Chapter VI: Going Abroad (3)

Ella's home is not far from the city. Her father often goes there, and frequently sends her some delicacy which he knows she would relish--a box of early strawberries, or a basket of plums or peaches, or whatever fruit may be in season. Mr. Russell is exceedingly generous, and he expects his little daughter to divide the fruit with the family where she has found so excellent a home.

Ella, good child as she is in most respects, has one sad fault. She is selfish. When she receives any rarity she would prefer to eat it herself, just as the chickens do when they have found a nice tit-bit. It is really a trial to her that she cannot eat a whole basket of peaches before they would spoil! Indeed, one day, after receiving such a present, she said to a person in the family, "I wish my father would not send so many. I like it better when I have only a small basket, and can keep it in my own room."

At one time Mr. Russell sent a basket of peaches to Mrs. Lindsley. Ella was not at home. She had gone out to make a call on some of her friends. She heard this basket had been sent, and hastened back as soon as she could. "I hope they haven't eaten up all my peaches!" was her first exclamation. She was quite indignant to find the basket had been opened.

Mrs. Lindsley gave her all she considered it safe for her to eat; but Ella was not happy. She felt as if they all ought to be hers, and she really cried about it. A day or two after Ella saw her father, and he told her the peaches were designed for the family. Ella was somewhat mortified, and afterward told Mrs. Lindsley what her father said about the basket of fruit.

It seems very strange that Ella should be so selfish, for her father is not at all so, and I know it must grieve him to have a child of his so forgetful of the enjoyment of others. This selfishness does not make her happy. It occasions her much trouble, and it always will.

I know a little boy, six years old, who is very fond of fruit, and who is much delighted when his father brings him an apple; yet I have seen him, when he had but one, divide it between his brothers and sisters, and reserve no part of it for himself. He seemed entirely happy in doing so.

One day he heard his mother say, "I have not even a penny in my purse." He went up-stairs to his money-box, and brought down a handful of pennies, and gave them to her. His mother kissed his plump, brown cheek, and thanked him for his gift.

Which should you prefer to be like--selfish Ella, or this generous little boy?

The selfish person is always willing to receive favours, but to the generous "it is more blessed to give than to receive."

"OUR FATHER WHO ART IN HEAVEN."

"Father is coming, father is coming!" shout a merry group of children, as Mr. Wilmot appears around a little knoll, on his return from his business.

"Let us run and meet him,"--and away they scamper over the lawn to see which will get to him first. They are laughing gaily, and their feet trip lightly, as hatless and bonnetless they hasten to him. Mary's brown curls are streaming in the wind, and it is a beautiful sight to look upon these children, so full of life and joy and love.

Mr. Wilmot greets them with a smile, and stoops to kiss each of them, as they put up their arms to give him a loving welcome to his home. One of them takes his basket, and another his cane, and then the unoccupied hands are claimed by the tiny ones who love to walk by his side.

Why do these children hasten so eagerly to meet their father? It is just because he is their father. He has provided them with a home, and with food and clothing, and has given them many pleasant things to enjoy. He loves them, and his love and approbation are very precious to them. They obey his wishes, and strive to please him, and this is one source of the happiness which fills their hearts.

I think most of you, dear children, have kind parents, to whom you are warmly attached, and that you do not hear the name of father without emotions of pleasure. Some of you have no earthly father, but you all have one in another and better world.

Most of you, in your infancy, have learned to repeat the Lord's Prayer. How beautiful and expressive are the words with which it commences, "Our Father who art in heaven." God, then, is your father, and you may go to him as his children. You may tell him all your wants, all your sorrows, and all your joys. You may pour out your heart to him with perfect freedom. You need not fear to do this as you would to a stranger, for he is your Father, and knows all about you. He knows every time you suffer, and he sees every thought of your heart. God loves you more than any earthly friends can, and he has enabled them to bestow upon you all the comforts which surround you.

When you kneel down to pray, will you not remember that it is to a father you are speaking, and will you not love him as truly and warmly as you do the dear father who takes you on his knee, and speaks so kindly and affectionately to you. Your father in heaven has given you this earthly parent, and you should surely love him for all he has done for you.

Do not let the precious words, "Our Father who art in heaven," be unmeaning ones to you; but strive to realize the great goodness and condescension of God in permitting you to call him by so sweet a name, and give him the only thing you can in return,--your young and grateful hearts.

HATTIE AND HERBERT.

"Was there ever so good a mother as you are?" said Hattie Atherton, throwing her arms around her mother's neck, and kissing her with great affection.

"Oh yes!" answered little Herbert, in a solemn tone, "there is one a great deal better."

"Why, Herbert! what do you mean?" exclaimed Hattie, who knew Herbert loved his mother as dearly as she did.

"I mean God. He is better than mother."

"But God is a Father. He is our Father in heaven," continued Hattie.

Herbert was quite satisfied with Hattie's correction, and was then ready to agree with her, that his mother was the best mother in the world.

Herbert was a very little boy, but he had been taught that God was more worthy of love than even his father or mother could be. He was too young to understand much about the being of God, and when he called him a mother a great deal better than his own mother, it was an expression of his love and reverence.

Do you, dear children, when you realize something about the love which your mother feels for you, and which enables her cheerfully to do so much for your comfort, remember that God loves you even more than she does, and that He is far more deserving your strongest affections?

"He that loveth father or mother more than me," the Saviour said, "is not worthy of me." God should occupy the first place in your heart, and next to Him you should love your parents.

Happy is that child who is so willing to be governed by her mother's wishes that she is at all times ready to exclaim, "Was there ever so good a mother as my mother!"

THE TWO WILLS.

When a man of wealth dies, there is always much interest felt in regard to the disposition he has made of his property by will. Sometimes large bequests are made to benevolent societies, and the donor is generally considered a very generous man. Many bless his memory, and his name is cherished with grateful respect. It is right that it should be so. God loves the cheerful giver.

I have just read the last "will and testament" of a little boy nine years old, who lived in Ohio. Not very long ago he was taken ill with fever. The disease was violent, and he suffered much. At length it became evident that he must die.

A few hours before his death, he looked up to his mother and said:

"Do you remember my gold dollar?"

"Yes, my son; but we had better not think of that now."

"But mother," said George, "I want you to give it to the missionaries, and my shillings too, and all the pennies. Give it all to the missionaries."

George died, and I trust has gone to heaven. His desire to do good was no doubt acceptable and pleasing to God. He could not receive here the reward God has promised to those who give to the poor, but in another world his heavenly Father can most richly recompense him. The sum contributed by the dying child was not large, but it was all he had.

In the same town lived a little girl, whose father was a clergyman. One after another of his dear ones were taken from him. A precious babe of seventeen months, a sweet prattler of three years, and another of five, were called to leave this world and grow up with the angels in heaven. Then this child of eleven must go too--the fourth out of that family circle within one short month! She had been a follower of the Saviour for three years, and had thought much of the condition of the heathen, who have no knowledge of the way of salvation through Christ. She hoped, if she lived, to become a missionary herself, and teach them about the true God and his son Jesus Christ.

She was ill nearly three weeks, but she was not unhappy. She did not fear to die. The Saviour, whom she loved, was near her, to walk with her through the valley of the shadow of death, and his rod and staff--they comforted her. She knew that her beloved parents would soon join her in the heavenly world, when they all together should enjoy the immediate presence of their Lord. She looked forward cheerfully and joyfully, to the glorious immortality upon which she was so soon to enter. When dying, she exclaimed, "It is all dark here, but I shall soon be where it is light. I shall be with my heavenly Father, and the blessed Saviour, and all the good people."

One of this child's last requests was, that her dollar--the only money she possessed--should be sent to a missionary society to buy Testaments for heathen children.

These children's offerings, small though they are, are yet precious gifts cast into the treasury of our Lord. Their influence will never cease. Many souls may be converted through the truth these "two mites" may be the means of teaching.

"BLESS GOD FOR THIS DOLL."

When Mary Wilson was about five years old, her aunt Ann came from a distant place to make her mother a visit. She was fond of children, and often talked and played with her little niece, and assisted her in making dresses for her doll. This gratified Mary, and made her love her more and more, as we always love those who are kind to us.

Mary's doll was not pretty, but she liked it very much, and took good care of it. She always undressed it at night, before she went to bed, and put on a nice white night-gown her mother had made for it; and in the morning she would dress it again for the day. She named it Louisa, but her younger brother always called it Quesa, and, after a time, all the family spoke of it by that name.

Mary often wished she could wash Quesa's face, as her own was washed; but she had tried it once, and found it would not answer, for the colour came off its cheeks, and it looked more than ever as if it needed a good rubbing with a sponge.

Sometimes, when passing the shop-windows, and seeing the new dolls so temptingly displayed, Mary would ask if she might stop and look at them, and would, perhaps, say, "I should like that doll." Mrs. Wilson would gladly have purchased one of them for her, but she was obliged to be economical, and could not gratify all her wishes. Mary had early to learn many lessons of self-denial, and I must do her the justice to say she was always satisfied with her mother's decision.

Mary would occasionally go to walk with her aunt Ann, who observed with what delight she looked at the porcelain dolls, so bright and fresh, and she thought she could not make her a more acceptable present than one of them.

One day, when Mary was not with her, she bought a doll with rosy lips and cheeks, blue eyes, and short curling hair, and dressed it in clothes which could be taken off and put on easily, as all little girls like to have them. It was indeed very pretty, and its face could be washed without injury as often as Mary pleased to do it.

Mary knew nothing about the present she was to receive, till all this was done; and then her aunt, going into the nursery, put it in her arms as she was sitting in her low chair playing with Quesa. Mary looked at the new doll, and then at her aunt, and then at the doll again, as if to say, "What does all this mean?" Aunt Ann answered the look by saying, "The doll is for you, Mary."

It was just what she had long wanted, and her heart was full of happiness and gratitude. After holding it a moment, she laid it carefully in her chair, and kneeling down, put her little hands together and closing her eyes, said, "Bless God for this doll." Mary had been taught that God was the giver of every good gift, and she felt, that although aunt Ann gave her the doll, her heavenly Father had put it into her heart to do so, and she wanted to thank him for making her so happy.

Perhaps you think that God is too great a being to care about your little wants, and that he does not put the thought into any body's heart to buy dolls for children, as Mary Wilson did. Nothing which concerns the happiness of the creatures he has made, is too small for his attention. Nothing escapes his notice. "The very hairs of your head are all numbered." So small a bird as a sparrow, the Bible tells us, cannot fall to the ground without his knowledge. If he cares for the birds, he certainly does for children, and wishes them all to be good and happy.

God has given you all many gifts, for which you ought to thank him. If I should look into your play-rooms, how many things I should see which add to your enjoyment! In one there is a pasteboard house, with windows and doors, and partitions to divide it into rooms. It is furnished with tables and chairs, and the dolls can sit in them. In another, are blocks with which to build houses, castles, and railways, or any thing the fancy of the young architect may dictate; and here is Noah's ark, in miniature, containing himself and family, and many animals. Countless other toys are distributed among my young friends, which make their bright eyes sparkle, and wreathe their lips with smiles.

Other treasures, more valuable than these, are not wanting. How many books I see! and as I open them, one after another, at the fly-leaf, I read your own names and the names of those friends and relatives who have given them to you.

Have you ever thanked your heavenly Father, as Mary Wilson did, for these pleasant things which make you so happy, and for all the blessings he confers upon you?

Your parents provide you with food and clothes, and many other comforts which you need; but it is God who enables them to do so, and who fills their hearts with such love for you as to make it a pleasure to watch over and care for you. You should be grateful to them for all their kindness, but you should never forget that to your Father in heaven you owe your gratitude for such loving friends.

God himself has taught you to ask him, day by day, for your daily bread. That prayer shows who provides for your wants, and whom you should thank for the pleasant things you enjoy.

There is one gift of exceeding great value which the Lord has bestowed upon us--greater than all others--but I will tell you about it another time.

BESSIE HARTWELL.

Children who are called obedient children are often not so prompt in their obedience as they should be. Instead of doing directly as they are bidden, they stop to ask "Why?" and seem to wish some other reason for compliance with a command than the word of a parent. It is often proper to tell children why they should do or should not do certain things; but children should be careful to remember that they must obey, whether they know the reason of the requirement or not.

Bessie Hartwell is about eleven years old. She is generally a good child, but, like all others whom I have known, she has some faults. Although she always intends to obey, she does not always obey instantly. I will tell you a sad accident which befell her in consequence of this tardiness, and you will see it would have been much better for her if she had learned to be prompt.

She was travelling with an aunt on a steamboat. She was very happy, for she was going to visit her grandfather and grandmother, and she knew she should enjoy herself on the fine farm, scampering about over the fields, raking the new-mown hay, and riding on the top of the load.

Bessie always liked to go to the country. Her home was in the city, where she had only a small yard, not much larger than her grandmother's capacious kitchen, to play in, and that was surrounded by a high, close fence, so that she could see only the tiny patch of grass beneath and the beautiful blue sky above.

Children in the country do not know how to prize their freedom. If they could be penned up in the city for a few months, as Bessie was for the greater part of the year, they would learn to appreciate it, and they would look upon every tree and every blade of grass as a friend. The chirping of the crickets, the singing of the frogs, and the warbling of the birds would be thrice welcome music to them. No wonder Bessie was so happy when she thought of the wide lawn studded with trees, the orchard rich in apples and pears, the hills down which she and her sisters could run, and up whose steep sides they must scramble when the horn sounds for dinner. The country is rich in its treasures of happiness, and they are bestowed freely and profusely upon every one "who in the love of nature holds communion with her visible forms."

It was in the gray twilight of the morning that the steamboat arrived at the wharf. When they went home, Bessie was awakened, and was soon ready, with her travelling-bag on her arm, to leave the boat. Her aunt took her by the hand, to lead her across the gangway. They had but just stepped upon it, when she started forward to reach her uncle, who, with an infant in his arms, had just preceded her. Her aunt called to her to stop. She paid no attention, but passed rapidly on. A car, laden with baggage, was drawn across the gangway. It frightened her. She stepped quickly aside, and fell into the water.

Oh! the agony of that moment! Her uncle and aunt could not aid her. He besought the people near him to take the infant from his arms, that he might leap into the water to attempt the rescue of the child; but they would not do it. They held him back, that he might not expose himself to the danger of immediate death; for he could not swim, and of course he could not render the assistance which was needed. He and her aunt were both obliged to stand and look on, in unutterable anguish, while strangers attempted to save her.

Bessie fell in such a way that she did not sink under the water. Her clothes spread out, and buoyed her up like a life-preserver. A man let himself down as soon as possible; but the rope was not long enough for him to reach Bessie. He could only touch her with his foot. She took hold of it, and he slowly raised her till he grasped her bonnet. In this way they were both pulled up, and Bessie once more stood by the side of her aunt. How freely they all breathed once more, when the terrible suspense was ended, and she was safe!

Bessie seemed scarcely aware of the danger she had been in. She had been perfectly calm, and did not lose her presence of mind; and it was owing to this, probably, that she was so easily rescued. She tried to save her travelling-bag, but, as she told her aunt, she could not hold it any longer than she did.

It was wonderful that Bessie was not drowned. If she had not been supported by her clothes, she would have sunk beneath the water, and when she arose would very probably have come up under the boat, so that it would have been impossible to save her.

If Bessie had been in the habit of obeying so soon as she was spoken to, she would not have met with this fearful accident, and her uncle and aunt would have been spared the mental suffering they endured. I should think she never again would forget to obey at the first word from those who have the care of her.

I hope, dear children, you will profit as much by Bessie's accident as I trust she will; and that you will aim not only to be obedient, but promptly obedient. You may not suffer the same mishap that she did, even if you allow yourself to form the same habit; but it may lead you into as great danger, and even greater, for it may peril the purity and peace of your soul, and that is of far more consequence than the safety of your body.

"MARY'S GREAT TREASURE"

More than twenty years ago, there was a little blue-eyed, curly-haired child playing about one of the pleasant homes in the West. She was happy and kind, and every one loved her. She was only six years old, yet she had a great treasure in her possession--greater than many of the kings and queens of the earth can claim.

What do you suppose this treasure was? Was it a valuable diamond? Was it an immense amount of silver and gold? Something better than diamonds or silver and gold, was in this little girl's keeping--something which will be safe when these have all perished.

I will tell you what this treasure was, because I want you to be as rich as Mary, and, through the great goodness of God, you may all have just such a precious gift. It was a NEW HEART--a heart that loved her heavenly Father, that loved to pray to him and ask him to keep her from sin.

Mary often talked with her companions about Jesus, and before she was ten years old several of them had been brought to love and obey him, and had, like Mary, a new heart. How happy they were together! How much the Saviour loved them!

Mary is now dead, and has gone to heaven. Do you suppose she is sorry she so early went to Christ and asked him for a new heart?

How pleasant it must have been to her to be able to say, as she looked back over her past life, that she could not remember the time when she did not love the Saviour; and she surely does not now regret, that when she was a little child--less than most of you who are reading about her--she went to Jesus and asked him for a heart to love him.

Our heavenly Father will give you a new heart, if you really wish to have it and feel your great need of it. Jesus died that you might be saved from sin, and he loves _little_ children. Will you not go to him, as did Mary, and ask him for a new heart? If you are sorry for your sins, tell him so; and if you are not, ask him to help you to feel how wicked sin is, that you may have the "great treasure."

"SUSAN WILL BE HAPPIER IF I GO WITH HER."

Mary Wilson is a little girl only nine years old. She loves her mother very dearly, and she is always happy to be with her.

Mrs. Wilson lives in the country, not far from a pretty village, to which she occasionally goes to make a few purchases or call on a friend. She sometimes takes Mary with her, who always enjoys such a walk. She trips along by her mother's side, sometimes taking her hand, and sometimes stooping down to gather a wild-flower which blossoms by the roadside; and then perhaps she runs on and watches the brook that trickles down the hill, on its way to the river. Her smiling face and sparkling eyes show she is happy.

One day when she was all ready, with her white sack and blue sun-bonnet on, to accompany her mother along the bank of the river to the village, Susan Grafton called for her to go with her in another direction, on an errand for Mrs. Grafton. Mary was greatly tried. She wished very much to go with her mother, but Susan did not like to go alone. What to do she did not know. Tears were in her eyes, as she told her mother her trouble and asked her what she should do. Mrs. Wilson left the decision entirely to Mary. After a short struggle she smiled through her tears, and said, "I should rather go with you, mother, but Susan will be happier if I go with her. I think I had better go with her."

Mrs. Wilson kissed the quivering lip of her daughter, and told her she had done right in thinking of Susan's happiness. Her heart ascended in prayer to God for his blessing on her dear child, that she might ever be unselfish and self-sacrificing.

Would not most children be happier than they now are, if, like Mary, they tried to make others happy, and were willing to deny themselves for the sake of their companions?

Although Mary was so much grieved to lose her walk with her mother, she was far happier that afternoon than she would have been without an approving conscience.

Will you not pray, dear children, for a kind, unselfish heart?

THE NEWS-BOYS' BANK.