Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

“Haven’t you food and clothes?” they ask indignantly, when a girl, filled with a desire to do something for her people, intimates a purpose to teach. Perhaps I may as well complete this little tale here and now, although it does not belong to the incident of the Sabbath I have been describing.

A few days later the (native) pastor came to me and asked anxiously, “Can’t you persuade Shushan, for the sake of peace, to give up going to Kozloo? Her brother is very violent, and talks terribly, declaring that even if she were mounted, and going through the most public street, he would drag her off the horse; if she should by any chance succeed in carrying out her plan, she should never come home again—he would never again acknowledge her as his sister.” The pastor went on to say that he thought the brother had offered to send her away to school if she would give up “this crazy scheme,” as he called it.

I sent for Shushan, and finding that her brother had made the offer referred to, advised her to accept it. The sacrifice of her will for the sake of avoiding scandal, would, I was sure, be as acceptable to the Master as the service she had intended. In less than a week thereafter, she was on her way to a distant school.

We passed out through the arched gateway, and then parted with a mutual “_yer-tak par-rov_”—“good-by.” How the sun sparkled on the snowy street, on the mountains which seemed to stand across it, so near they looked, and reared their dazzling summits into the brilliant blue of the winter sky.

The girls with their shawls modestly over their heads, crossed the street in a straggling little procession. Fido appeared in the window which she had pried open with her little black nose—windows are hung like doors—gave an eager and joyful bark or two, and rushed down to welcome them home. Then they sat down to their breakfast of tea and bread. The former was seasoned with white lump sugar (brown sugar is unknown), but there was no butter for the bread.

I doubt whether my readers would have recognized the thin, whity-brown sheets, or the rags placed before one of the girls who had elected to take the pieces, as bread, but so it was. They have many kinds in Turkey, and this thin kind, a little thicker than blotting-paper, is very popular here. In the autumn it is a very common thing for a girl to come and say, “Teacher, mother says will you please excuse me from school to-day?” And she explains that they are baking bread, and need her help.

“But why doesn’t your mother get some woman to help her?”

Then I find that it is a regular “bee”—a bread bee! The neighbors are already there, and they will work all night—it is no small job to roll it out so thin. There will be no more baking till the worst of the winter is over. It is stacked away in a dry place, and when wanted the requisite number of sheets (about two feet long by one wide) is taken, sprinkled as you would clothes for ironing, and after a few moments, folded once lengthwise and laid around the edge of the table. If, instead of being sprinkled, the bread is held over the fire a moment, it becomes crisp and really nice; but this is seldom done.

After the housework was done we had prayers, and then the girls were dismissed with a charge not to hang about the halls or stairways, as the boys were coming over again to sing, and to keep their doors closed. “Not ajar as last Sunday, to my mortification and your disgrace; most likely the boys thought you left them open on purpose so that they could look in.” Somehow the boys and girls are wonderfully interesting to each other all the world over.

Soon the young fellows filed in, looking half-pleased, half-shy—big, six-foot Isaac, and clever little Bo-ghos; Sumpad, with his bright, frank smile; poor, awkward Deekran, the best writer in school, and his brother Arsen. We practiced “Hold the Fort”; there were two bad mistakes with which we struggled for a while. Then we sang “What a Friend we have in Jesus,” “Sweet By and by,” “Almost Persuaded,” “Go Bury thy Sorrow,” “The Ninety and Nine,” and others—all in Armenian, of course.

Then I said just a word to Deekran about money I entrusted to him—merely a caution to be careful to return any money that might be left over. It was hardly the thing for the Sabbath, but I was not likely to see him for some days, and I wanted to prevent any carelessness—it is so important for boys that they learn to be careful and business-like.

HARRIET G. POWERS, _in the Evangelist_.

THE HARD TEXT.

(_Matt._ xii. 31, 32.)

MANY have been troubled over this text. Some have been in despair of being saved because they thought they had committed this unpardonable sin.

Probably many are mistaken. Any one that truly feels sorrow for his sins, and really longs for forgiveness and hungers for holiness, shows some of the best signs that he has not committed this. God will not cast out such a person, if he comes in Jesus’ name.

But there is a sin against the Holy Ghost so great that it cannot be forgiven, and probably when one has committed it he is so desperately wicked, so hard in heart, that he never asks to be forgiven.

You will wish to know what this awful sin is, so that you may never commit it. The thought of being doomed never to see heaven and Christian friends after death fills you with horror.

But then, why should you not tremble at committing any sin? One little sin leads to another, and so on, until the sin of sins is the end of it all. Take care!

But how is it—or was it—worse to sin against the Holy Ghost than against the Son of Man?

Well, the first might be done in ignorance. The Roman soldiers did not know what a dreadful thing they were doing when they nailed the dear Lord to the tree. They might be forgiven that. But the Holy Ghost comes to show one the truth; then that one has no excuse, you see. His sin is against light. It is most deliberate, willful, determined. It is much more. But remember it is sinning against light, great light.

L.

AN AMUSING ANECDOTE.

SOME time ago an amusing little anecdote was related about the German Crown Prince whilst having a lesson in grammar from his tutor. One is now being told about the second son of the imperial couple, Prince Eitel Fritz. The Emperor is exceedingly strict about his son’s behavior at table. Not long since little Prince Eitel Fritz, using his fingers instead of his knife and fork, was corrected by his father several times to no purpose. At last the Emperor’s patience was exhausted, and he said:

“Children who eat with their fingers are like little dogs that hold their food with their paws. If you use your fingers again you must go under the table, the proper place for little dogs.” The little Prince did his utmost not to forget this time, and used his knife and fork like a man; but all at once he forgot again and began using his fingers. “March under the table,” said his father. Prince Eitel Fritz crept under as bidden. After a little while the Emperor, thinking the Prince very quiet, lifted up the tablecloth and peeped underneath. There sat little Prince Eitel Fritz undressed. His father asked him what he meant by undressing himself. The child answered, “Little dogs don’t wear clothes; they only have skin.”—_Selected._

A STRANGE GENERAL.

YEARS and years ago there was a busy housekeeper thrown into a fever of anxiety because she heard a certain famous general was coming, and that she would be expected to entertain him. She flew about in the greatest haste, pressing all the people around her into service to help make ready for the distinguished guest.

Among others was a man who, by his dress and general appearance, she took to be a neighbor’s servant. “Take hold and help us here a minute,” she said, and set him at some work in the kitchen. That being done the man volunteered to split some wood to a certain size, as it was greatly needed. While he was thus employed the lady’s husband, who had been absent, reached home, and was informed of the honor in store for him. He, too, set about helping with the preparations, and presently went to the kitchen, where the strange servant was just laying down an armful of the wood he had split.

Imagine the man’s stare of astonishment, mingled with dismay, when he recognized in the stranger the famous general in whose honor all this bustle of preparation was going forward.

In stammering confusion he approached the supposed servant, who, by the way, was slightly deformed, and asked for the meaning of such an extraordinary state of things.

“Why,” said the helper, with a broad smile on his face, “I am paying the fine for my deformity.”

I leave the Pansies to learn who this great man was, and who was the woman who in her haste to honor him mistook him for a house servant, and also what happened in consequence of this.

PANSY.

* * * * *

CRICKETS are bought and sold in various parts of
Africa. People capture them, feed them, and sell them.
The natives are very fond of their music, thinking that
it induces sleep. Superstitions regarding the cricket’s
chirp are varied. Some believe it is ominous of sorrow
and evil, others consider it a harbinger of joy.

BABY’S CORNER.

A HAPPY CHRISTMAS.

“CHRISTMAS is coming! Christmas is coming!”

That is what little Lucy sang as she went through the hall with a hop, skip and jump, clapping her hands for joy.

“And what is little daughter going to do to make somebody happy on Christmas day?”

Papa asked this as he came out into the hall. Then he kissed Lucy good-by, took down his hat from the rack, and went out of the front door before she had time to tell him.

Lucy stopped running, and looked out of the window and thought about it.

Then she went upstairs to mamma and said:

“Mamma, what am I going to do to make somebody happy to-morrow? What can little girls do?”

“You can be just as sweet as a rose all day, and obey mamma as soon as she speaks. That will make me very happy,” said mamma.

“But I want to give something to somebody to s’prise ’em and make ’em glad,” Lucy said.

“Who is there that you would like to surprise?” her mamma asked.

Lucy thought a minute, then she said:

“Mrs. Bly.”

Mrs. Bly lived in the “Home for Aged Women.” She was a nice old lady, and Lucy often went with her mother to call upon her.

“Very well, dear,” said mamma; “there is your gold dollar; if you want to give it you may.”

“May I buy ’zactly what I please, mamma?”

“Yes, dear.”

“O, how nice!” said Lucy. “Can’t we go now, right off, to buy it?”

Mamma said “Yes” again, and Lucy ran off to get her hood and cloak and mittens. In a few minutes she was out on the street with mamma, gazing into all the shop windows. “What shall I buy? What shall I buy?” she kept asking.

Mamma said a little shawl for Mrs. Bly’s shoulders would be nice, or a pair of warm stockings or some handkerchiefs. But Lucy shook her head.

“Wouldn’t she like a bu’ful dollie or a sweet little kitty better?” she asked.

Mamma had to laugh at that.

Just then Lucy cried out, “There it is! I see it! That is what I want.”

Guess what it was.

It was a beautiful large rosebush in a pretty pot. There were two roses on it and plenty of buds.

So they went in and bought it. The man said he would send it up right away.

Old Mrs. Bly was sitting in her rocking-chair knitting. There came a knock at the door. She opened it, and who should be there but Lucy and her mamma, and a boy with a rosebush!

How surprised Mrs. Bly was, and how pleased, when she knew that little Lucy bought the plant with her own money.

“You dear little lamb,” she said; “it will make me very happy. It is like the roses in my old home.”

When Christmas morning came Mrs. Bly cut off one of those lovely roses and put it in a vase. She carried it to a poor old lady across the hall who was ill in bed, and it made her glad.

So you see little Lucy made three people happy that Christmas day—the sick old lady, Mrs. Bly and herself.

MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

FROM THE HEART.

ON the eve of Christmas,
Ready each for bed,
And with heart most anxious,
Bends each little head,
While the prayer was whispered
Close to Grandma’s chair.
Were the angels bending
O’er a sight so fair?

“Dear Jesus, please to listen,
For Christmas comes to-morrow,
And we so much need some dollies,
So we needn’t have to borrow!
Please have them made of wax,
Wiv blue eyes, and pretty curls;
And we’ll love you more than ever!
We’re your own dear little dirls.”
R.

A LONG CHRISTMAS.

THERE had been the usual Christmas-tree, which the cousins from three homes had gathered to enjoy. There had not been a Christmas since the oldest of them could remember—and he was sixteen—that the cousins had not been together in one of the homes, and had a frolic around the Christmas-tree. It was always hung with bright-colored balls, and strings of popcorn, and all the bright and pretty and useless things which people from year to year have contrived for such trees. It always had clustered about it the various sorts of fruits which refused, because of their weight, to be hung upon the branches—dolls, and kites, and wagons, and swords, and books and baskets. Every year the fruit grew stranger in some respects, with a dreary sameness in others, which was actually beginning to weary the hearts of the cousins.

The first excitement was over. The fathers and mothers and maiden aunts, together with three grandmothers and two grandfathers, had retired to quieter parts of the house, and the young people were left to their enjoyment. It was not very noisy in the room, nor were most of the cousins absorbed in their gifts; in fact their faces were already sobering. Little Nell was still happy over her new building-blocks, and Dell, her other self, was trying to advise her concerning them, while Harold tried his new paints and brushes on the chair he occupied, his guardian sister leaning over the back of the chair, so absorbed the while in her own grave thoughts that she did not even notice the mischief he was doing.

“It is all over once more,” said Holly. He was the sixteen-year-old cousin, and he thrust his hands in his pockets, and said it with a yawn.

“Some of it is a good deal of a bore,” answered Tom, the cousin next in age, echoing the yawn. “I didn’t get the first thing I expected or wanted.”

“Neither did I; but then I don’t know what I wanted, I am sure, unless it was a bicycle, and you can’t put that on a Christmas-tree very well.”

“Why not, as well as the trumpery which is put on?” asked Tom contemptuously. “I tell you the whole thing is getting to be a bore. Even the small fry don’t care for it half so much as they think they do; there’s Nannie sulking this minute because her dollie, which she has deserted, is not so nice according to her notion as Lily’s is. And Ted has turned his back on the whole of it because he didn’t get a drum. This crowd needs something new.”

“I don’t know what it would be; we have had everything imaginable, and if the simple truth were told need presents less than any young folks in the kingdom, I do suppose. My father says there is nothing new to get for pampered young people like us; and I don’t know but he is about right.”

“There’s a whole lot of money spent about it every year, though.” This was from Hortense, the oldest of the girl cousins, and a sort of adviser of the two older boys.

“I know it,” said Holly; “and a good deal of it is wasted. Nannie, for instance, did not need another doll any more than the cat needs two tails, and as for me I have seven jack-knives now.”

At that moment Helen turned away from the paint brush which she had not noticed, and joined in the conversation.

“Isn’t it funny? I have five new balls, and I don’t care for any of them. They keep giving us the same things over and over.”

“They forget,” said Holly; “and there is nothing new for them to get us, anyhow.”

“I know something that would be new.” It was Hortense again, speaking with grave thoughtfulness. The boys turned and looked at her inquiringly. “Don’t you know what Mr. Briggs told about the children out in the Colorado mountains, who never had a Christmas present in their lives, and didn’t know anything about such times as we have? I was thinking what if we could make up a box and put into it all the dollies, and balls, and jack-knives, and things that we don’t want, and some books, and perhaps a little candy, and send it out there, wouldn’t it be nice?”

“Too late for this year,” said Tom promptly.

“Why, no, it isn’t; if we hadn’t had any Christmas at all, ever, we would be willing to have one come to us in January.”

The boys laughed, and Holly said heartily, “That’s so.” And Hortense began to tell a story that she had heard Mr. Briggs tell to her uncle, and the younger ones gathered about her, leaving dolls and paints, and the interest grew.

It was the very next day that Hortense and Tom and Holly went to Dr. Parsons’ house to see Mr. Briggs.

“Why, yes,” he said, looking perfectly delighted with them, when Holly explained; “let me tell you about a brave little chap out there, only eleven years old; his father was guide to the tourists who wanted to climb the dangerous and difficult mountains, and lost his life from exposure, hunting a party of men who had strayed away. Little Teddy is as brave as a soldier. He is a guide himself, though so young, and getting to be one of the surest and safest to be found in that region, only he is so young and small yet, that strangers are afraid to trust him. A dreary life Teddy leads; he and his mother live all alone in a little house at the foot of a mountain. The boy has only the clothes which his father left, made over for him the best way his mother can. He never had anything that fitted him; and he never had any playthings in his life, only what he picked up; as for knives, or balls, or any of the things which boys like him enjoy, I don’t know what he would think if one should happen to come to him. You needn’t suppose that he hasn’t heard all about Christmas; his mother used to live in a farmhouse in New York State, and the stories she has told have almost driven him wild. A few rods away from their cottage lives a family with five children—three little girls, and a four-year-old boy and a baby. I happen to know that Teddy set his heart this year on having some sort of a Christmas present for every one of those children—and failed! I did not mean that he should, but I was sick at just the wrong time after I reached home, and my plans did not work. I heard from there only last night, and poor Teddy’s plans did not work, either.”

Holly had his note book and pencil in hand. “Will you give us his full name and address?” he said.

Such a time as the cousins had packing that box! Every baby of them contributed, not only the toys which they did not want, but a few that they loved, and parted from with sighs. The same may be said of the elder cousins, especially when it came to books; Holly was a miser where these were concerned, and Hortense knew how to sympathize with him. It took these two several hours to be willing to pack in that box some of their handsomely bound volumes, written by favorite authors.

But they had to go; for Mr. Briggs, among other things, had said, “I never saw a boy so hungry for reading in my life as Teddy; and he has only scraps of old newspapers, which he has picked up from time to time among the tourists.”

And more than books and toys went into that box.

“It is a shame for a fellow to have no clothes that fit him!” declared Tom. “I’ve been there myself, and I know how it feels. I had to wear my brother Dick’s overcoat once, and it was too large for me. Mr. Briggs says he is about the size of Roger”—he meant Teddy, and not Mr. Briggs. “We must ask mother about that.”

They asked her to such purpose, and Aunt Cornelia as well, that two neat suits of Roger’s and Cousin Harry’s second best clothes went into the box.

The day in which it was finally packed was a jubilee. The cousins were all invited to Aunt Cornelia’s to supper, and packed the box in the large dining-room after supper, with a little of Aunt Cornelia’s and Uncle Roger’s help.

“I don’t know as I ever had so much fun in my life,” said Holly, looking up from the driving of the last nail to make the remark. “It is better than Christmas a dozen times; in fact it is a Christmas extension.”

“And won’t it be fun to hear from Teddy?” said Hortense.

But as for us, we cannot expect to hear from Teddy until January.

PANSY.

VOICES OF THE BELLS.

IN yonder tower high hangs the brazen bell,
Tolling, tolling;
Upon the frosty air its echoes heave and swell,
Tolling, tolling:
The bell has a tongue that is easily heard;
When it is swung many hearts may be stirred,
Though its tale it tells with never a word—
Tolling, tolling.

It swings and dings in the morning air,
Ringing, ringing!
Tells of the birth of a baby fair,
Ringing, ringing!
Tells the glad news so that all may know;
Those in the village asleep below,
Those on the streets moving to and fro—
Ringing, ringing!

Aloft it swings in the schoolhouse tower,
Dinging, dinging;
With brazen tongue it proclaims the hour,
Dinging, dinging:
Calls to the work of storing the mind
With useful knowledge of every kind,
Urging the laggards left far behind,
Dinging, dinging.

Gently it swings in the steeple high,
Pealing, pealing;
The steeple that points to the upper sky,
Pealing, pealing:
Calling to worship on hallowed day,
Calling the faithful to come and pray,
Even to those who are far away—
Pealing, pealing.

Again it calls in a joyful tone,
Ringing, ringing!
Hinting that man should not walk alone,
Ringing, ringing!
And so they throng with the bridal pair,
And the glad bells sound on the clear sweet air,
For the bells all ring for the belle so fair—
Ringing, ringing!

Ah, me! but that tongue will swing again,
Tolling, tolling;
Swing again with a solemn strain,
Tolling, tolling:
It will tell how some one beloved has died,
How the cold dark earth has claimed his bride;
And ’twill seem in its strains as though it sighed—
Tolling, tolling.

But the bells above may swing and ring,
Swinging, ringing,
In the temple towers of the Lord the King,
Swinging, ringing;
And the bells below, with the bells up there,
May sound their joys for this Child and Heir,
Who is called to heaven its joys to share—
Swinging, ringing.
G. R. A.

EASTER LILIES.

A STALK of tall white lilies
Bloomed out in a garden fair;
Their breath, so sweet and fragrant,
Scented the ambient air.

As Easter day came on apace,
It seemed as if they tried
To grow still sweeter, for the morn
When rose the Crucified.

When dawned the holy Easter tide,
And they were full in bloom,
A sad-eyed woman gathered them
And laid them on a tomb.

And as she knelt in deepest woe
Beside the flower-decked mound,
And felt that all her hope was dead,
The lilies’ fragrance stole around.

It stole into her wounded breast;
The sacred odors seemed to be
A message for her bleeding heart—
“The Crucified pities thee.”
CAROLINE STRATTON VALENTINE.

CHARACTER STUDIES.

I.

EDWARD STEADMAN was at home for the Christmas holidays. Everybody was glad to see him, of course, particularly his mother; because in the first place mothers always are a little bit more glad over the home-coming of their boys than anybody else in the world can be, and secondly because she needed some help very much, and knew that he could give it. She explained matters to him that morning: “I want to get Grandma’s room all in order, Edward, and her new carpet down, and every thing, before Christmas, you know; and we shall have to work like bees. I’m so glad you came home this week, instead of stopping at your uncle’s first. To-day we can hang all her pictures, and put up the curtains and the wall-pockets, and do things of that kind; they will not make a speck of dust in putting down the carpet—it is new, you know. I want to get all those things done to-day, they are so puttering—take a great deal of time and judgment. I’m so glad to have you to depend upon; you are such a tall boy that you can reach where mother can’t; and Dick is so clumsy I hate to have him stumping about Grandma’s room. Your father was going to help me, though he did not know how to spare the time; he was as pleased as could be when I told him that you could do it all. ‘Sure enough!’ he said; ‘we have got a boy to depend upon once more; how good it seems!’”

The sentence closed with a fond smile, and such a look in the mother’s eyes as ought to have made a boy happy. Edward was happy; he whistled as he went down the stairs, and thought to himself that there were not many fellows who had such a mother as his, and that he would show her just how tall, and how handy and how wise he was.

She called after him as she heard the street door open.

“Where are you going, Edward? We ought to get right to work; it will be an all-day job, do the best we can, and the light is good in Grandma’s room now for hanging the pictures. Must you go to the post-office first? O, well! that is but a short distance; run along, and get back as soon as you can.”

“Halloo!” said Mr. Arkwright, the postmaster, who had known Edward ever since he was a little fellow in kilts and curls, “back again, are you? How you do shoot up, to be sure! I believe you are about a foot taller than you were in the fall. Here’s your mail; nothing but papers this time, but enough of them to snow you under!” And he pitched them through the little window so fast that they fell to the right and left.

“Catalogues, some of them,” said Edward, smiling; “I asked them to send me a number of the new ones; and the reports of our commencement and society exercises are in these papers.”

“Like enough,” said Mr. Arkwright; “had a grand time, I suppose? You carried off a first prize, I hear? Glad of it. I always knew it was in you. Do you happen to be going directly home? If you are, would you mind taking this letter and handing it in at Westlake’s as you pass? I see it is marked ‘Important,’ and it may save him some trouble to get it right away. He’s all alone in the office to-day; his boy is sick.”

“Certainly, sir,” said Edward, reaching for the letter, and dropping it into his jacket pocket. Then he walked away, looking steadily at one of the papers, which he had already opened.

“I do not see what in the world can have detained Edward!” said Mrs. Steadman, speaking as well as she could with her mouth full of tacks. She was mounted on a box which in its turn was mounted on a chair, and was trying to reach to fasten the curtain in Grandma’s room.

“I should think you would wait for him,” said her daughter Fannie anxiously. “You ought not to climb up like that, mother; father would not like it at all, and I’m afraid you will fall. You are not high enough yet to get it right.”

“I know it; and I can’t drive a nail away up here, either. I cannot understand why Edward doesn’t come; it seems as though something must have happened to him. I explained to him particularly what a hurry we were in, and how much there was in which he could help me.”

“What has happened to him is that he has found something to read, I suppose, and has seated himself somewhere to enjoy it.” Fannie spoke a little irritably; she was worried about her mother, and they had been waiting for Edward for more than two hours. The short December day was hurrying toward its noon, and nothing had been done of the many things in which he was to have been a central figure. Fannie was very fond of her brother, but she realized his besetments better than the others did, or at least she said more about them.

“O, no!” said the mother decidedly, taking a tack out of her mouth to enable her to speak plainly; “Edward wouldn’t do that, after all I said to him this morning. He knew how anxious we were to have everything ready for Grandma by Christmas. Something unusual has happened, I feel sure. I don’t know but Tommy would better run out and see if he can find him, only it seems rather absurd to be sending out in search of a big boy like Edward.”

“I should think so!” Fannie said, and they waited another half-hour. Then a sharp ring at the door-bell startled Mrs. Steadman so that she nearly lost her balance. Fannie screamed a little, and ran toward her.

“I didn’t fall,” she said, leaning against the window-casing for support; “but I think I shall have to get down. I don’t see what makes me so nervous. It seems all the time as though something was going to happen; I suppose it is because Edward doesn’t come. Did Jane go to the door?”

Yes, Jane had; and now they listened and heard Mr. Westlake’s, their neighbor’s, voice.

“Is Edward here?”

No, Jane said, somewhat shortly, he was not; and as to where he was, that was more than they knew. Jane had been called from her work three times that morning to help with something which Edward could have done, and she did not feel sweet-natured.

“Well, I wish you would ask your folks if they have any idea where I might find him,” Mr. Westlake said anxiously; “I have just come from the office—it was the first chance I had for going this morning—and Arkwright says he sent a letter to me marked ‘Important’—sent it by Edward nearly three hours ago, he should think. I have some business matters that are very important, and I thought this might be a summons to me to go away on the express, and there is but a half-hour or less before it goes.”

Before this long sentence was finished Mrs. Steadman was at the door; but she had no information to give, and could only tell the annoyed man that she was sorry, and that she could not imagine what had detained Edward.

“I can,” muttered Jane, as he turned hurriedly away; “his own sweet notion is detaining him; he’s enjoying himself somewhere, readin’ a book or paper, and letting others get along the best way they can.” But Jane was only talking to herself.

The Steadman dinner bell was sounding through the house when Edward, flushed and embarrassed, came bounding up the stairs two steps at a time, to assure his mother how sorry he was.

“I hadn’t the least idea how time was going,” he explained; “never was so astonished in my life as I was to hear the bell ring for noon! Why, you see,” in answer to her anxious questions, “I got a lot of papers at the office—all about our closing days, you know; of course I was anxious to see what they said about the examinations, and essays, and things, so I stepped into Dr. Mason’s office just to glance them over. The doctor was out, and I sat and read first one thing and then another, and talked a little with folks who kept coming in search of the doctor, until, to my utter astonishment, as I tell you, I heard the bell.”

“Then nothing detained you, Edward?”

“Why, no, ma’am; nothing but the papers, as I tell you. I had not the faintest idea”—

She interrupted him. “Have you seen Mr. Westlake?”

“Yes’m,” and now Edward’s face crimsoned; “I met him on the street and gave him his letter. I’m dreadfully sorry about that; almost as sorry as I am about keeping you waiting, mother.”

“He said it might want him to take the train; do you know if it did?”

“Yes’m, it did.”

“And he missed it?”

“Why, of course, mother dear; the train goes at eleven, you know. I’m awfully sorry. It is perfectly unaccountable what has become of this forenoon!”

Mrs. Steadman made no comment; she did not want to trust herself to do so just then. She turned away with a sigh so deep that it would have cut Edward’s heart, had he heard it.

And Jane nodded her gray head and muttered, “I told you so!”

MYRA SPAFFORD.

A TEN-DOLLAR CHRISTMAS.

ADELE CHESTER had never spent a Christmas in the country before; neither had she ever felt quite so desolate. Mother and father were in Europe, in search of health for the father, and Adele, who had been left in charge of Aunt Martha, had herself decreed that she would go nowhere for Christmas.

“I can’t be happy and frolic when papa is sick,” she said; “and as for the country, if Aunt Martha can live there all her life, I think I can endure one Christmas.” So she had staid; but it must be confessed that the world looked dreary to her that wintry morning, with nothing but snow to be seen from her window. She almost thought she would have been wiser to have joined the Philadelphia cousins. “At least there would have been a chance to spend my Christmas money,” she murmured gloomily, as she tapped on the frosty window pane with restless fingers. “I’m sure I don’t know what I can buy in this little tucked-up place.”

The “tucked-up place” was really a nice town with about five thousand people living in it, but to Adele, whose home was in New York City, it seemed absurd to call it a town. Aunt Martha’s farmhouse was only half a mile from some very good stores, where Adele had found a few things to suit her during the three months she had spent there, and on the whole she had managed to be quite happy. But she did not feel like being suited with anything this morning. Such a queer Christmas for her! She had had her presents, as usual—a new fur cap from Aunt Martha, a writing-desk well furnished from Uncle Peter, a lovely ring with a real diamond in it from mamma, and a new chain for her pretty watch from papa. What more could a reasonable girl want? Truth to tell, she wanted nothing but the dear home, and mamma’s kisses, and papa’s arms around her. The ring and chain were beautiful, but they did not seem like presents from them, when she knew they crossed the ocean weeks ago, and had been lying in Aunt Martha’s bureau drawer waiting for this morning. She valued the letter more which had arrived only the night before, and she drew it from her pocket and kissed it, letting a tear or two fall on the words, “My Darling Child,” as she read them once more. “Papa and I are so sorry to be away from you to-day,” the letter read; “we have tried to find something suitable to send on so long a journey, and planned to reach you on the very day, but have failed; papa has not been well enough to look about much for a few weeks, and I could not go alone. At last we decided to send you a fifty-dollar bank note and bid you go and spend it in the way which would make you happiest.”

“The idea!” said Adele, smiling through her tears, as she refolded the letter, “just as though I could find anything here to buy to make me happy! Mamma must have forgotten for the moment where I was. Yet I want a few things, some Christmas bonbons, at least, if they know the meaning of the word in this little place, and above all, I want a brisk walk in the snow. I shall take ten dollars of my fifty, and go out and spend it; I won’t waste another cent on this old town. I wonder what I can do with ten dollars to make me happy?” She laughed half scornfully. Ten dollars seemed so very little to this girl, who had always spent money as freely as water, and done as little thinking about it as the birds do over the spring cherries.

In a very few minutes she was wrapped in furs and out upon the snowy road. Aunt Martha offered her the sleigh and the driver, and her “leggings” and woollen mittens, but she would have none of them. She was a good walker, and had been used to miles in the city. She hid her nose in her muff, because the wind over this wide stretch of snow was very keen, and sped along “like a snowbird,” Aunt Martha said, watching her from the window. And then she sighed, this dear old auntie whom the country satisfied. She saw the shade on the face of her darling this morning, and was sorry for her, and wished so much that she could do something to brighten her Christmas day.

The little town was reached in due time, and the streets were gay with Christmas finery; the stores were open quite generally, to catch the belated Christmas buyers. In an hour or two they would close for the day; but the custom in this thriving manufacturing town was to give the tardy ones a Christmas morning chance. Adele went from one store to another, dissatisfied, disconsolate. Nothing suited her. The truth is, when a girl does not need an earthly thing, and is yet determined to spend some money, she is sometimes rather difficult to suit. She halted at last before a show window and looked at the bright fineries displayed there. So did little Janey Hooper, who had come out with ten cents to buy a soup bone for the day’s dinner. Adele, turning from the window, jostled against her, and looked down upon the mite. She seemed not more than eight, yet there was a wise, grown-up look in her eyes which held the homesick girl’s attention.

“Are you trying to make Christmas too? What do you see in the window you like?”

“Everything,” said the little girl simply.

“Do you? you are fortunate. Are you going to buy them all?”

“O, no! not a single one. I couldn’t.”

Adele, looking closely at her, was seized with a sudden impulse. “Suppose you could buy one thing, what would it be?” she asked.

The little girl’s eyes flashed. “Oh! I would buy that shawl—that soft gray one with pussy fringe—it looks just like mother.”

It was a dingy little shoulder shawl, of the kind which can be bought for two dollars. “Does your mother need a shawl?” asked Adele.

“O, yes’m! she needs it badly enough; but we are not going to get one, not this year; we can’t.”

There was decision and composure in the tone, like a woman who had settled the whole question, and put it beyond the range of argument. Her manner amused Adele.

“That was for your mother,” she said; “what would you choose for yourself?”

“Me?” said the child, surprised. “Oh! I don’t know. I might take that brown coat, maybe, or some mittens, or—I don’t know which I would take. What’s the use?”

She was turning away; but Adele’s gloved hand detained her. The little sack she wore was much too thin for so cold a morning.

“Wait a minute,” she said gently. “Tell me what your name is, won’t you, and where you live, and what you came out for this cold morning with so thin a sack?”

“I’m Janey Hooper; we live down there on Factory Lane. It wasn’t far to go, and my sack is worn out, that is why it is so thin; but it will do very well for this winter. I came out to buy the Christmas dinner.”

“Did you, indeed! Aren’t you very young to go to market?”

“O, no, ma’am! I’m turned nine, and the oldest of four, and father’s dead. Of course I have to do all I can. I know how to choose a lovely soup bone.”

“Do you? Are you going to have soup to-day?”

“Yes’m, a big kettle full; I’ve got ten cents to buy a bone with. I generally get a five-cent one; but we thought for Christmas we would have it fine. My brother is to be home to dinner; he is most twelve, and likes soup.”

There was a mist before Adele’s eyes that the frosty air did not make. She brushed it away and settled her plans.

“Come in here with me a minute,” she said; “I want your help about something.” The child followed her wonderingly, with eyes that grew every moment larger, as the thick brown coat which hung on a wire figure was taken down and deliberately tried by the smiling shop girl on her quaint little self.

“It fits to a T,” said the girl; “Janey has a pretty figure, and that just suits her.”

“It is warm, at least,” said Adele. “Did you say it was two and a half? What an absurd price! Keep it on, child; it is for you. This is Christmas, you know, and Santa Claus sent it to you. Now that shoulder shawl.”

A moment more, and it was in Janey’s astonished arms. Her eyes sparkled, but she made an earnest protest: “Oh! if you please, I don’t think I can; I am afraid mother would not”—

“Your mother cannot help herself,” interrupted Adele. “Don’t you know I told you it was Santa Claus? He does what he likes always. Come along, I’m going to market with you; I want to see you pick out a soup bone. Is it to go in that basket?”

She picked it out with grave care and with skill, Adele and the market man watching her the while. “Isn’t it a nice one, Bobby?” said the child, to a stout boy who had also stopped. Adele turned as the freckled boy nodded.

“Who is this? Is he a friend of yours? Well, Bobby, Santa Claus wants you to do an errand for him, will you? He will give you four of those red-cheeked apples if you will.”

The boy laughed good-naturedly, and said he didn’t know much about Santa Claus, but he would do whatever she wanted done.

“Very well,” said Adele merrily; “I want that market basket which hangs up there. Can you lend it to this boy for a little while?” The market man declared his entire willingness to do so, and kept Janey Hooper waiting for her bone while he filled that basket with everything which Adele’s eyes could discover, which might add to a Christmas dinner. There was a plump chicken, a roast of beef, a string of sausage, some potatoes, apples, onions, turnips, a great bunch of celery, and, in short, whatever the market man suggested, after the girl’s skill was exhausted.

“Is that too heavy for you?” said Adele.

“O, no, ma’am!” Bobby assured her.

“Very well; I want you to take it to this little girl’s mother’s house, and tell her Santa Claus sent it to go with the soup, and that it has given him a happy Christmas to do so. Will you remember?”

He nodded brightly, stuffing rosy-cheeked apples into his pocket the while, and they trudged away, Janey trying to murmur her bewildered protests, while Adele paid her bill.

“I’ve spent every cent of my ten dollars,” she told Aunt Martha an hour later. “I hadn’t even enough to buy you any Christmas bonbons; but I have obeyed mamma’s directions; I was to buy something to make me happy, and I haven’t felt so happy in weeks as I do this minute. When I get my things put away I’ll come down and tell you all about it.”

Aunt Martha watched her bound up the stairs, a glow on her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes which they had lacked when she went out; and whatever the purchase had been, she was grateful.

As for Janey Hooper and her mother, to say nothing of Bobby, who took dinner with them, you must imagine how they felt.

PANSY.

MISS PARKER’S GIRLS.

THERE were thirteen of them, all told. An “unlucky number,” one of them said, and laughed; they were girls who did not believe in “luck.” They laughed a great deal during these days, and were very happy. They had as lovely a secret on their minds as thirteen girls, all of them between the ages of eleven and thirteen, ever had. They were also very busy, and held many committee meetings, and discussed plans, and went in companies of twos and threes to transact business. “We were never so busy before at this time of year, were we?” they said to one another. “And we never had so much fun in our lives!” some one would be sure to say. To this sentiment they all agreed.

“This time of year” was a few days before Christmas. The preparations for Christmas, so far as these girls are concerned, began two weeks before. It started on Sunday afternoon in the Bible class. Miss Parker had been even more interesting than usual that day. She succeeded in so filling their hearts with the lesson, especially with one thought in it, that Cora Henderson said, half enviously:

“O, dear! I can’t help wishing that we had lived in those times. Of course it was dreadful; but then, after all, it gave one such splendid opportunities! Think of John having a chance to take Jesus’ mother home and do for her. And to know that Jesus wanted him to, and was pleased with it! I think it would have been just lovely; there are no such chances nowadays,” and Cora, aged thirteen, sighed.

Miss Parker smiled on her brightly. “Are you sure of that, my dear girl? Remember we are talking about a history which is different from any other in the world, because Jesus is ‘the same yesterday, to-day and forever.’”

“O, yes’m!” Cora said civilly; “I know it; but then, of course, things are different. His mother is not here on earth for us to take care of; I should love to do it, I know I should,” and Cora’s fair face glowed, and her eyes had a sweet and tender light in them.

Miss Parker looked at her fondly. “My dear child,” she said, “I think you would; but do you forget how He said, ‘Whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is my brother and sister and mother’?”

Cora looked a little bewildered, and Miss Parker explained.

“I think we all forget that according to that verse Jesus has many ‘mothers’ on earth, in the persons of his dear old saints, who are poor, and weak, and tired, and are only waiting to be called home. There are so many things we could do for their comfort, if we only remembered that they were the same to Jesus as his own dear mother.”

The girls looked at one another wonderingly. This was a new way of putting it. Cora did more than look. “What a lovely thought!” she said; “I should never have thought it out for myself, but it must be so, because what would that verse mean if it were not? O, Miss Parker! couldn’t we girls do it? Do you know of any old lady whom we could help a little—make a pretty Christmas for, perhaps? Girls, wouldn’t you all like to do it?”

So that was the beginning. Yes, Miss Parker knew an old lady; had had her in mind all the week; had wondered how she could set to work to interest her dear girls in her. She needed a great deal of help, and Miss Parker had very little of this world’s goods. She knew that some of her girls came from homes where there was plenty. “But I do not like to be always begging,” she told her mother. Then she had asked the Lord Jesus to show her some way of interesting the girls in poor Grandmother Blakslee. And here they were asking for the name of an old lady whom they could help! What a lovely answer it was to her prayer.

Grandmother Blakslee’s story was a sad one, though only too common. Her two daughters and her one son had died long years before, leaving a little granddaughter, who had grown to girlhood and married a worthless drunkard, who deserted her, and at last she died, leaving to Grandmother Blakslee the care of her poor little baby boy. In many ways life had gone hard with Grandmother Blakslee; and now in her old age, when she was too feeble to work, the thing which she had dreaded most in the world, next to sin, had come to her door. She could no longer pay the rent for her one little bare room, and must send her little boy to the orphan asylum, and go herself to the poorhouse. It seemed a very pitiful thing to Grandmother Blakslee that she should have had to plan to leave the bare little room on Christmas morning, but that happened to be the day when it was convenient for the man who had promised to take her and her old arm-chair. Poor little Johnnie was to go with her for that one day, and the next morning he was to be taken in the market wagon to the asylum. Poor Grandmother Blakslee! her heart was very sad and sore, but she tried to keep her face quiet and peaceful for Johnnie’s sake. She had not been able to make the little fellow understand that he was to be separated from her; the most he realized was that they were to take a ride together and spend the day in a big house, and he was happy. On the little three-cornered table was set a dish with baked potatoes and warm rolls, and the teapot stood near it; a neighbor only a little less poor than themselves had remembered them. Grandmother tried to have only thankfulness in her heart; but could she forget that she had lived in that town more than sixty years, and been a member of the church all that time? Occasionally she could not help feeling it was strange that there could have been no other way but to go to the poorhouse. “It won’t be long now for me,” she told herself, “and I should like to have kept Johnnie while I staid, poor little boy! But it was not to be.” Then she smothered a sigh and said, “Come, Johnnie, let us ask a blessing, then we will have our last breakfast alone together.”

It was while Johnnie stood with clasped hands, saying after Grandmother the words of blessing, that a knock was heard at the little door. “Come in,” said Grandmother Blakslee the moment the words of prayer were spoken, and a strange head was thrust in at the door.