Chapter I: Front Matter

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_Volume 13, Number 40._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_August 7, 1886._

THE PANSY.

MORE ABOUT THE “INDUSTRY BAND.”

IT was with a sad look upon her wrinkled old face and a heavy weight tugging at her heart, that Grandma Frink unlocked the door of her little cottage one September morning. There came over her the feeling that perhaps she would not go in and out that door many more times. She had heard bad news that morning; the basket of clothes which she brought from the Kingsleys was the last she would have to “do up” for them. They had been her best customers, and now they were all going to Europe for two years at least. Two other families for whom she had worked had already gone away, and with the winter approaching what was the poor lone woman to do! The little cottage was her own; it had been free from debt until two years before the expenses of her husband’s long illness had used up their little savings; and when at length he died, the poor woman was obliged to mortgage her home to pay the doctor’s bill and funeral expenses. Thus far she had been able to keep up the interest, but now work had grown scarce, and pay-day was near at hand, but she had not a cent with which to meet it! Many tears fell into the suds that day, and more fell upon the dainty ruffles which she fluted for the last time. It was while she was putting the finishing touches to Minnie Kingsley’s ruffled and tucked and lace-trimmed dress, that Satie Howe came in, and seeing the tears soon had the whole sad story. And that was the way the “Industry Band” got hold of Grandma Frink’s trouble. With the same energy with which they set about buying a cow for Mrs. Peters, two years before, they now set about lifting another burden from off shoulders too weak to bear it.

“You see,” said Satie, telling it to the band, “her heart was just _full_ yesterday, and she told it all out to me. I do not believe anyone would have got it out of her at any other time. It seems that she has a small annuity, which, with the work she can do, makes her very comfortable; but this interest money comes hard, especially as she has less work this summer than usual. Now I thought that if we could pay the interest, perhaps she would get on, and another year she may get more work.”

“That would be a good thing to do,” said Lou Brandt, “but it would be better if we could pay the mortgage, then there would be no interest.”

“Pay the mortgage!” exclaimed two or three at once in tones which indicated that they thought Lou had taken leave of her wits.

“Why not? It is only seventy-five dollars, and it is a great pity if twenty-five boys and girls cannot raise that amount! Satie told me about the trouble, last night, and when father came home I asked him about it and he said that the interest would not help matters, for the mortgage will be due this fall, and Major Grimes means to foreclose if it is not paid up. Granny has lived in that little house forty years; if she were turned out now, she would not know what to do. She has not a relative in the world.”

“Let’s do it! We can get the money, somehow, I know!” said one of the boys. “I suppose Major Grimes thinks he will get the cottage into his own hands, for little or nothing, but we will show him the _Industry Band_ mean business!”

“If we cannot raise the money in two months I am sure we can find somebody who will advance it and hold the mortgage as security until we can pay it,” said Lou.

“O Lou! what a business head you have on your shoulders!” said John Baker.

“Well, let’s proceed directly to business, and see if there are not others with equally good heads. We will meet Thursday afternoon at four o’clock and bring in our pledges. We can each think it over between now and then and decide how much we can give right out of our own pocket money.”

To this plan all agreed; then they separated.

Annie Williams was the youngest member of the band. She had not much money of her own, and this plan which Lou proposed, presented serious difficulties to the child. Just a few days before, she had spent her last penny, and she did not know how she was to get any money to give toward this fund. That night she added to her evening prayer this petition: “Dear Jesus, if thou would’st have me do something to help poor Mrs. Frink out of her trouble, wilt thou show me the way? If I can earn any money, please tell me where the work is for me to do.” Then she went to bed, content to leave it all with Jesus.

When they met according to appointment on Thursday afternoon, Lou who was treasurer of the band was ready with book and pencil to put down the names and pledges. Tom Mason was there, money in hand. “I can give three dollars; I sold some ducks yesterday, and father gave me a dollar for doing the meanest job on the farm.”

“What is that?” asked one of the boys.

“As if you didn’t know that there is nothing a boy hates like picking up stones all day!”

Another could give a dollar and fifty cents, another, two dollars; and the girls, when were they ever behind in giving? Laura Kline had concluded to wear her last year’s hat, and give what a new one would cost. Nell Blake had agreed to wash the breakfast dishes for a month, so that her mother could do more of the family sewing, and the money saved was to be hers, to give to the fund. Lou Brandt said, “Well, I think I have taken the hardest job of you all; I have agreed not to use a single slang phrase for a whole year, and I am to have five dollars a month! I will give the money for the first two months towards paying off the mortgage, and if we do not raise it all in that time perhaps I will give another month’s pay.”

“But suppose you fail?” said Satie Howe. “I think you will have to give security.”

“Agreed!” said Lou laughingly, and as she spoke she took off her heavy gold bracelets which had been her last birthday present, and laid them beside Tom’s three dollars. They all laughed and Satie said, “Well, Lou, I guess we can trust you to redeem those!”

When Annie Williams’ name was called she said, “I do not know how much I can give. I am sure to have something, but I have not found out yet how much He wants me to give.”

“Who wants you to give?” asked Lou.

“Why, Jesus; I asked him, but he has not told me yet.” The girls were hushed and awed; how many of them had thought to ask Jesus about it! Lou laid down her pencil and her voice trembled with emotion as she said,

“Girls, boys, we have made a mistake! We have begun wrong! Let us pray about this too!” Dropping upon her knees, while the others followed her example, Lou’s voice led them in a prayer for God’s direction in this matter which they had been considering, and for his blessing upon all their efforts as well.

“That was what they call ‘a new departure,’” said Tom Mason. Another boy remarked,

“It is queer that with so many of us belonging to the church, we should have band meetings without an opening and closing prayer! but that little mouse stirred us up, so that I reckon we shall do better after this.”

Annie Williams came to the next meeting with a bright face; when her name was called she walked over to the treasurer and laid down a bit of paper which read after the usual form of bank checks: “Pay to the order of Annie Williams five dollars;” and was signed “John Williams.”

“Papa showed me how to write on the back—‘endorse it,’ he called it,” and turning the paper over she brought to view, “Pay to the order of Louise Brandt. Annie Williams.” And she added, “Papa said if you took that to any bank they would give you the money, only you would have to put your name under mine.”

“What business women we are getting to be!” said Tom Mason.

“Do you want to hear about it?” asked Annie when the laugh at Tom’s remark subsided.

“Of course we do!” said Lou.

“You know I staid a long time out at uncle John’s last spring; one day uncle brought in a little lamb and said ‘See here, Annie, if you will save this lamb’s life you may have it. The poor thing’s mother will not own it, and unless you feed it it will die.’ Aunt Mary showed me how to feed it, and it grew; and before I came away it was a big lamb. I used to feed it with a spoon out of a bowl, and I grew real fond of it. The other day uncle John wrote to me that he was going to sell all his flock, and that he was sorry, but he thought he must sell my lamb too. He is going to Florida next winter, and there would be no one at the farm who could take care of it, so he sent me five dollars! You can’t think how glad I was; I knew right away that Jesus had answered my prayer.”

I cannot describe all the ways by which the money came in, but you will not be surprised when I tell you that when the money on the mortgage came due, the “Industry Band” were ready to become the purchasers, and that Grandma Frink was made the happiest woman in the village of Danvers.

FAYE HUNTINGTON.

SIX O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING.

HOSANNA: BLESSED IS THE KING OF ISRAEL THAT COMETH IN THE
NAME OF THE LORD.

AND I, IF I BE LIFTED UP FROM THE EARTH, WILL DRAW ALL MEN
UNTO ME.

IF YE KNOW THESE THINGS, HAPPY ARE YE IF YE DO THEM.

WHEREFORE LET HIM THAT THINKETH HE STANDETH, TAKE HEED LEST
HE FALL.

LET NOT YOUR HEART BE TROUBLED; YE BELIEVE IN GOD, BELIEVE
ALSO IN ME.

“HERE is another chance to fit my story to two of your verses,” said Grandma, and all the young Burtons looked glad.

“It was the summer I was twelve,” said Grandma, “and I spent it at Grandfather Holland’s. He was a minister, you know. We used to have very pleasant Sunday evenings, talking over the sermon, and reciting the catechism; there wasn’t any Sunday-school in those days; not in our part of the country.

“One night we had the story of Jesus washing the disciples’ feet. Cousin Mercy said she didn’t see how he _could_ do it; to think of his washing Judas’ feet, too! She thought it was wonderful!

“I said it was wonderful, but I could see how he could do it, and in a sense like to do it; that it showed how truly noble he was, and that I should like a chance to treat an enemy kindly, because I thought it would be a splendid thing to do. But I added, rather mournfully, that I did not suppose I should ever have an enemy. Grandfather did not make much reply; he only smiled on me, a curious sort of smile, and repeated this third verse of yours: ‘If ye know these things, happy are ye if ye do them.’

“Then what did cousin Stephen do, but repeat, with his eyes fixed on me, this next verse: ‘Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall.’

“I felt my cheeks grow red. I wished I could have a chance to show Steenie how truly noble I was; for I saw he didn’t believe it.

“The very next week something happened which made me think of those two verses again.

“I went to the little village school, while I was at grandfather’s; and Priscilla Howe went too. Priscilla was a bound girl whom my grandfather was bringing up.”

“Bound!” exclaimed little Sarah, in startled tone; Grandma had to stop and explain to her what that meant. Then she continued her story.

“I didn’t like Priscilla very well; I hardly knew why; she was a still, cold, little thing, a trifle sullen, perhaps; at least I thought so, and I didn’t have much to do with her. On Wednesday afternoons we had an exercise in school which I always liked.

“The afternoon before, the teacher would read to us a certain article, generally a description of something; a great meeting, maybe, or a fire, or a storm; we were to take what notes we pleased, while the reading was going on. Then the next day we were to bring in our written account of that same thing; using as few words, and as short ones, as we could, to get in all the facts; and the scholar who brought in the best paper, with the fewest mistakes in spelling, and punctuation, wore home the medal for composition. Now I had a good memory, and it seemed to come natural to me to write out things; so I liked this exercise. But poor Priscilla hated it; she could not remember half a dozen things in the article; and couldn’t express them. Tuesday evening grandfather let me sit in his study while I wrote out my exercise. The story was a very nice one, and I felt sure of getting the medal.

“The next morning, when I went to get ready for school, my exercise was nowhere to be found; I made a great noise about it, and every one in the house helped me look; but the exercise was gone. I tried to get time to write another, but I couldn’t, and I missed the medal of course; and cried bitterly. The next day I found the exercise; where, do you think?”

“Where?” asked all the Burtons at once, in tones of eager interest and sympathy.

“Down in the bottom of Priscilla’s mending basket, all torn into little tiny bits, less than half an inch square!”

You should have heard the murmur of indignation which ran through the audience then!

“I can’t tell you how I felt,” said Grandma. “I went down to the sitting-room where the family were gathered, but I was too angry to trust my voice to tell the story. They were all busy, and I crept into a corner with my dark little face, and kept still. My cousin Mercy was at the piano. I ought to tell you about that piano, children,” said Grandma, breaking from her story. “It was the only one in that part of the world; pianos were scarcer in those days than they are now; and Mercy’s was a great curiosity; it had been sent to her by a rich uncle, who went away off to foreign parts and made a fortune.

“It would look very queer and old-fashioned to you, but it was a great wonder and delight to me.

“Mercy called me to come and sing a hymn, but dear me! I couldn’t have sung if they had promised me a piano of my own for doing it. Just then, my aunt Martha, who was grandfather’s housekeeper, said, as she looked from the window, ‘There comes Priscilla with three lighted candles in her hands; how often I have told that child not to carry three candles at once! Run, Ruthie dear, and open the door for her; she will burn herself, or set the house on fire.’

“But ‘Ruthie’ did not run. I sat as still as a stone. ‘Ruth!’ said my grandfather, astonished, while my cousin Stephen laid aside his book, and went toward the door: ‘I can’t open doors for her!’ I burst forth; ‘not if she burns herself up! She tore my exercise into little bits, and I hate her!’

“Children, don’t you feel ashamed of your Grandma? Was ever such a wicked and at the same time silly little burst of rage? It ended with a perfect flood of tears. Grandfather was a wise man, and felt that this was no time for explanations, but as I hurried from the room, I heard cousin Stephen’s mocking voice saying: ‘Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall.’

“It dried my tears in a minute, that verse did. All the Sunday evening talk, and my boastful words, came back to me, and I just _hated_ myself, as I sat in my own little room in the dark, and went over the whole thing. How angry I had been with Priscilla; and yet, only three days before, I had wanted an enemy, that I might show everybody how noble I was! After awhile I cried again; but I don’t think there was any anger in those tears. I did feel so _ashamed_, and so disappointed in myself. To think that the Lord Jesus could wash the feet of Judas, and I could not open a door for a little girl who had torn my paper! I did want to be a good girl, and follow my Saviour’s example; and it seemed so dreadful to have failed!

“It was a very meek and miserable little girl who stole around to grandfather’s side that evening, in answer to his gentle call. In a low voice, and with a few tears dropping quietly, I told him the whole sad story; and I can seem to hear his voice yet, as he said, sorrowfully, after a few minutes: ‘Yes poor little girl; you are learning how much easier it is to resolve, than to _do_. ”If ye know these things, happy are ye if ye do them,“ the Saviour said.’

“Mercy was at the piano again, touching the keys softly; she began to sing in a low voice:

Arise, my soul, arise;
Shake off thy guilty fears;
The bleeding sacrifice
In my behalf appears;
Before the throne my surety stands,
My name is graven on his hands—

“‘Yes,’ said my grandfather, and he placed his dear old hand on my head, ‘little Ruth must try again; He knows all about it, and will forgive her; it was because He knew she couldn’t be gentle, and forgiving, and loving, all alone, that He came down here, and lived, and died.’

“I’ve never forgotten it, children; but I can tell you one thing; it was a long time before I did any more boasting. It was a long time before cousin Stephen could see me, without beginning, ‘Let him that thinketh,’ and laughing a little.”

There was silence in the audience for a few minutes after Grandma’s voice ceased; then Ralph made his speech: “Well, I think Priscilla was a bad, wicked girl; and ought to have been punished.”

PANSY.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

“WHO are those oddly dressed children?” asked Miss Vinton. She was reclining in her invalid’s chair, which was drawn up before the window looking out upon the street. “I have seen them pass several times lately and I think they must be new-comers in the neighborhood.”

“They are,” replied Emma Copeland, her companion; “they belong to a German family that have moved into the little house back of Mr. Swift’s.”

“Do you know anything about them?”

Emma smiled; she had been waiting for this question. She knew that sooner or later Miss Vinton would find them out and would want to know all about them, not from curiosity, but from a desire and purpose to aid, if in any way they needed help that she could give.

“The family consists of the father and mother and these two children, besides the baby. The baby is sick, and I think they are quite poor. The children sell flowers; you remember there is a garden attached to that house. They go past every morning with baskets of flowers which they take to town. The father means to raise fruit and vegetables, but as this is the beginning, they are poorly prepared for sickness.”

“I see!” replied Miss Vinton thoughtfully. Presently she said, “Emma, I think you will have to go out upon an errand for me.”

“Down to the Rutgers?” asked Emma.

“Yes; your German will enable you to understand enough to find out their needs. Who is their physician, do you know?”

“I saw Doctor Prince pass this morning, perhaps he was going there.”

“There he is coming up the street now!” exclaimed Miss Vinton; “Emma, ask him to come in for a moment, if he is not in too much haste.”

He came in smiling, saying without being questioned, “You want to know about the Rutgers, I suppose?” he understood Miss Vinton.

“Yes; do they need anything that I can supply?”

“So far as I can judge they would do very well if it were not for this sickness. If you can send comforts for the sick child, it would help. I would suggest the loan of a cot-bed, a soft pillow, and something in the way of a child’s wrapper, besides nourishing, easily digested food. Milk, beef extract—you know what to send?”

“Do you think the child will get well?”

“There is no reason why, with proper care and plenty of nourishing food, the child should not recover. If the family could be relieved so that the mother could give her whole time to the care of the child all would be well, so far as I can see.”

“I understand. I will see what I can do.”

Then the doctor bowed himself out, and as he went down street he said within himself, “I declare! to look at that girl and know what her sufferings are, one would feel that if any one could be excused for letting other people take care of themselves she would be the one. Yet she does more to help the poor, and smooth the beds of the sick and suffering than any other five women in this whole town! The Rutgers will find their path brightening, I am thinking!”

This was a true prophecy. Emma Copeland knew just how to carry out the wishes of her friend, and before noon the sick child lay in a clean white wrapper upon a fresh cot-bed. A little stand stood near with a white napkin spread upon it and a tray with a cup of beef tea, a glass of milk, a tiny saucer of nourishing jelly, a silver spoon on the tray, another beside the glass of medicine, and the mother had been made to understand that she was to give her whole time to the care of her sick child. A loaf of bread, and a piece of meat, and other things from the Vinton larder emphasized this injunction. The children, Carl and Gretchen, moved softly about; Conrad himself peeped in now and then to look upon the little one lying now so comfortably in the white bed, going back to his work with a lighter heart, saying in his native tongue, “God bless the kind lady!” One morning a visitor said to May Vinton:

“I am afraid you trouble yourself too much about other people. I hear you have taken up a poor German family. Why do you not let the authorities take care of the town’s poor?”

“Well, I am egotistical enough to think that I can do some things better than the authorities! They do not give sympathy, nor advice; and this is what some people need most of all. Then again Christ was not speaking of the public authorities when he said, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these ye have done it unto me.’ Besides a little help to these people, such as we would give to any friend in the time of sickness, does not degrade them in their own eyes nor in the estimation of their neighbors, as help from a public charity might. They only needed tiding over a deep place, now they will do well enough.”

And so they did. A few weeks later the cot-bed was again in its place in Mrs. Vinton’s store-room. The sick child was every day putting on flesh and strength. The mother could now care for her household, and the whole family rejoiced, with hearts full of love and gratitude to their new friend. Carl and Gretchen came now and then to visit Miss Vinton, always bringing some little token. The children were shy little things, but it was a great treat to them to go into that handsome room and talk with its fair, though suffering occupant. In their gratitude they treasured every word she uttered, and carried away many useful lessons.

One day, long afterward, when Gretchen had grown to be a young lady and Carl was studying in the High School, some one remarked, “How that family have risen in the world! It is only a few years since they came here, poor and friendless, now they have a home and circle of friends. There’s the Ketlers who came over at the same time. They have not prospered nearly so well; the children have grown up in comparative ignorance. I do not understand what has made the difference.”

“I can explain it,” said another, “there’s an influence going out from that front corner room of the Vinton homestead which has power to revolutionize hearts and lives and to build up families; when the Rutgers first came they fell under that influence, and it is this which has made the difference. I suppose a small sum would cover all the money Miss Vinton expended for the family, but there is a great deal in doing things at the right time and in giving your money and sympathy when most needed.”

“But there must be something back of what we see,” said the first speaker.

“Yes; a consecrated life lies behind the work.”

FAYE HUNTINGTON.

_Volume 13, Number 41._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_August 14, 1886._

THE PANSY.

REACHING OUT.

(_A further Account of Nettie Decker and her Friends._)

BY PANSY.