which the South has yet produced was that of the pure African, Benjamin Banneker.”

The above is the story of that wonderful black man told in splendid terms of high and well-deserved praise by a white man. Every little black boy in America may well be fired with inspiration to do something beyond the ordinary by reading the story of Banneker’s life.

LXXV.
“A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM.”

It is truly astonishing what a boy can do when once he has made up his mind to do his best. Dr. Len. G. Broughton, the famous pastor of the Tabernacle Baptist church, Atlanta, Ga., in a little book, which he calls “The Modern Prodigal,” has told a very pathetic story about a little boy. It is so true to life, and so typical of what a black or white boy may do under similar circumstances, if he only decides for the true and the right, that I have decided to reproduce the little story in this book. It is well worth reading. Dr. Broughton says:

“Not long after I entered the ministry, I went to a certain town to hold a series of meetings. It was one of these good old Southern towns, the inhabitants of which banked on aristocracy and fed their souls upon the glory of departed days. They had never known what it was to be spiritually warm. The first night I was there I preached to a great audience. It was in my early ministry, when I made many propositions. The first one I made that night was for any one to stand who wanted prayers offered for their friends. As soon as I made it a little boy got up and walked out in the aisle, where he stood looking me square in the face. I said, ‘God bless you, little man,’ and he sat down. I then asked any one who wanted the prayers of God’s people to rise. That boy got out in the aisle again and looked me in the face, and again I said, ‘God bless you.’ I asked if there was anybody present who was willing to accept Jesus. That boy stood up again and looked me in the face, and again I said, ‘God bless you.’ Nobody else stood up that night, and I began to think I had struck about the hardest and coldest crowd I had ever run up against.

“The next night I preached as hard as I knew how to sinners, and when I finished, I asked anybody who wanted to be prayed for to stand up. The same little rascal popped out into the aisle, as he had done the night before, and stood looking at me until I saw him and said, ‘God bless you.’ I thought I’d vary the thing a little, so I asked if anybody present was willing to come forward and give me his hand as an indication that he would accept Jesus. That same boy came shuffling out of his seat, straight down the aisle and gave me his hand. I saw smiles on the faces of some in the congregation. Nobody but the boy showed any interest, and I went off somewhat disheartened. The third night I preached, and when I asked all who wanted prayer to rise, that boy popped out into the aisle. The people had begun to regard it as a joke, and they nudged each other with their elbows, while a broad smile flared from one side of the house to the other. When I asked anybody who was willing to accept Jesus to come and give me his hand, that boy came, and the congregation smiled broader than before. After the meeting the deacons came to me and told me that the boy must be stopped, as he was a half-idiot, and was throwing a damper on the meeting. I said: ‘Stop nothing! How are you going to throw a damper on an ice-house?’

“For the whole of that week that boy was the only person in the house who showed any interest in the meeting. Then he wanted to join the church. The pastor was absent, and I was to open the doors of the church. The deacons came to me and said I must not receive that boy, as he didn’t have sense enough to join the church. I said: ‘Look here, brethren, I won’t take this responsibility on my hands. I’m going to put that boy on you, and if you choose to reject him, his blood be upon your hands.’ At the conclusion of the morning service, I invited all who wanted to unite with the church to come forward. That boy came. I asked him if he had accepted Christ for his personal Saviour. That’s all I ever ask. He said he had. ‘Brethren,’ I said, ‘you hear what this boy has to say. What will you do with him?’ An ominous silence fell on the congregation. After a time, from ’way back by the door, I heard a muffled and rather surly, ‘I move he be received.’ Another painful silence followed, and then, from the middle of the church, I heard a muffled, ‘I second the motion.’ When I put the motion, about a half dozen members voted ‘aye’ in a tone so low that it seemed as if they were scared. I gave the boy the right hand of Christian welcome awaiting baptism, and then dismissed the congregation.

“The next day the boy went out to see his old grandfather, a man whose whitened head was blossoming for the grave, and whose feet were taking hold upon the shifting sands of eternity. ‘Grandfather,’ said he, ‘won’t you go to church with me to-night and hear that preacher?’ We always feel kindly towards those who are afflicted, you know, and are willing to please them; so the old man agreed to go.

“That night I saw the boy and the old man sitting away back by the door. When the sermon was finished, one of the members of the church arose and said: ‘I have a request to make. We have with us to-night, Mr. Blank, one of our oldest and most respected citizens, but he is out of Christ. I want special prayer offered for this my special friend.’ With that he laid his hand upon the head of the old man, down whose furrowed cheeks the tears were streaming. The next night I saw the old man sitting about half-way down the aisle. When all who wanted to accept Jesus were invited to come forward and give me their hands, I saw the half-idiot boy coming down the aisle leading the old man by the hand.

“That little boy’s father kept a saloon. The following day the child went there, and climbing up over the high counter, he peeped down upon his father and said: ‘Papa, won’t you go to church with me to-night to hear that preacher?’ ‘You get out of here, child,’ said the father; ‘go out of here; don’t you know you mustn’t come in here?’ Strange, strange, how fathers will keep places where their children cannot go! ‘But, papa,’ continued the boy, ‘won’t you go to church with me to-night?’ ‘Yes; I’ll go, but you get out of here.’

“That night the man came with the half-idiot boy, and sat about where the old man had sat the night before. When I asked all who would accept Jesus to come forward, he walked down the aisle and gave me his hand. He asked if he could make a statement, and when I said ‘Yes,’ he faced the congregation and said: ‘My friends, you all know me, and I want to say that so long as I live I will never sell another drop of whiskey, for I have given my heart to God to-night, and from this day forward I propose to serve him.’

“The meeting warmed up at last, the town was set on fire for God. Every saloon keeper was converted and every saloon was closed. The feeling spread and a saloon seven miles in the country was closed and the keeper was converted to God.

“At the close of the meeting I sat on the front seat and saw the pastor lead three generations into the baptismal waters, the old man in front, his son behind him, and last in line the little half-idiot boy. The only mistake that was made, to my mind, was that the boy who had led the others to Christ should not have been first in line. Where is the little half-idiot boy now? He has grown much brighter within the last few years, and is now going to school. He says he wants to be and will be a missionary.

“What a lesson for the young to-day. Persistent self-surrender, ever doing the best we can, is a never failing way that leads to victory.”

LXXVI.
DIRECTIONS FOR LITTLE LADIES.

1. A little lady always says, “I thank you” whenever anybody assists her in any way, and always says, “If you please,” whenever she makes any kind of request.

2. A little lady is never loud and boisterous on the streets, in public places, or at home. Sometimes girls are so rough that they are called “Tom-Boys.” No Tom-Boy ever was a true little lady.

3. A true little lady will always see that her linen is clean and spotless—collars and cuffs, aprons and dresses, handkerchiefs, and all articles of clothing. Every true little lady hates dirt.

4. A little lady will not be guilty of idle gossip. She will not tattle; will not go around hunting all the evil things that are said or known about other little ladies. She closes her ears tight against the slanderers of the town.

5. A little lady will love the Sunday-school and the church. She will love the society of good people and the society of good books. She will have higher notions of life than that life is something to be spent in a merry round of pleasure.

6. A true little lady loves her mother, and she will show that she loves her mother in various ways. She will help her about the housework. She will be fond of going out in company with her mother often. She will not think, that anybody else’s mother is or can be better than her own mother.

7. Every true little lady will be a Christian. She will early give herself to Jesus. She will delight to help the poor; to visit the sick, carrying the cheer and comfort and something good to eat and flowers and many other things. She will love everybody. Do you?

LXXVII.
THREE WORDS TO YOUNG PEOPLE.

The first word is, Be true. The second word is, Be trustworthy. The third word is, Dare to do right.

First: Be true! Be what you seem to be or what you pretend to be; do not be a hypocrite; be firm and steady in adhering to friends, promises or principles. Be a true boy; be a true girl.

Secondly: Be trustworthy! Be worthy of trust; be reliable; make your word your bond. Conduct yourself in such a way that people can depend on you.

Thirdly: Dare to do right! Whatever comes or doesn’t come, stand by what you believe to be right, even if you have to stand alone. Be honest, upright, faithful, sincere, abhor that which is evil, cleave to that which is good.

True boys and girls are scarce; they are not easily found; they do not grow on trees. But, to tell you the truth, we need good boys and girls, true boys and girls, much more than we do educated boys and girls. All education without character is a dead weight!

Let me give you one or two reasons why you should be true, trustworthy, and brave for the right. In the first place, for the sake of your influence. Every boy and girl in this world has some influence. Every boy in this world, white or black, rich or poor, high or low, is helping his friends and playmates to grow better or worse, higher or lower in the scale of being. Every girl in this world is likewise helping or hindering others. If we are harsh and unkind, cruel and unjust—in every wrong, every baseness, meanness, selfishness, we are harming not ourselves alone but the whole great family of man. On the other hand, when we speak fearlessly a brave, true word, when we perform cheerfully a hard and trying task, whenever we are faithful, honest, earnest, patient, pure, trustworthy, whether we know it or not, we are strengthening the unseen impulses which make for nobility and higher manhood and womanhood throughout the world. In the economy of God, by his infinite wisdom, the humblest life reaches forward to the highest and the highest life reaches backward to the lowest.

But perhaps you are saying that I am taking too much for granted. Perhaps you think that it is not true that there is not one of the very least of the great human family who is not every day exercising some personal influence for good or evil upon the world. If you think so, boys and girls, or older people, you are mistaken. No human being can escape from the world’s atmosphere. Though you fly to the uttermost parts of the sea or hide in the depths of the dense city, some life is affected by your life. Not only some life is affected by your life, but many lives are affected by your life. It is a thought of this kind that Charles Dickens beautifully expresses in his story called “David Copperfield.” He says:

“There is nothing—no, nothing—beautiful and good that dies and is forgotten. An infant, a prattling child, dying in his cradle, will live again in the better thoughts of those who loved it, and plays its part, though its body be burned to ashes or drowned in the deepest sea. There is not an angel added to the hosts of heaven but does its blessed work on earth in those who loved it here. Dead! Oh, if the good deeds of human creatures could be traced to their source, how beautiful would even death appear. For how much charity, mercy, and purified affection would be seen to have their growth in dusty graves!”

No, children, it is no idle dream, no fancy story that I tell when I say that the humblest member of the human family, as well as the highest, is exercising daily, whether he is conscious of it or not, some influence for good or evil upon the world. Viewed in this light who can measure the possibilities—the divine possibilities—that are wrapped up in little boys and girls? Viewed in this light, how the slightest action, the smallest of our little duties, takes on new importance! It was with this thought in mind that James A. Garfield said: “I feel a profounder reverence for a boy than a man. I never meet a ragged boy on the street without feeling that I owe him a salute, for I know not what possibilities may be buttoned up under his shabby coat.” Yes, boys and girls, by every brave and cheerful effort that we put forth we are reforming, uplifting, renewing, inspiring, hearts and souls we never heard of, never knew, the whole world becoming stronger for every bit of moral courage we create, sweeter for every kindly look we give, and holier for every good deed we do. And, of course, the contrary is true. When we fail, when we come short, when we sin, the consequences are not ours alone—they extend to all humanity. We are all, white and black, rich and poor, old and young, male and female, children of one family. Just as the quivering circles from a pebble thrown into a lake stretch on and on from shore to shore, so the silent impulse of a single life thrills from heart to heart until the very edges of humanity are touched.

There is another reason still why we should be true, trustworthy, brave. That reason is that somebody else takes us as his ideal—his standard. Poor as we are, weak as we are, as unworthy as we are, somebody else is looking up to us—especially those of us who have been favored with educational advantages and opportunities. And you know that the failure of one who is invested in another’s mind with ideal qualities is a failure beyond the actual. That is one reason why people say that, as a rule, a preacher’s children are the worst children in the world. As a matter of fact, they are not the worst children in the world; but, being the children of preachers, everybody expects more of them than of others,—they are taken as ideals, as standards—that’s all. And what might be excused in others will not be excused in one who is taken as an ideal. Nathaniel Hawthorne, one of America’s greatest writers, in speaking of this truth says in his story called “The Marble Faun:”

“The character of an individual beloved one having invested itself with all the attributes of right—that one friend being to us the symbol and representative of whatever is good and true,—when he falls, the effect is almost as if the sky fell with him, bringing down in chaotic ruin the columns that upheld our faith. We struggle forth again, no doubt bruised and bewildered. We stare wildly about us, and discover—or it may be we never make the discovery—that it was not actually the sky that has tumbled down but merely a frail structure of our own rearing, which never rose higher than the housetops, and has fallen because we founded it on nothing. But the crash, and the affright and trouble are as overwhelming, for the time, as if the catastrophe involved the whole moral world. Remembering these things, let them suggest one generous motive for walking heedfully amid the defilement of earthly ways. Let us reflect that the highest path is pointed out by the pure ideal of those who look up to us, and who, if we tread less loftily, may never look so high again.”

Now, I have said my three words. You see they have stretched themselves out to a great length, but I hope the boys and girls who read this book may profit by them. Strive to be true, strive to be trustworthy, strive to be brave. In the long run the prizes of this world, and of that which is to come, are won by boys and girls of strong moral character, not by those who are merely learned or rich. But, of course, I believe in education and I believe in money. I think you ought to strive to obtain both—both are useful, and both are necessary; but, with all your getting, boys and girls, be sure to get those things which will reach beyond this world and which will count for more than money or good looks or education or any such thing when the world is on fire, when the moon shall be turned into blood, when the trumpet sounds, and all must go to stand before the Great King to give an account of the deeds done in the body.

LXXVIII.
“A LAMP UNTO MY FEET.”

Once upon a time, so it is said, a little ragged boy was carefully printing these words with a stick upon the ground, “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet.”

On looking up from his work, the little fellow was surprised to find a kind-looking old man watching him.

“Where did you learn that, my boy?” asked the man.

“At Sunday-school, sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“Crawford.”

“So, Crawford, you learned that text at Sunday-school. Do you know what it means?”

“No, sir.”

“What is a lamp?”

“A lamp? Why, sir, a lamp is a thing that gives light!”

“That’s correct. Well, what is the word that the text speaks of?”

“The Bible, sir.”

“That’s right. Now, how can the Bible be a lamp and give light?”

“I don’t know,” said the boy, “unless you light it and set it on fire.”

“There’s a better way than that, my lad. Suppose you were going down some lonely lane on a dark night with an unlighted lantern in your hand, and a box of matches in your pocket, what would you do?”

“Why, I’d light the lantern.”

“Why would you light it?”

“To show me the road, sir.”