Chapter XIV: Part II (7)

“Ah, ha!” said George, as he turned to the pump and began to bathe the wound, “look what you have done now. What will mother say to you, young man? And as for me, that will make a scar, and I will wear it all my life to remember you by. You will like that, won’t you? You will just enjoy having people ask me where I got that scar, and me having to tell that my beloved brother did it on purpose, because he hated me. Oh, ho! you are a jewel, you are,” and George Campbell laughed, and dodged just in time to escape a stone from his angry brother’s hand; then went off down the street, leaving Davie in a perfect rage.

He was three years younger than his brother, and was said by the neighbors to have a great deal worse disposition than George, but I never felt sure of that. However, it is quite true that instead of being master of his temper he let it master him. He had, also, a wretched habit of throwing anything he might happen to have in his hand when the angry fit seized him, letting it strike wherever it might. In this way he had narrowly escaped doing serious mischief, and he had promised himself hundreds of times that he would never, never throw things again, and yet, as soon as he grew angry, so settled was that habit upon him, that the stick or stone was apt to fly through the air. As for George, I think he was quite as easily angered as his brother, but his habit was to laugh, or sneer, or say the most taunting words imaginable, with a sort of superior smile on his face the while. On the whole, I am not sure that George appeared any better in the sight of Him who can read hearts than did his brother Davie.

They were not the worst boys in the world, by any means; they did not quarrel all the time. For days together they would succeed in being very friendly, and in having good times, but it must be confessed that George had discovered certain directions in which his young brother could be easily teased, and that he delighted to tease him.

“Davie is such a little spitfire,” he used to say to his Aunt Mary, when she argued with him about the sin of such a habit. “Why does he want to go off like a pop gun the first word that is said to him? I never do.”

“No,” said Aunt Mary; “you laugh—a laugh which makes him feel more angry than he did before, and you say something to increase his rage. Is that really being any better than he?” But these questions George did not like to answer.

On this particular morning, after having stopped the blood from his wound, he had sauntered away to see two of his friends who worked in the paper factory near at hand. There he mounted their work table and answered the questions which they eagerly put to him as to how he happened to get hurt.

“Oh! it is Davie’s work; he’s a great boy. If he had had an open jack-knife in his hand it would have been all the same; it would have been flung at me when he got mad. I hope when he grows up he will never take a notion to carry a pistol, for if he does he will shoot the first fellow who laughs at him, or who laughs when he is within hearing.”

“Why, George,” said one of the boys, “that will make an ugly scar.”

“I dare say it will. I will carry it all my life to remember him by.”

“It is a pity that he is such a little tiger; I wouldn’t stand it if I were you,” said the other boy. “You are a good deal older than he; why don’t you make him behave himself?”

In this way poor Davie was discussed by the three, George telling story after story about his brother, led on by the sympathy which the two professed, into making Davie the one always to blame, and himself the injured, long-suffering elder brother. The boys did not know Davie very well, and George had always been good-natured with them, so of course they were on his side, and ready to sympathize with him for having such a wicked little brother. The longer George talked the more of a martyr he grew to considering himself; he racked his brain for illustrations of Davie’s ill temper, and was in the midst of a very harrowing story when Joe Winters appeared, breathless with running, and panted out: “Is George Campbell here? I say, George Campbell, your folks want you to come home just as fast as you can. Davie has tumbled from the scaffolding of the big barn and killed himself! or—well, he ain’t dead; but he lies there still; can’t stir nor speak, and they have sent for two doctors, and everybody thinks he is going to die.”

Poor George Campbell! To have seen the look on his face when he heard this dreadful piece of news you would not have imagined that he could have had so hard an opinion of his little brother as he had been trying to show for the last hour. He jumped from the table, and made a dash for the door before Joe had finished his panting sentences, but paused with the door in his hand to say: “O, boys! it isn’t half of it true—what I have been telling you; I have been worse than Davie every time. If I hadn’t laughed at him, and teased him, and made fun of him, he never would have got angry at me. O, boys! if he dies it will kill me.” Then he ran.

What hours those were which followed, while the little brother lay on his bed, moaning steadily, but unconscious, so the doctors declared, and they shook their heads gravely in answer to questions, and would not give one ray of hope that he might by and by open his eyes and know them. Truth to tell, they thought he was going to die, and that very soon. But doctors are sometimes mistaken, and these were. Davie did not die; he lay day after day moaning with pain, not knowing any of the dear friends who bent over him; staring at George with wild, unnatural eyes, as if he were some comical object, instead of the brother who hovered about him, longing, oh! so eagerly for just one glance of recognition.

There came a day when the doctors said it was possible—just barely possible—that Davie might awaken from the long sleep into which he had fallen, and know his friends. How still they kept the house, and how silently the mother sat hour after hour by his bedside, relieved only by the little sister, who came on tiptoe to take her place, that she might go out and drink a cup of tea to help her bear the nervous strain. Even then she only went into the next room, separated from Davie’s by a curtain, and came back when she had got half-way across the room because she thought she heard a sound behind those curtains. There was no sound; Jennie was sitting quietly at her post, a wise little nurse; she held up a warning hand, ready to motion anybody back into silence who might be tiptoeing toward them. She had imagined it was George, for he, poor fellow, hovered near, looking almost as pale and worn as the boy with his head on the pillow.

Terrible days these had been to George. He was not sure that he ever prayed in his life before, but during those days he prayed with terrible earnestness, that Davie might not go away with those last words of his ringing in his ears. “If he could only know me long enough for me to ask him to forgive me!” said poor George to himself, while the tears rolled down his cheeks. “Then I think I would be almost willing to have him die. O, God! let me just tell him that I am sorry, and that I will not remember him in any such way, but I will think of the thousands of good and loving things he has done for me.”

I am sure you will be glad to know that his prayer was answered. Davie awoke from his long sleep with a look of quiet astonishment in his eyes, to think that he was lying in bed, and mother and Jennie were sitting beside him, and that George was standing over by the window. He did not remember any of the days that had passed between. He did not remember at first the fall from the scaffolding. He was by no means out of danger, the doctor said, yet there was a thread, just a thread of hope that he might rally. And so the days which followed were quite as full of anxiety and care as those in which he had been unconscious.

But Davie steadily gained, and there came a bright morning in midsummer when George was permitted to take care of him alone, while his mother attended to some household duties, and Jennie swept the dining-room and set the table. It was George’s opportunity. He had longed for it, but he did not know how to use it. How should he begin? While he considered, Davie began for him.

“It did leave a scar, didn’t it?” he said mournfully. “O, George! I remember all about it; it came to me just a few days ago. Wasn’t it awful? George, the hardest part has been to think that maybe I should die and leave that scar for you to remember me by.”

“Don’t,” said George, who had not the least idea that he should cry any more about this thing, yet who felt the tears starting in his eyes. “O, don’t, Davie! forget those horrid hateful things I said to you. You can’t think how many nice things I had to remember of you—hundreds and hundreds of them.”

“No,” said Davie mournfully; “I have always been throwing sticks and stones and hurting things. Don’t you remember how I lamed the cat, and killed a bird once, and then made that scar on your face? That is the worst of all. O, George! if I had died what a way to be remembered. Think of the lots of things that people could have told of me like that.”

George winced visibly, for these were some of the things he had told the boys in the paper factory that day.

“I tell you what it is,” he said, swallowing hard to try and speak without a tremble in his voice, “you and I have both had a lesson, Davie. If you had died I could never have forgiven myself for having teased you for getting angry, and then having said that I would remember you by this little scar, which doesn’t amount to anything, anyhow. It wasn’t true, Davie; I wouldn’t have remembered you that way.”

“I don’t see how you could have helped it,” said Davie mournfully; “but I am truly and surely going to be different after this. If you see me getting angry and acting as if I was going to throw things, I wish you would tie up my hands, or hold them, or something.”

“We will both be different,” said George. “It won’t do to plan such things as we had to remember. We will begin now and plan to have nice pleasant things, so that when—that when”—But his voice trembled and broke; he had been too near parting with Davie forever to put in words the thought that some time the parting would surely come.

But I fancy that they must have kept their words and begun over again, for this happened several years ago. George and Davie are young men now, and yesterday I heard them called “model brothers.” They really seem to be planning to have only pleasant things to remember of each other when the time comes for one of them to go away.

PANSY.

MUSIC AND WAR.

GEORGE NOYES—that is not his real name—is now in Europe sightseeing. He spends one week in beautiful Paris, where the people talk French, and do not do everything quite as do Americans or Englishmen.

George is learning to speak French. He has got on so far that he can tell in French to the waiters just what he will have of the bill of fare.

Yesterday he and his Uncle Fred went to Pont Neuf, a bridge more than a thousand feet long, and three hundred years old. King Henry the Fourth had it built. Visitors of Paris must needs see this wonderful bridge, or they have not seen Paris. That’s what they say.

While George was looking this way and that from the bridge, and thinking of the war times of kings and princes, he heard sweet music, and turning to see whence it came, he saw a company of boys playing on drums and bugles, under the leadership of a soldier and one of their own companions.

There they drill every pleasant afternoon, and delight the multitudes who gather on Pont Neuf.

However, it is not all for fun they are playing charming French music, and among the rest the Marseillaise Hymn. They are getting ready for war times, for fierce battles and blood and death.

Most nations have had many wars, and millions of their people have been slain, and no words can tell the suffering. Some day I fear those nice French boys, grown to be men, will be playing the Marseillaise Hymn on some awful battle field, while thousands of French and Germans, or some other people, will be falling and dying!

All this because one nation wants some of the other nation’s land, or for some other wicked cause.

“Blessed are the peace makers, for”—

L.

JEAN.

COME now, the good ship _City of Paris_ sails in a few days, so let us away over the ocean to France.

Here we are in Paris, the most beautiful, though not the best city in the world, they say.

But after six days sightseeing we’ll hurry to another place, and here we are in Domremy. Here we’ll roam over the hills and think. See that cluster of trees? We must sit under them and upon that very stone. There on that grassy bank where the flowers are blooming, and at whose foot runs a gentle brook, we must spend an hour and think, think who sat upon that very spot nearly five hundred years ago and watched her father’s flock of sheep or listened to the singing birds or talked with God through the sweet roses she holds. Now she looks up at the great sun, now at a passing cloud; now a soft wind fans her face; a shepherd dog lies at her feet; just yonder some lambs are nestled together.

She is but thirteen years old, but she loves to speak to God as though he were by her side—and is he not?

Late one evening she comes leading the sheep home. Sitting alone looking out into the moonlight, Jeanne’s mother inquires: “My child, what keeps you so long in the field? You must come home earlier, my darling, or something will happen to you.”

“But, mamma, I’ve heard voices in the fields, and they seem to come from the roses and the rocks and the robins and in every wind, and they tell me of my native land and my home and God, that I must love _ma belle France_, and save it out of the hands of all its enemies, and this is what keeps me so late, my sweet, dear mamma.”

“Voices, child?”

“Aye, mamma, voices from Heaven speaking in my heart. Your Jeanne hears them loud, in my heart, at least, and they say I must save my poor sad country.”

Jeanne’s mother could say nothing, but wonder if the child was out of her mind, or if she had really had a vision of angels, as in olden times they came to the shepherds while they watched their flocks.

So the years went by, Jeanne always saying that these heavenly voices were calling her to save her unhappy country, her friends and neighbors sometimes calling her crazy.

She was now seventeen, a lovely pure girl, sorrowing much over the wars and troubles of her own beloved France. Ah! they were dark days indeed; this one wanted to be king, and that one said he must rule; armies met and fought, and some of the young men who went from Domremy, and with whom Jeanne had played, were brought back from the battle fields wounded and dying.

Then came a great army over from England, and city after city of France fell before its awful march. The frightened King Charles the Seventh feared all was lost. He knew not whither to fly with his sad little army. But just when he was going to give up word came to him about the girl of Domremy, our sweet Jeanne. Quickly a messenger was dispatched to her plain little home, and out into the fields he hastened to find her feeding her flock. He urged her to come to her king with all speed. She knew what it meant; she knew her hour was now come to save her “_la belle France_.”

Bidding her mother to pray for her, and covering her neck with kisses, she was soon galloping off with the messenger to the camp of the king. A smile of hope lit up his anxious face as she came into his presence. She told him about the “voices,” and said she was sure she could lead his army to victory if he would give her soldiers.

So then and there he put upon her the strong armor of commander, and giving her a sword and a war horse she led her little band against the English. They had heard of her, and thought she was sent of God, and fear fell upon them, and they threw down their arms and fled away in dismay.

Meanwhile, though Jeanne waved her flashing sword she never struck a blow with it, but she was again and again wounded.

At last came complete victory, and Jeanne saw the enemies of her beloved France fleeing from Orleans before her rejoicing army. For this she was called “_La Pucelle d’Orleans_,” or the Maid of Orleans. But she is usually called Joan of Arc.

After so much triumph she pleaded with her king to let her return to her dear Domremy home, but he would not consent. Meanwhile some of the great captains envied her all her victories, and managed to let her be taken prisoner. Now comes the sad, sad thing to tell. After this noble girl had saved her country, her king and the others let her be put into prison, tried, condemned, and burned to death as a witch! This is not the only case in which the best friend a country ever had was cruelly treated by that country. Jesus was crucified, crucified by his own people, whom he came to save. But scarcely had twenty years gone by before all the bitter persecutors of this dear brave Jeanne came to violent deaths, and the people, instead of calling her a witch, proclaimed her innocent, and a statue was erected to her memory on the very spot where she was burned, and her family was promoted by the king.

L.

HEATHEN WOMEN.

ONE of the two is smoking. She likes it, too. Men say it is nice to smoke and chew tobacco; why should not the women have as good a time as the men? Or why is it any worse for a woman than a man? And yet if the girls and women of America should begin to smoke and race horses, and do similar things they would be called heathenish.

So it is, women in heathen lands all have bad times and fall into bad wars. If they ever dress themselves, and behave themselves as they ought, and have good, lovely homes, and care tenderly for their children, it will be when they learn about Jesus, who came and died to save a lost world. How can they learn without a preacher?

L.

“FAX AND FIGGERS.”

WE clip from the Union Signal a remarkable “queer story,” joined to an arithmetical problem. The story has a moral well worth considering, and a “sum” worth doing.

“I hav of lait got at sum stubbun fax and figgers. 2 siggars a day, costing oanly a nikkle eech, for 20 yeers at 1st Site appeers to Bee a smol matter. Let us figger the cost. 10 sents daly for 365 daze reeches the sum ov $36.50. We will not rekkon interrist the first yeer, but the interrist on $36.50 for 19 yeers at 6 purr sent is $73.92, and the Totle ov prinsipple and interrist at 6 Purr sent, kompoundid yeerly, at the end ov 20 yeers maiks the neet little Sum ov $1,338.54. That izzn’t a grate eel, but it wood Bi 200 barrils ov good flower, and in Sum sekshuns ov the kuntry wood maik wun the oaner ov a good farm, with houce, barn, wel, sisstern, froot treeze and wood-lot on it, possibly a jurzy cow and sum Uther niknax throne into the bargin. But my expeeryunce has tot me that fax and figgers prodoose but a Slite impresshun on wun who has fully dessidid to maik bacon ov his Branes bi turning his mouth into a smoakhouce. He communly prefurs the hi and eggzaltid privvylige ov bloin smoak thru hiz noze to having enny uther erthly pozeshun.”

A PUZZLE.

IF an S and an I and an O and a U,
With an X at the end spell Su;
And an E and a Y and an E spell I,
Pray what is a speller to do?

Then, if also an S and an I and a G
And an H, E, D spell cide,
There’s nothing much left for a speller to do
But to go and commit siouxeyesighed.
—_Selected._

CELIA’S EASTER OFFERING.

CELIA’S share of the flowers was lovely. She buried her face in the blooms again and again, and seemed unable to get enough of their sweetness.

They had spent the entire morning in the woods hunting for treasures, she and her particular friend, Helen Beardsley. Helen attended another Sunday-school, so they had carefully divided the flowers, for they were to be used in decorating the church for the Easter service.

“You will smell all the sweetness out of those things, child,” said Miss Agatha Foster, looking up from the bit of satin she was carefully embroidering. Miss Agatha was Celia’s oldest sister.

“O, no, I won’t!” said Celia, laughing; “they have all the sweetness of the woods in them. You can’t think how the woods smelled this morning! It seemed just like heaven.”

Agatha and the middle sister, Lorene, looked at each other and laughed.

“What an idea!” said Lorene; “it is the first time I ever heard the woods compared to heaven.”

Mrs. Foster came into the room at that moment, and stopped by the table near the door to arrange the books; there was a tired, somewhat troubled look on her face. “Poor Hester has had to be disappointed again about going home,” she said.

“Why, mother,” said Agatha, “that is really too bad. It is the third Saturday she has missed, and their baby is sick, you know.”

“I know it,” said Mrs. Foster, looking more troubled still; “but what can I do? There will be company to tea, and cook cannot leave the kitchen to answer the bell; she can not even attend to the downstairs bell; it rings every few minutes on Saturdays; besides, there is extra work for her to do, and somebody must set the table for her. I don’t suppose either of you could give her a lift, could you, and let Hester go?”

There was inquiry in the mother’s tone, but no expectation. Agatha lifted her eyebrows, but there was a difficult spot in her embroidery just then, so she made no reply; but Lorene turned quite away from the piano to answer:

“Why, mother, how could we? I have my practicing to do; I have to sing twice to-morrow, you know. Of course that would not take me long, but we couldn’t run to the door every time the bell rang, could we, and receive callers at the same time?”

“And as for setting the table,” said Agatha, who had righted her embroidery and was taking neat stitches, “I never could get all the things on a table. It wouldn’t be possible for me to set it for company.”

“I suppose it cannot be arranged,” said Mrs. Foster. “I must finish Grandma’s cap so she can wear it this evening; her other is really unfit, and I have several stitches to take for Celia, as well. Hester must wait another week. I told her so; but she seemed so disappointed that I wondered if there were not some way to plan it.”

“Perhaps she can run down there after tea to see how the baby is,” Lorene said, but Mrs. Foster shook her head. “Cook will need her to look after things in the kitchen while she waits on table, and it will be quite dark before we shall be through; she could not go alone after dark.”

It was Agatha’s turn to sigh. “We need a second girl,” she said; “it is ridiculous for a family of our size to try to get along with only cook, and that little bit of a Hester.”

“We shall certainly have to get along,” was her mother’s answer, spoken with quiet positiveness; “you know as well as I that we can not afford more help this season.”

Meantime Celia, her fingers still busy with the masses of flowers she was trying to arrange in a basket for carrying, had listened, her face growing more and more gravely thoughtful.

It was Sabbath evening in her thoughts, and she was in the Christian Endeavor meeting, listening to Agatha’s voice while she quoted from some grand old writer a thought like this: “We plan our Easter offerings, and beautify His temple for the glad day, and that is well; but we are to remember that as there would have been no Easter had He not given Himself, so the highest and best offering we can bring to Him is our unselfish consecrated selves.” Celia remembered the thrill with which she had listened. Agatha’s voice was like music, and the thoughts had seemed to fit her voice and make a poem of them, which had thrilled the beauty-loving heart of her young sister.

That was a week ago. Why should the words come back to her this afternoon, and ring in her heart like soft bells, calling her?

What had they to do with Hester, and the door-bells to answer, and the table to set for company, and a sick baby at home? “The highest and best offering we can bring to Him is our unselfish consecrated selves,” rang the bells in her heart, and her lips spoke: “Mother, may I take Hester’s place this afternoon, and let her go home? I can set the table; cook said I did it beautifully the last time.”

“You!” said her mother, in surprise, and both the sisters exclaimed. “Why, I thought, dear, your class was to meet at Marion’s to help arrange the flowers for the Easter service?”

“And I thought you were all invited to stay to tea at Marion’s?” added Agatha.

“So we are,” said Celia, answering them both in one; “but the girls can get along well enough without me. There are eight of them, and Marion’s Aunt Laura is going to show them how to arrange everything; and as for staying to tea, why, I can do that another time; and the baby is sick, and Hester is worried about him, I know. I should like to stay, mother, truly, if you will let me.”

“Let you, child! I shall be thankful for your help. To tell the truth, it seemed really selfish to keep Hester this afternoon, only I did not know how to plan; I was sure cook could not get along without help, though she was willing to try, because she felt sorry for Hester.”

“May I tell Hester about it, mother?” Celia asked, her eyes shining; “and she can carry my flowers and leave them at Marion’s.”

The flowers and their owner went away together, followed by Mrs. Foster. As for the young ladies, Agatha took pretty pink silk stitches on the lovely white satin and said not a word, while Lorene, turning to the piano, played a few bars, and sang softly:

“Low in the grave he lay,
Jesus my Saviour,”

breaking off to say: “Celia is a strange little girl, isn’t she?”

“Very strange,” answered Agatha, and she finished a pink bud as she spoke. She was making an Easter offering.

Nobody, it is safe to say, was more surprised at the turn of affairs than was Hester. She thought about it while she hurriedly combed the tangle of hair before her bit of broken glass, and made ready for going home. She was worried about the baby, but she divided her thoughts with this strange offering from Celia. She knew all about the Easter flowers, and the plans for the afternoon, and the high tea together at Marion’s lovely home. Celia’s talk had been full of it for the past two days. “I’d just like to know what made her do it, anyhow,” was Hester’s concluding question, offered aloud to the tin basin, in which she energetically washed her hands when the hair was done.

Easter morning was beautiful with sunshine and the song of birds, when Celia, looking from her window, saw Hester tripping around to the back door. She had been allowed to stay at home all night.

“O, Hester!” called Celia, “how is the baby?”

Hester looked up with a glad smile. “He is better,” she said, “ever so much better. Mother would have sent me word, only she expected me. He laughed and crowed as soon as he saw me, and you can’t think what a lovely time I had with him. Say, Celia, I want to know what made you do it?”

Celia’s sensitive face flushed, and she hesitated. How was she to tell Hester why she did it? From the next room came the notes of Lorene’s voice, as clear as any bird’s, rising high and pure:

“Low in the grave he lay,
Jesus my Saviour.”

“It was that,” she said simply.

“What?” asked Hester; “I don’t know what you mean.”

“That that Lorene is singing. He ‘lay in the grave,’ you know, for us. That is why it is Easter. I wanted to do something for somebody, and I hadn’t any big thing.”

“It was a big thing to me,” Hester said, and went inside the back door. Celia’s face was just a trifle shadowed. Despite every effort to put it away, the thought would come: “After all, I needn’t have given it up. The baby is better, and her mother would have sent her word, and another Saturday would have done just as well; and I missed all the beauty and the fun. I know how to arrange flowers.”

The shadow staid just a little during the Sunday-school hour. The girls were eager over the delights of the day before—eager to know how she could possibly have staid away. The lovely cross made largely of her own flowers, and bearing on their green background in pure white blossoms the words, “He is risen,” was the most beautiful floral decoration in the church. “Aunt Laura made it,” Marion said. “You did not deserve to have it arranged so beautifully; we thought you ought to have had interest enough to have come and seen it, anyhow. Why didn’t you?”

“Never mind now,” said Celia; “I cannot explain, only I thought I could not go.” Her offering seemed to her small and uncalled-for; she could not talk about it. Yet, before the morning prayer in church was over, the shadow had lifted. “I did it truly for Him,” said Celia softly, to herself; “He knows I did, and whether it was of use or not, it is all right.” And when Lorene sang, in a voice like an angel’s:

“Low in the grave he lay,
Jesus my Saviour,”

she could not help being glad that she did it.

That evening, when they were coming out of the Christian Endeavor meeting, the minister, who was shaking hands with the young people on every side, held in his left hand a single calla lily of rare beauty. As he held out his hand to Celia he laid the lily against her cheek and said: “That is for you, little girl. A token from the Master, I think, since he made it. Let me tell you something which will make it bloom for you forever. Hester came to me this evening to say that she wanted to belong to Jesus, and learn how to grow like him, just as you had.”

PANSY.

WHITE AS WOOL.

WOOL is not always white. Its owner sometimes is black—was born black. It can’t help it, you see. Sometimes, however, it gets into the dirt, and the snowy wool becomes dirty.

Sometimes it creeps among the burned stumps and logs, and soon looks as black as the stump itself.

Now what happens? The shearer does not want to clip off such stuff, and the merchant can’t sell dirty wool, nor can the weaver weave a nice shawl from it; and, if he did, no clean Pansy would want to put it on week days or Sundays.

What then? It must be washed. The dirty black sheep must be put into the water, and washed and washed and washed.

Then let him go up from the water and give himself a good shaking and stand in the green grass and let the warm, shining sun dry its hair—I mean wool.

Now it is white and soft and beautiful, and if Mr. Sheep could see himself in the looking-glass he might be proud of his beauty.

The blood of Jesus Christ cleanses from all sin. Sin is a dirty thing—worse than mud. Heathenism is a dreadfully dirty, filthy thing. The Gospel we send them is like water for the dirty wool.

The Bible says to the worst sinner there is in the world:

“Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson they shall be as wool.” (Is. i. 18.)

L.

EASTER GREETING.

BE thy risen Lord, to-day,
All thy help and all thy stay;
All thy comfort in the night;
All thy gladness in the light;
Filling, with his love divine,
Every hungering of thine!
ALICE F. DUNLAP.

MISS LOUISE JOHNSON’S LETTER.

SHE wrote it from Lien Chow, China. It was published in “Woman’s Work for Woman.”

Here it is:

“We expect to be packed into smaller boats this P. M. to go the last ten miles up the Sam Kong River. People are looking at the windows. Women are expressing astonishment that I can write. . . .

“We have had a charming trip. The beauty of the country grows upon me. Many of the clear crystal waterfalls were several hundred feet in descent. The river winds around the bases of mountains, and so seems to be a succession of beautiful lakes. It reminds one of Delaware Water Gap.

“We traveled in the daytime, stopping an hour or two. Then came the sick to our Dr. Machle. We gave tracts to the people. At one place the women came in little boats. I stood at the window and read to them. They listened, and thanked me for ‘teaching’ them.

“I want to write more letters, though I now write many. It takes three months for a letter and its reply from New York to Canton; four months to Sam Kong. I like to write, and am delighted to get letters. Some of the best have been from strangers. So all my dear young friends may continue to write me; I will answer as soon as I can get time.”

BABY’S CORNER.

A MAY MORNING.

IN a green yard stands a gray old house. In the house live six happy children. They have many things to make them glad and happy.

All around are green fields and hills and tall trees. Every day they see the pretty pictures which the sun makes in the sky when he gets up and goes to bed. There are no big houses in the way to hide the red and pink clouds.

A little brook goes dancing by at the foot of the hill. You can see the little white stones through the water.

They have a great many pets—colts and calves and chickens and rabbits and cats.

And there are ever so many nice things for them to do. They fish in the brook or take off their shoes and stockings and wade in the water. They hunt in the grass for red berries. They swing in the big swing under the maple-tree. They go after the cows and hunt butterflies, and tumble on the hay in the barn.

Such good times!

This bright May morning mamma and all six of them are out in the orchard. The apple-trees are full of pink and white flowers, and the cherry-trees are all white, like pop corn.

What a pretty sight!

The air is sweet with the breath of the blossoms. Everything is gay and happy. The brook is tinkling, the bees are humming, the birds are singing.

Little children must sing, too. Hark! hear them.

It is a little song which begins:

“Blooming May
Makes all gay.”

And this little song ends like this—the children all like to sing it:

“Tra la la la la la la. Tra la la la.”

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

KITTY KNEW ABOUT SHEEP.

“SEVEN sheep were standing
By the pasture wall.
Tell me,” said the teacher,
To her scholars small,
“One poor sheep was frightened,
Jumped and ran away.
One from seven—how many
Woolly sheep would stay?”

Up went Kitty’s fingers—
A farmer’s daughter she,
Not so bright at figures
As she ought to be.
“Please, ma’am”—“Well, then, Kitty,
Tell us, if you know.”
“Please, if one jumped over
All the rest would go.”

* * * * *

SAID Willie: “The Man in the Moon
In Mother Goose came down too soon,
For I’ve read it over and over;
But he’d done a sillier thing to-day,
When Flossie and I went out to play
And roll in the field of clover.
For up in the sky, right overhead,
When every star had gone to bed,
And the sun was shining bright,
We saw his moon, looking pale and thin,
Because he’d forgotten to take it in,
After hanging there all night!”
—_Selected._

THE BEE’S WISDOM.

SAID a wandering little maiden
To a bee with honey laden,
“Bee, at all the flowers you work,
Yet in some does poison lurk.”

“That I know, my pretty maiden,”
Said the bee with honey laden,
“But the poison I forsake,
And the honey only take.”

“Cunning bee, with honey laden,
That is right,” replied the maiden;
“So will I, from all I meet,
Only draw the good and sweet.”
—_Selected._

THE HARD TEXT.

(_Matt._ xii. 34.)

“O GENERATION of vipers.”

Thus Jesus called the Jews or their leaders. Put this with other names he gave them—“hypocrites,” “fools and blind,” “serpents” (read the twenty-third chapter of Matthew)—and maybe you will wonder how he, so gentle and forgiving, could do it.

“Yes,” you say, “they did provoke Him; they treated Him most outrageously, calling Him all sorts of bad names, and finally putting Him to death in the most cruel manner. But it does not seem quite right for Him to call them vile names back again. It looks as though He lost his temper and became awfully angry with his enemies.”

Indeed it does say He once looked around upon them with anger. So you are right with that word, but its real meaning is indignation, the righteous feeling every one should have against wrong. Thus you ought to feel against swearing, stealing, the liquor business and all such things. It would be wicked for you to smile at such things. So much for anger—the anger of Jesus. Now about “calling names.”

You must remember Jesus knew the hearts of these Pharisee Jews—how black, how vile they were, while they thought themselves quite good and beautiful. Gentle talk to them did no good. To have them see themselves as they really were, he must be plain; he must speak out. What he did was not “calling names” as one boy does to another, when he is “mad” with him and hates him. Jesus did not hate them, bad as they were. He would save them if they would repent and come to him. So he must warn them by telling them the awful truth.

So it was; Jesus could draw some by gentle, loving words and ways; others, if saved at all, must be driven. Jesus acted according to the kind of people he was speaking to.

May we sometimes deal this terrible way with sinners? May ministers do it? Some years ago Rev. C. G. Finney did often speak to many who came out to oppose him and make fun of religion—he did speak very plainly and severely. It is said Mr. Moody once rebuked a wicked man this very way. But not every one can wisely do it. It must be done with great sorrow. No doubt it almost broke Jesus’ heart to say such plain things. A parent sometimes must punish a naughty child; it hurts him to do it, however. He often weeps more than the punished child.

L.

SOMETHING FOR PAPA.

BY this time you are feeling that papa is being neglected, and that mamma and sister are having all the gifts; though I believe papa would like the nice writing-case with pockets which we planned in November quite as well, perhaps, as any member of the family. However, I am sure of one thing he will like, and it is something which you, my girl, can make, with some industry and very little expense. I do hope you know how to knit, the nice old-fashioned knitting which our dear grandmothers understood so well? If you do not, my first advice to you is to master that fine art which has of late years gone so nearly out of fashion; it is coming to the front again, and there is no end to the neat little comforts which you can make with the aid of a ball of tidy cotton and two large knitting needles. I will not attempt to teach you the stitch on paper, though if you sat by my side I could show it to you with very little trouble. If there is not a dear white-haired grandmother in your home, as I hope there is, borrow one of some friend, and beg her to teach you how to knit. Of course it is just possible that mamma herself understands the stitch; you might try her.

Having learned it—which I am sure you can do in an hour—get two large-size needles of steel, or ivory, or wood—I like to use wood—and a ball of the very coarsest tidy cotton you can find, and set to work. Cast on as many stitches as the needle will conveniently carry, and knit back and forth, back and forth industriously, until you have a strip a yard long. Oh! it will require patience and industry; I told you that in the beginning, you know. Having finished the strip begin again, and make another precisely like it; then a third, and perhaps, if your needles are not very long, a fourth—you might consult with mamma or Auntie as to that. When the four are finished—in order to be sure to have the article large enough we will say four—fold the side edges of two neatly together, and knit them together with a crochet hook, or sew them with a needle and some of the tidy cotton, as you will; add the third and fourth in the same manner, and when all is complete if you do not have a bath towel which will please papa better than any Turkish towel he ever bought, I shall be astonished and disappointed. For fear of discouraging you at the outset, I mentioned a yard as the length, but let me whisper to you, entirely in confidence, that if you should make it a yard and a half long, or even a trifle longer, papa would like it better still. You see I have heard the gentlemen groan over short bathing towels, and I know all about it.

You see with how very little expense such an article could be made, and I really do not know of any one thing which will add more to the comfort of the toilet. Some gentlemen like very coarse and rough bathing towels, in which case macremé cord is sometimes used instead of tidy cotton; probably mamma could advise you wisely in this direction, also.

If you undertake such a gift, I hope you will have the kindness to write and tell me how you succeeded, when and how the gift was presented, what was said, and all about it.

Your friend,
PANSY.

* * * * *

IF anything unkind you hear
About some one you know, my dear,
Do not, I pray you, it repeat
When you that some one chance to meet;
For such news has a leaden way
Of clouding o’er a sunny day.
But if you something pleasant hear
About some one you know, my dear,
Make haste—to make great haste ’twere well,
To her or him the same to tell;
For such news has a golden way
Of lighting up a cloudy day.—_Selected._

A Walking Wonder

Sir Geoffrey had a little son
Who liked to strut about
And wave a sword or shoot a bow
And raise a martial shout.

One day he saw a sight like this
[Helmet walking with four legs and a tail]
And did he run? Oh, no!
He caught this walking helmet fast
And raised the visor so!
[Cat under helmet]

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

The title for “A DELIGHTFUL WRITER” was taken from the page header as the story itself began with only the illustration.

HOWARD’S WAY: “attemped” changed to “attempted” (once attempted to answer)

WHEN HE WAS TWELVE YEARS OLD: “mysstery” changed to “mystery” (whose mystery fills)