Earlier text: PREFACE.WILL WINSLOW was the worst boy in the Village; his father’s indulgence had spoiled him. “Don’t check the boy,” he would say to his mother, “you will crush all the manhood within him.” And so he grew up the terror of his neighbors. The old, the infirm, and the crippled were the especial objects of his vicious merriment. One poor woman, bent by age and infirmities, he assailed with his ridicule, as she daily went out upon her crutch, to draw water from the well near her house, and just within the play-ground of the school-house. “Only look at her,” he would say, “isn’t she the letter S now, with an extra crook in it?” and his cruel laugh, as he followed closely behind, mocking and mimicking her, called forth from her no rebuke. One day, however, she turned, and looking at him reproachfully, said:— “Go home, child, and read the story of Elisha and the two bears out of the wood.” “Shame on you, Will,” said Charles Mansfield,41 “to laugh at her misfortunes! I heard my grandmother say that she became a cripple by lifting her idiot son, and tending him night and day.” “I don’t care what made her so,” said Will, “but I wouldn’t stay among people if I was such a looking thing as that. Do look!” “Shame,” said Charles, “shame,” echoed from each of the boys present. And to show their sympathy, several of them sprang forward to aid the poor woman; but Charles Mansfield, the oldest, and always an example of nobleness and generosity, was the first. “Let me get the water for you, ma’am,” and he gently took the bucket from her hand. Her voice was tremulous and tearful, as she said, “Thank you, my dear boy. God grant that you may never suffer from such infirmities.” “If I should,” said Charles, kindly, “it would be the duty, and ought to be the pleasure of young people to assist me. One of us will bring you water every day, and so you need not come for it.” “Yes, so we will,” was echoed from lip to lip. “God bless you! God bless you all.” She wiped away the tears and entered her poor and lonely home. Will Winslow was reported to the master, and was sentenced to study during the usual recess for a week to come. The punishment was hard, for he loved play better than his book; but how slight in comparison with the retribution which awaited him. It was the second day of his confinement, and he sat near the open window, watching the sports of the boys in the play-ground. Suddenly—when the master was absorbed in his occupations, he leaped into the midst of them, with a shout at his achievement. “Now let him punish me again, if he can,” and he ran backward, throwing up his arms, and shouting in defiance, when—his voice suddenly ceased; there was a heavy plunge, and a horrible groan broke on the ears of his bewildered companions. Now it happened that the well, of which we have before spoken, was undergoing repairs, and the workmen were then at a distance collecting their materials. Carelessly the well was left uncovered, and at the very moment of his triumph, Will Winslow was43 precipitated backward into the opening. A cry of horror burst from the assembled boys, who rushed to the spot, and Charles Mansfield, the bravest of them all, was the first to seize the well-rope, tie it around his waist, and descend to the rescue. The well was deep; fortunately, however, the water at that time was mostly exhausted, but Will lay motionless at the bottom. Carefully he lifted him, and with one arm around his mutilated and apparently lifeless form, and the other upon the rope, he gave the signal, and was slowly drawn to the top. The livid face of the wicked boy filled his companions with a supernatural horror; and in perfect silence they bore him to the house of the poor woman, which was close at hand. She had witnessed the accident from the window, and upon her crutch hastened to meet them. And now Will Winslow was in the humble home, and upon the lowly bed of her whom he had assailed with cruelty and scorn; and faithfully she obeyed the commandment of Him who said, “Do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully use you, and persecute you.” Silently her prayers ascended to God for the44 sufferer. Her little vials of camphor and other restoratives, provided by charitable neighbors, were emptied for his relief. She took from her scanty store, bandages for his head, which was shockingly mangled and bleeding; and she herself, forgetful of all but his sufferings, sat down and tenderly bathed his hands and his forehead, while some of the boys ran for the surgeon, and others for the master. The injury to the head was supposed to be the only one he had sustained; and after the surgeon had done his work the poor boy was borne away on a litter to his home, still insensible, and surrounded by his companions, mute with emotion. That day was destined to make an impression upon the school, its master, and all that heard of the awful catastrophe. A few hours later and a group of boys collected in the play-ground. Their conversation was in whispers; horror sat upon every face; all were pale and awe-stricken. Charles Mansfield approached. “How is poor Will now, have any of you heard?” “Oh, Charlie!” several exclaimed at once as they gathered around him. “Oh! don’t you know? haven’t you heard?”45 Why, he opened his eyes and spoke, but they think his back is broken.” Charles clasped his hands, lifted them high in the air, uttered not a word, but burst into tears. For a few minutes he yielded to his emotion, and then, still pale and grief stricken, but with a manly voice, he said to his companions: “Boys, shall we ever forget the lesson of this day?” And poor Will—words would be too feeble to portray his agony of body and mind as he lay for long months upon his bed of suffering; but when he arose therefrom, with a feeble and distorted body, and a scar upon his forehead, he was changed in heart also, crushed in spirit, humble, and contrite. Repentance had had its perfect work, and when he became convalescent, and his school-mates came to congratulate him on his recovery, he threw his arms around the necks of each, and burst into tears, but could not speak, except to whisper, “Forgive, forgive.” At his request the poor woman became the tenant, rent free, of a cottage belonging to his father, and his mother constantly administered to her wants. As soon as he could do so, he wrote to her, humbly pleading46 forgiveness, and in return she gave him her blessing. From this time one-half his ample quarterly allowance was bestowed upon her; he visited her in her loneliness, and at last made his peace with God, declared his punishment just—henceforth to be a cripple and hunchback.” Youthful readers, let the history of Will Winslow impress your hearts. Revere the aged, whether they be in poverty or affluence; and feel it a privilege to administer to them in their infirmities, as they have done to you in the weakness and helplessness of infancy. It is the only recompense which youth can make to age, and God will bless the youthful heart which bows in reverence before the hoary head. Any boy who understands machinery knows what it is when an engine is on a “dead center.” Let us explain to those who do not understand. When the walking-beam of a steam-engine has lifted the crank to its highest point, or depressed it to its lowest, that point is called the “dead center.” If the crank swings over as it usually does, then the rod goes down from the highest point and up from the lowest; but, sometimes when an engine is going slowly, the crank does not swing past the center, and then, as the piston presses straight down, or draws straight up, does not tend to turn the crank as it does when in any other position, the engine stops, and the crank has to be swung over the center by hand. Now, this “dead center” is in an engine just what indecision is in a boy or man. The crank moves slowly, and without force enough to carry it over that point; it is undecided which way to go, and it stops, and, till it can be started by extraneous force, the48 boat is at the mercy of the winds and waves. If a boy’s mind moves slowly and in an undecided manner, his moral force, his engine, gets on a “dead center,” and away he floats down stream. Standing on the dock in one of our seaport towns, a large steamer getting under weigh could be seen. The current was running swiftly by the wharf and the river full of large shipping. The steamer cast off, and swung out into the stream, the engine made three or four revolutions, and then stopped. The pilot sounded the bell in the engine-room to go ahead, but it was not answered; the boat drifted swiftly, and in a moment crash it went against a ship, and carried away her rigging around her bowsprit; then smash into another steamboat, and made a wreck of her wheel-house, and very badly damaged herself. The pilot was frantic with rage at what he deemed the stupidity of the engineer; the officers of the craft were loudly cursing the stupidity of the pilot, and there was a great running to and fro of all hands, when the pilot was told by the engineer that his engine was on a “dead center,” and till the49 crank was pushed over in some way he was powerless. By this time the boat had drifted a long way and was almost a wreck; indeed, so badly damaged that she could not go on her voyage, and in her drifting she had crippled several other craft. The only remedy was to down anchor, which the pilot did as soon as he saw that the engine was useless. But it was too late. The damage was done, and the boat was afterward hauled off for repairs. A boy needs decision of character more than any other trait, and we can sympathize with a boy who is doing his best to cultivate this virtue. It is his sheet-anchor, which, by the help and grace of God, can hold him right when all else fails him. A boy should learn how to say “No,” and not only how to say it, but how to live up to it. “When sinners entice thee, consent thou not;” that means, say “No” with an emphasis, and, after saying No, leave the place at once. It is your only safety. If you say, “Get thee behind me Satan,” he won’t “get.” He never goes away politely and humbly when ordered—not he. He will face you, and the only way to get him behind you is to turn50 around and walk away, and then, of course, he is behind you. This requires decision. If Tom and Harry tempt you to run away from school, or go where you ought not to go, and you reply in an undecided way, “I guess not, perhaps it is not best, I rather think I’d better not;” you are Tom and Harry’s boy. They have you sure, If a boy is undecided he is lost. But if, when they make such a proposition to you, you say “No,” and turn away, why then you are safe, and neither Tom, Harry nor Satan has the least hold upon you. A boy who is undecided in his moral character, in his sports, and, when he grows up in his business, floats, drifts along to sure destruction; for every craft that drifts is doomed. If circumstances arise in which you question what course to pursue, remember that in such a case, there is a safe appeal which must result in accordance with the highest good, namely, ask yourself what would the Saviour do under such circumstances; just what you suppose He would approve or advise, that you will be safe in doing. Do this, and there will be no “dead center,” no indecision, no yielding to temptations. How important that all, especially the young, make the application; don’t wreck yourself and others by indecision; don’t drift and float down the swift stream of life with all your energies on a “dead center.” This is forcibly brought to mind when we see a man who might do a great deal of good in every way, loafing through life, a curse to himself and to all about him. REMEMBER, the will to do rightly,
If used, will the evil confound;
Live daily by conscience, that nightly
Your sleep may be peaceful and sound.
In contests of right never waver,
Let honesty shape every plan,
And life will of Paradise savor,
If you do as near right as you can.
A FRIEND told me not long ago, a beautiful story about kind words. A good lady passed a drinking saloon just as the keeper was thrusting a young man into the street. He was quite young and very pale, but his haggard face and wild eyes told that he was far gone in the road to ruin, and with an oath he brandished his clenched fists, threatening to be revenged on the man who had ill-used him. This young man was so excited and blinded with passion, that he did not see the lady who stood very near to him, until she laid her hand on his arm, and spoke in her gentle, loving voice, and asked him what was the matter. At the first kind word he started as if a heavy blow had struck him, and turned quickly round paler than before, and trembling from head to foot. He surveyed the lady for a moment, and then with a sigh of relief he said:— “I thought that was my mother’s voice, it53 sounded strangely like! But her voice has been hushed in death these many years.” “You had a mother then, and she loved you,” said she. With that sudden revulsion of feeling which often comes to people of fine nervous temperaments, the young man burst into tears and sobbed out, “Oh yes, I had an angel mother and she loved her boy! But since she died all the world has been against me, and I am lost to honor, lost to decency, and lost forever!” “No, not lost forever; for God is merciful, and his pitying love can reach the chief of sinners,” said the lady in her soft, sweet voice; and the timely words swept the hidden chords of feeling which had long been untouched in the young man’s heart, thrilling it with magic power, and wakening a host of tender emotions, which had been buried deep beneath the rubbish of sin and crime. More gentle words the lady spoke, and when she passed on her way the young man followed her. He marked the house she entered, and wrote the name which was on the silver door-plate, in his memorandum book. Then he went slowly away with a54 very earnest look on his pale face, and a deeper and more earnest feeling in his heart. Years glided by, and the gentle lady had quite forgotten the incident we have related, when one day a stranger sent up his card, and desired to speak with her. Wondering who it could be, she went down to the parlor, where she found a noble-looking, well-dressed man, who rose deferentially to meet her. Holding out his hand, he said: “Pardon me, madam, for this intrusion; but I have come many miles to thank you for the great service you rendered me a few years ago,” said he, in a trembling voice. The lady was puzzled, and asked for an explanation, as she did not remember ever having seen the gentleman before. “I have changed so much,” said the man, “that you have quite forgotten me; but though I only saw your face once, I am sure I should have recognized it anywhere. And your voice, too, is so like my mother’s.” These last words made the lady remember the young man she had kindly spoken to in front of the drinking saloon so long before, and the tears flowed freely,—both wept. After the first gush of emotion had subsided,55 the gentleman told the lady how those few gentle words had been instrumental in saving him, and making him what he was then. “The earnest expression of ‘No, not lost forever,’ followed me wherever I went,” said he, “and it always seemed that it was the voice of my mother speaking to me from the tomb. I repented of my many transgressions, and resolved to live in Jesus as my mother would have been pleased to have had me; and by the mercy and grace of God I have been enabled to resist temptation, and keep my good resolutions.” “I never dreamed there was such power in a few kind words before,” exclaimed the lady, “and surely, ever after this I shall take more pains to speak them to all the sad and suffering ones I meet in the walks of life.” WRITE, mother, write!
A new unspotted book of life before thee,
Thine is the hand to trace upon its pages
The first few characters to live in glory,
Or live in shame, through long, unending ages;
Write, mother, write!
Thy hand, though woman’s, must not faint nor falter,
The lot is on thee, nerve thee, then, with care;
A mother’s tracery time may never alter;
Be its first impress, then, the breath of prayer.
Write, mother, write!
Write, father, write!
Take thee a pen plucked from an eagle’s pinion,
And write immortal actions for thy son;
Teach him that man forgets man’s high dominion,
Creeping on earth, leaving great deeds undone;
Write, father, write!
Leave on his life book a fond father’s blessing,
To shield him ’mid temptation, toil and sin,
And he shall go to glory’s field, possessing
Strength to contend, and confidence to win.
Write, father, write!
Write, sister, write!
Nay, shrink not, for a sister’s love is holy,
Write words the angels whisper in thine ears;
No bud of sweet affection, however lowly,
But planted here will bloom in after years.
Write, sister, write!
Something to cheer him, his rough way pursuing.57 For manhood’s lot is sterner far then yours; He may not pause, he must be up and doing. While thine more gentle toil among the flowers. Write, sister, write!
Strike a bold blow upon those kindred pages;
Write: Shoulder to shoulder, brother, we will go,
Heart linked to heart, though wild the conflict rages
We will defy the battle and the foe.
We, who have trodden boyhood’s path together,
Beneath the summer’s sun and winter’s sky,
What matter if life brings us some foul weather,
We may be stronger for adversity.
Write, brother, write!
One God reigns in the heavens—there is no other,
And all mankind are brethren—thus ’tis spoken,
And whoso aids a sorrowing, struggling brother,
By kindly word, or deed, or friendly token,
Shall win the favor of our Heavenly Father,
Who judges evil and rewards the good,
And who hath linked the race of man together,
In one vast universal brotherhood.
Fellow mortal, write!
“YOU were not here yesterday,” said the gentle teacher of the little village school, as she placed her hand kindly on the curly head of one of her pupils. It was recess time, but the little girl addressed had not gone to frolic away the ten minutes, not even left her seat, but sat absorbed in what seemed a fruitless attempt to make herself mistress of an example in long division. Her face and neck crimsoned at the remark of her teacher, but looking up, she seemed somewhat re-assured by the kind glance that met her, and answered, “No, ma’am, I was not, but sister Nelly was.” “I remember there was a little girl who called herself Nelly Gray, came in yesterday, but I did not know she was your sister. But why did you not come? You seem to love to study very much.” “It was not because I didn’t want to,” was the earnest answer, and then she paused and the deep flush again tinged her fair brow; “but,” she continued after a moment59 of painful embarrassment, “mother cannot spare both of us conveniently, and so we are going to take turns. I’m going to school one day, and sister the next, and to-night I’m to teach Nelly all I have learned to-day, and to-morrow night she will teach me all that she learns while here. It’s the only way we can think of getting along, and we want to study very much, so as to sometime keep school ourselves, and take care of mother, because she has to work very hard to take care of us.” With genuine delicacy Miss M—— forbore to question the child further, but sat down beside her, and in a moment explained the rule over which she was puzzling her young brain, so that the hard example was easily finished. “You had better go out and take the air a few moments, you have studied very hard to-day,” said the teacher, as the little girl put aside the slate. “I had rather not—I might tear my dress—I will stand by the window and watch the rest.” There was such a peculiar tone in the voice of her pupil as she said, “I might tear60 my dress,” that the teacher was led instinctively to notice it. It was nothing but a nine-penny print of a deep hue, but it was neatly made and had never been washed. And while looking at it, she remembered that during the whole previous fortnight Mary Gray had attended school regularly, she had never seen her wear but that one dress. “She is a thoughtful little girl,” said she to herself, “and does not want to make her mother any trouble. I wish I had more such scholars.” The next morning Mary was absent, but her sister occupied her seat. There was something so interesting in the two little sisters, the one eleven, and the other eighteen months younger, agreeing to attend school by turns, that Miss M—— could not forbear observing them very closely. They were pretty faced children, of delicate forms, the elder with dark eyes and chestnut curls, the other with orbs like the sky of June, her white neck veiled by a wealth of golden ringlets. She observed in both, the same close attention to their studies, and as Mary tarried within during the play time, so did Nelly; and upon speaking to her as she had61 to her sister, she received the same answer, “I might tear my dress.” The reply caused Miss M—— to notice the garb of her sister. She saw at once that it was of the same piece as Mary’s, and upon scrutinizing it very closely, she became certain that it was the same dress. . It did not fit quite so nicely on Nelly, and was too long for her, and she was evidently ill at ease when she noticed her teacher looking at the bright pink flowers that were so thickly set on the white ground. The discovery was one that could not but interest a heart so benevolent as that which pulsated in the bosom of that village schoolteacher. She ascertained the residence of their mother, and though sorely shortened herself by a narrow purse, that same night, having found at the only store in the place a few yards of the same material, purchased a dress for little Nelly, and made arrangements with the merchant to send it to her in such a way that the donor could not be detected. Very bright and happy looked Mary Gray on Friday morning, as she entered the school at an early hour. She waited only to place62 her books in neat order in her desk, ere she approached the teacher, and whispering in a voice that laughed in spite of her efforts to make it low and deferential—“After this week sister Nelly is coming to school every day, and oh, I am so glad!” “That is very good news,” replied the teacher kindly. “Nelly is fond of her books, I see, and I am happy to know that she can have an opportunity to study them every day. Then she continued, a little good-natured mischief encircling her eyes and dimpling her sweet lips—“But can your mother spare you both conveniently?” “Oh, yes, ma’am, yes ma’am, she can now. Something happened that she didn’t expect, and she is as glad to have us come as we are to do so.” She hesitated a moment, but her young heart was filled to the brim with joy, and when a child is happy it is as natural to tell the cause as it is for a bird to warble when the sun shines. So out of the fullness of her heart she spoke and told her teacher this little story. She and her sister were the only children of a very poor widow, whose health was so delicate that it was almost impossible to63 support herself and daughters. She was obliged to keep them out of school all winter, as they had no suitable clothes to wear, but she told them that if they could earn enough by doing odd chores for the neighbors to buy each of them a new dress, they might go in the spring. Very earnestly had the little girls improved their stray chances, and very carefully hoarded the copper coins which usually repaid them. They had nearly saved enough to buy a dress, when Nellie was taken sick, and as the mother had no money beforehand, her own treasure had to be expended. “Oh, I did feel so bad when school opened and Nellie could not go, because she had no dress,” said Mary. “I told mother I wouldn’t go either, but she said I had better, for I could teach sister some, and it would be better than no schooling. I stood it for a fortnight, but Nellie’s little face seemed all the time looking at me on the way to school, and I couldn’t be happy a bit, so I finally thought of a way by which we could both go, and I told mother I would come one day, and the next I would lend Nellie my dress and she might come, and that’s the way64 we have done this week. But last night, don’t you think, somebody sent sister a dress just like mine, and now she can come too. Oh, if I only knew who it was, I would get down on my knees and thank them and so would Nellie. But we don’t know, and so we’ve done all we could for them—we’ve prayed for them—and Oh, Miss M——, we are all so glad now. Ain’t you too?” “Indeed I am,” was the emphatic answer. And when on the following Monday, little Nellie, in the new pink dress, entered the schoolroom, her face radiant as a rose in sunshine, and approaching the teacher’s table, exclaimed, in tones as musical as those of a freed fountain, “I am coming to school every day, and Oh, I am so glad!” The teacher felt as she had never done before, that it is more blessed to give than to receive. No millionaire, when he saw his name in public prints, lauded for his thousand dollar charities, was ever so happy as the poor school-teacher who wore her gloves half a summer longer than she ought, and thereby saved enough to buy that little fatherless girl a calico dress. Jonas Johnson was the youngest son of an organ-builder in New England. He was a small, quiet boy, in no way remarkable except in his passion for harmonies. So great was his love for music, that from his most tender years he could not listen unmoved to the singing of his sisters as they went about their homely work and if the voices happened to be discordant he ran shuddering from the sound. The choir of untutored singers in church service made tears fall from his eyes upon his hymn-book while he joined his small voice with theirs. Although Jonas let his tears fall unwittingly, the organ-builder saw them and treasured them in his heart. When the boy had reached his eleventh year the family left the country town and came to live in New York. Here the father determined to let his son learn the organ. “Remember, Jonas,” said he, “I am a poor man, and can ill afford to go into this expense unless you do the work before you66 manfully and patiently. I give you this profession instead of a trade because I believe it to be your wish.” Jonas was entirely satisfied, and his slim fingers quivered in the anticipation of one day being able to move those mysterious white and black keys to the sound and measure of Te Deums and chants. A teacher was selected whose manner of educating was thorough and profound. At the first lesson Jonas became unequivocally assured that the business was a serious one, when, after a third time striking G instead of G-sharp, the heavy, quick blow of the master’s stick hummed and stung across his hands as they hovered over the organ keys. Poor little fingers! they could work no more that day—they were stiffened and red. He wept so profusely that he was requested to retire and to return in two days. All the way home he sobbed, and held his hands suspended from the wrists, a most pitiable object. “Ah! you old ruffian!” soliloquized the tearful pupil, “won’t my father give it to you for this?” He found his father in the workshop. “Well,” cried the organ-builder, “How67 went the lesson?” He saw there had been trouble. Jonas with fresh tears showed his chafed fingers and told the event. The father listened with darkened brow, and when the sad tale was ended he solemnly led his son into a back room, and after inflicting a thorough corporal punishment, warned him in a terrible voice never again to complain of his master. Our hero felt for awhile that this was almost beyond human endurance, and for several hours he lay upon a pile of shavings plotting vengeance upon those he considered his worst enemies, when a sudden thrill shot through him at the sound of the rich organ tones. The sound came from his father’s ware room. Evidently a master hand was there. Jonas sat up and listened. It was the portion of a prelude by Sebastian Bach, and the marvelous harmonies seemed to speak to Jonas as the voice of a spirit. He rose upon his feet, and his whole soul trembled with the wonderful words it spoke to him, though as yet he hardly understood their meaning. He went to the door and gently opened it. The back of the high organ stood68 opposite to him. He did not wish to be observed, and he passed quietly along at the end of the large room until he saw the musician. Could it be the master? Yes, Jonas recognized the long curling beard, and even the baton as it lay upon a chair. Amidst the glowing chords the boy contrived to pass on unnoticed. He remembered that in two days he must again present himself. Could that terrible personage be confronted with an imperfect scale? The very thought was a shudder. Besides, Jonas felt an inspiration now. He again burned to be a musician. The revengeful spirit had left him—he thought only of Sabastian Bach. A small organ had been placed in the little garret where Jonas slept. Thither he repaired, and commenced the work that ever since he has performed so well. The dreaded master found no fault with the next lesson, and as Jonas advanced and he perceived that he studied with a zeal, an earnestness quite unusual in a boy, his stern manner relaxed, and he dared allow all the warmth of his heart to cheer his now beloved pupil. At the end of five months Jonas met with69 a great misfortune. His master, after a short and sudden illness, died—which so cut him down that the organ-builder feared for his son’s health. The boy stoutly refused to work under any other teacher, assuring the family that he felt able now to go on alone. Early morning and late evening found the young musician at his organ in the garret. —Those who read this biography will scarcely believe how great was his progress. But I state facts. Just after he had entered his twelfth year he happened to overhear two men, in a music store, conversing about a church in the upper part of the city, where the organist was to leave in a few weeks. Jonas listened. “He plays in too operatic a style to suit the congregation,” said one. “Yes,” said the other, “the simpler the playing the better they are pleased.” “Where is the church?” asked Jonas. “It is Saint C——’s, in —— Street.” Jonas returned to his organ, swelling with a new and great idea. The following Sabbath morning he went very early to the church. No person had arrived except the70 organist, who was arranging music in the loft. Jonas stepped up the stairway and came round in front where he could see the selections. The organist turned at the intrusion. “What do you want here, Sir?” said he. “I heard there was to be a vacancy, Sir.” “And do you know of one who wishes to occupy it?” This simple reply brought a smile to the lips of the questioner. He pointed to a page in the service, and said, “Play that.” And giving up his seat to Jonas, he went to the side to blow the bellows. Feeling nervous and anxious, Jonas began—at first tremulously, but gaining courage with every chord, he successfully accomplished the task, while the organist ran from the bellows to the music, and from the music to the bellows again in great surprise. At the conclusion they both drew a long breath. “Well, that is rather remarkable!” said the organist. “And you want the vacancy?” “Very much,” replied Jonas, trembling with pleasure. “Then come here this afternoon, just before church, and I will take you to the minister. He makes all these arrangements.” The boy went home overflowing with great anticipations. He said nothing to his father on the subject. He dared not trust himself yet. Never did hours pass so slowly as those between dinner and church that afternoon. But the good time came and Jonas was true to his appointment, as was the organist, who took him into the vestry-room, and introduced him as an applicant for the vacancy. Tall, white-haired, and benign the minister stood as Jonas told him his desire. “Yes, my boy, the present organist will leave in three weeks. Will that give you time to become acquainted with our service?” “Then I have only to hear you play before deciding. Will you take the organist’s place this afternoon? He will show you the forms.” The proposal was sudden and unexpected, and made Jonas’ heart quake; but he felt that all depended on his courage, and he accepted. He took his seat before the great organ72 with a brave but serious spirit. The bell ceased tolling; the minister entered; and Jonas pressed his slight fingers upon the first chord of the voluntary, which, extemporaneous as it was, may be considered the corner-stone of the grand success of his life. The music that afternoon was simple and pure as the heart from which it flowed. Again Jonas presented himself before the minister, who received him in a most affectionate manner. “Keep to this simple style,” said he, “and we shall never wish to change. How much salary have you fixed upon?” “Indeed, Sir, I never thought of it. I only wished to play in a church.” The minister sat down at a table, and taking pen and paper, went on: “You shall receive what we have always paid—the sum of one hundred and fifty dollars a year. I will draw the agreement. Come now, and sign your name.” “Your chirography is not equal to your organ-playing,” continued the minister, smiling, as he saw the child-like, uneven signature of Jonas Johnson; “but one cannot expect everything of such a little fellow.73 Here, then, is the contract. Take care of it.” Jonas took leave of his friend and hurried home. When the family of the organ-builder gathered about the hearth-stone that evening, the youngest came to the father and drew forth his contract. “Jonas made no answer, but waited while the spectacles were adjusted on the respective noses of both parents—waited till they had read the agreement, and his father had taken two turns across the floor, and said, “He’s going to be a great master, wife. God bless him!” And then he could wait no longer, but ran up to his little garret, and throwing himself upon the cot, gave vent to his welling heart in sobs of joy, and hope, and ambition. The organ-builder’s prophecy came true. The world is now indebted to Jonas for some of its best church music. As a composer and teacher he is “great.” Those who are as fortunate as the writer of this sketch in having him as a teacher to their children can truly say they know a “great master” of music. Jonas’ perseverance to become a musician,74 notwithstanding the severe discipline to which he was subjected, was rewarded by success. And not only was his perseverance commendable in accomplishing a musical education, but in securing a position in which to be useful. And every boy and girl should take this as a lesson, that by their own energy and perseverance may be laid the foundation of their success in life. I THINK there are some maxims
Under the sun,
Scarce worth preservation;
But here, boys, is one
So sound and so simple
’Tis worth while to know;
And all in the single line
“Hoe your own row!”
If you want to have riches,
And want to have friends;
Don’t trample the means down
And look for the ends;
But always remember
Wherever you go,
The wisdom of practicing,
“Hoe your own row!”75
Do n’t just sit and pray
For increase of your store;
But work; who will help himself,
Heaven helps more.
The weeds while you’re sleeping
Will come up and grow,
But if you would have the
Full ear, you must hoe!
Nor will it do only
To hoe out the weeds,
You must make your ground mellow,
And put in the seeds;
And when the young blade
Pushes through, you must know
There is nothing will strengthen
Its growth like the hoe!
A good many workers
I’ve known in my time—
Some builders of houses,
Some builders of rhyme;
And they that were prospered,
Were prospered, I know,
By the intent and meaning of
“Hoe your own row!”
I’ve known, too, a good many
Idlers, who said,
I’ve right to my living,
The world owes me bread!
A right! lazy lubber!
A thousand times No!
’Tis his, and his only,
Who hoes his own row.
I ONCE had the curiosity to look into a little girl’s work-box. And what do you suppose I found? Well, in the first place, I found a bead-purse, about half done; there was, however, no prospect of it ever being finished, for the needles were out, and the silk upon the spools all tangled and drawn into a complete wisp. Laying this aside, I took up a piece of perforated paper, upon which was wrought one lid of a Bible, and beneath it the words, “I love”—but what she loved was left for me to conjecture. Beneath the Bible lid I found a stocking, evidently commenced for some baby foot; but it had come to a stand just upon the little heel, and there it seemed doomed to remain. Near to the stocking was a needle-book, one cover of which was neatly made, and upon the other, partly finished, was marked, “To my dear—.” I need not, however, tell you all that I found there; but this much I can say, that during my travels through that work-box, I found not a single article complete; and mute as77 they were, these half-finished, forsaken things told me a sad story about that little girl. They told me that, with a heart full of generous affection, with a head full of useful and pretty projects, all of which she had both the means and the skill to carry into effect, she was still a useless child—always doing but never accomplishing her work. It was not a want of industry, but a want of perseverance. Remember, my dear little friends, that it matters but little what great thing we undertake. Our glory is not in that, but in what we accomplish. Nobody in the world cares for what we mean to do; but everybody will open their eyes to see what men and women and little children have done.