Earlier text: “I WILL DO IT.”It is certainly very desirable that Christians should possess pleasant manners, a genial spirit, and all the nameless graces which constitute an attractive deportment. They cannot too assiduously cultivate them, or mourn too deeply the so frequent want of them. Nor can it be denied that, in their efforts to do good, they should avoid giving needless offense. And yet, it seems to me, many persons make this fact a wretched excuse for their indolence or indifference in stimulating others or in bringing the truth to bear upon the minds of men. “Did you try to persuade Mary Green to come to our prayer-meeting? She seems thoughtful, and you have so many opportunities of influencing her,” says Sarah Brewerton to Louisa Dunn. “No, I didn’t,” replied Louisa, “and I don’t intend to do it either; it might give offense, and then I should do more harm than good.” And yet the same Louisa did not hesitate, a fortnight before, to offend Jenny235 White by keeping a piece of music longer than was courteous. “Jenny will be very angry with me if I don’t return this music to-day; but then she’ll get over it, and the air is so lovely I must learn it thoroughly before I send it back,” were her remarks upon the occasion. “Oh, Miss Harcourt! I am so glad to see you,” said Edith Gray to a lady somewhat older than herself, but of whom she was very fond. “I want to try my new piano for you. I exchanged my old one for it, and paid a hundred dollars to boot. I have been learning the hymn, ‘Nearer, my God, to thee.’ Would you like to hear me sing it?” “Very much,” replied Miss Harcourt. After conversing awhile, Edith went to the piano and commenced singing. When she finished the first verse, Miss Harcourt turned to her in an earnest way, and said:— “Do you really want to live nearer to God, Edith?” “Of course I do—yes, indeed,” replied Edith. She went on with the hymn. Just as she had sung the lines, “Steps up to heaven,
All that thou sendest me,
In mercy given,”236 the door opened, and in walked her sister Milly, a child about seven years of age, with a parcel in her hand, through which peeped a blue ribbon. “O Milly!” said Edith, turning quickly round, “you have got my new sash; you naughty girl, why did you touch it?” “I brought it in for Miss Harcourt to look at,” said Milly. “A good excuse,” said Edith, “but you must not take my things again, Milly—now, remember. It is a lovely shade, Miss Harcourt, is it not?” she continued, turning to that lady. “Aunt Fanny sent it to me for the assemblies. It was so kind of her, for I have been out so much this winter, my things are just as shabby as can be.” “Are the assemblies very pleasant?” asked Miss Harcourt. “Charming this year,” replied Edith. “I am on the go all the time.” “Do you find them, ‘steps up to heaven’?” asked Miss Harcourt. “Why, n-o, I can’t say I do exactly,” replied Edith, blushing and looking very much confused. Miss Harcourt saw that her remark had237 made an impression, and concluded to let it take root without adding anything more. So she rose, saying: “I must really go, Edith; I have an engagement.” When she had taken leave, Edith returned to close the piano. “I suppose Miss Harcourt don’t approve of my gay life,” she said to herself. “Well, it does seem absurd to sing, ‘Nearer to God’ and lead the life I do. But parties are so fascinating. I must go to one more at any rate, for aunt Fanny will be awfully offended if I don’t, after she has sent me a sash and gloves.” “Stop now. Choose ye this day whom you will serve,” pleaded conscience. After a hard struggle with herself, Edith resolved to amend, and retired to her room to pray for strength to remain firm to her purpose. It was difficult to resist the entreaties of her friends, but she came off victorious. About three months after this, two ladies were walking together from church, when one of them said: “What has come over Edith Gray? she seems so much more in earnest than she used to be. She has resumed her Sunday-school class, and shows great improvement in every way.” Now, if Miss Harcourt238 had been so afraid of giving offense as many seem to be, how different might have been the result! In many things we offend all. Let us set a watch at the door of our lips that we offend not in word; but oh! do not let us cloak our lukewarmness in the cause of Christ with the specious plea: “We fear to give offense.” If the seed be good, we rejoice in hope
Of the harvest it will yield;
We wait and watch for its springing up,
Admire its growth, and count on the crop
That will come from the little seeds we drop
In the great wide field.
But if we heedlessly scatter wide
Seeds we may happen to find,
We care not for culture, or what may betide,
We sow here and there on the highway side;
Whether they’ve lived, or whether they’ve died,
We never mind.
Yet every sower must one day reap
Fruit from the seed he has sown;
How carefully then it becomes us to keep
A watchful eye on the seed, and seek
To sow what is good, that we may not weep
To receive our own.
“I WISH I had lived in those times!” exclaimed Henry Sharp, a rather enthusiastic boy, as he finished reading the account of the death of Latimer and Ridley. “Why?” inquired Mr. Severn, his tutor. “Because I should like to have been a martyr,” replied Henry slowly; “it seems such a glorious thing to die for what you believe to be right.” The opinion did not seem to be in the least shared by his school-fellows, who showed their astonishment and dissent by various gestures; some were ready to laugh, and looked towards the master, with faces expressive of their ideas of their own superior wisdom, and anticipating the rebuke that was to fall upon their comrade. But Mr. Severn was not a man to judge things hastily, or to pronounce a remark silly, and so leave it without trying to explain the matter, so he said quietly:— “Do you really think so, Henry? Do you believe that you would have courage and240 firmness to submit to the severe and often lingering agonies which those persecuted men endured?” “Of course I can’t be sure that I should, sir,” replied Henry; “but it seems to me that the thought of gaining heaven must be enough to sustain any one in ever so much pain.” “I can sympathize with your feelings,” continued Mr. Severn, “for I remember as a boy to have had the same idea; but as I grew older and able to understand the state of my own heart better, I came to the conclusion that I was deceiving myself.” “I found out, in examining myself, that while thus longing for martyrdom as a means of gaining heaven, I was unconsciously looking upon that pain and suffering as more easy to bear than the yoke which Christ has laid upon us. Or to express myself more simply, I mean that I was really thinking I would rather submit to a cruel death than struggle daily and hourly to live as Jesus would have me live. While fancying I was wishing to give the strongest proof of my love to God, I was really shrinking from the service he had appointed me, and trying to find out an easier way for myself.” “I cannot of course tell what you feel,” continued Mr. Severn; “I only give you my own experience to guide you; but I must add further caution—martyrdom is not a certain means of entering heaven.” “Not certain!” exclaimed several of his hearers, and Henry looked particularly astonished. “I admit,” answered Mr. Severn, “that it is difficult to imagine a man willing to die for his religion, who has not a firm and saving faith in his Saviour; but that it may be the case, we have St. Paul’s own testimony,—‘Though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.’” “Many have tried to find out paths that please them better than God’s narrow way. You remember the history of Naaman the Syrian. He went to Elisha to be cured of his leprosy, and willing, as subsequent events proved, to do a great deal to get cured of his fearful and loathsome malady; but when the prophet sent out the message to him to go and dip seven times in the river Jordan, the very simplicity of the means to be employed offended him. If he had been told to undertake some weary pilgrimage, to go through242 some painful sufferings, no doubt he would have submitted cheerfully; but to wash in that river Jordan! his pride rebelled against it. Nay, even if he must be cured by washing, why not let it be the mightier streams of his own land, Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus! Thus he argued; anything rather than what God’s prophet appointed. And we are very much like Naaman. Sin is like leprosy, and when we ask to be cured of it, we are told that there is but one means,—to wash in the fountain that is opened for all sin and for all uncleanness, to rely for cleansing upon the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sin of the world. Human pride revolts against this, and would prefer a salvation which left man to ‘do some great thing’ for himself, and did not merely place him in the purifying stream humbly and confidingly like a little child.” “We must not deceive ourselves but try and forget such fancies for doing some great thing, and endeavor instead to do the every-day duties that are before us. So many more are called upon to perform such deeds, than to do great things, that I believe they are fully as pleasing in the sight of God, when243 done from a simple desire to his glory. We do his will in striving to perform our daily duties, however trivial and simple, as he would have them done; and in believing that, let them be what they will, it is noble work, because it is what he has given us to do. In the Bible how many instances we have of those who have employed their talents well, receiving more; of men called to greater honors, or more extensive labor, when they were simply employed in attending to their every-day concerns.” “A shepherd guarding his father-in-law’s flock upon Mount Horeb;—a voice comes to him, and he is called to confront a powerful king,—to free, by signs and wonders, an enslaved people from his unwillingly relaxed grasp,—to become the leader and lawgiver of this rescued nation, and to be a favored servant of God.” “Another youth, also employed in keeping sheep; the prophet sent to his father’s house, sees all his brothers, but does not find among them the chosen of the Lord. This youngest is then sent for from his humble occupation, and upon his head is poured the anointing oil, and into his heart the sanctifying grace,244 which gains for him that glorious title, ‘The man after God’s own heart.’ “Another man plowing with twelve yoke of oxen; Israel’s great prophet passes by and casts his mantle upon him, calling him to be his successor; yes, even to receive a double portion of the spirit which rested upon him, and he had stood fearless and alone on the side of God among the multitudes of Baal’s prophets and the prophets of the groves. “Where was Matthew when Jesus called him? At the receipt of custom. Where Peter, James, and John? At their simple craft of fishing. Was not Gideon threshing wheat when called to be a Judge of Israel? But I need not repeat any more examples; those I have quoted are sufficient to point out what I mean.” “I suppose my wish was a very foolish one,” said Henry, “and I have been deceiving myself as you suspected. I have not looked at things in the light you represent them. The view you have would make us more contented with our lot, however humble. It certainly would cause us to feel more interest in our daily duties to think that they are a part of God’s work upon earth.” “It does indeed,” answered Mr. Severn; “and to omit evident duties in order to select those we fancy would be better, is just as strange a way of showing our obedience as if you, when desired by me to prepare a page of Plato, were to bring up to the class a page of Sophocles instead. You might think it more difficult and a greater merit, but it would not be what I had given you to do. The continual sense of our being about God’s work, and of his eye seeing us, gives importance and worth to all we have to do.” Are there not many who like Henry feel that it would be a glorious thing to make some great sacrifice, who, perhaps, might find it very difficult to yield their will in very trivial matters, or to submit to the discipline of parents and teachers, forgetting that “to obey is better than sacrifice or to hearken than the fat of rams?” A MOTHER wrote a story about her daughter in which she represented her as making some unkind and rude remarks to her sister. Julia was a reader of the newspapers, and it did not escape her notice. The incident was a true one, but it was one she did not care to remember, much less did she like to see it in print. “Oh! mother, mother,” she exclaimed, “I do not think you are kind to write such stories about me. I do not like to have you publish it when I say anything wrong.” “How do you know it is you? It is not your name.” Julia then read the story aloud. “It is I. I know it is I, mother. I shall be afraid of you if you write such stories about me, I shall not dare to speak before you.” “Remember, my child, that God requireth the past, and nothing which you say, or do, or think, is lost to him.” Poor Julia was quite grieved that her247 mother should record the unpleasant and unsisterly words which fell from her lips. She did not like to have any memorial of her ill-nature preserved. Perhaps she would never have thought of those words again in this life; but had she ever read this passage of fearful import, the language of Jesus Christ: “But I say unto you that every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment.” Julia thought that the careless words which had passed her lips would be forgotten, but she should have known that every word and act of our lives is to be recorded and brought to our remembrance. I have known children to be very much interested, and to be influenced to make a great effort to do right by an account-book which was kept by their mothers. When such a book is kept at school, and every act is recorded, the pupils are much more likely to make an effort to perform the duties required of them. So it is in Sabbath-schools. I recently heard a Sabbath-school superintendent remark that the school could not be well sustained unless accounts were kept of the attendance, etc., of the pupils. Many years ago a man, brought before a tribunal, was told to relate his story freely without fear, as it should not be used against him. He commenced to do so, but had not proceeded far before he heard the scratching of a pen behind a curtain. In an instant he was on his guard, for by that sound he knew that notwithstanding their promise a record was being taken of what he said. Silently and unseen by us the angel secretaries are taking a faithful record of our words and actions, and even of our thoughts. Do we realize this? and a more solemn question, What is the record they are making? Not long ago I read of a strange list. It was an exact catalogue of the crimes committed by a man who was at last executed in Norfolk Island, with the various punishments he had received for his different offenses. It was written out in small hand by the chaplain, and was nearly three yards long. What a sickening catalogue to be crowded into one brief life. Yet this man was once an innocent child. A mother no doubt bent lovingly over him, a father perhaps looked upon him in pride and joy, and imagination saw him rise to manhood honored and trusted249 by his fellow-men. But the boy chose the path of evil and wrong-doing regardless of the record he was making, and finally committed an act, the penalty of which was death, and he perished miserably upon the scaffold. Dear readers, most of you are young, and your record but just commenced. Oh, be warned in time, and seek to have a list of which you will not be ashamed when scanned by Jehovah, angels, and men. Speak none but kind, loving words, have your thoughts and aspirations pure and noble, crowd into your life all the good deeds you can and thus crowd out evil ones. We should not forget that an account-book is kept by God in which all the events of our lives are recorded, and that even every thought will be brought before us at the day of judgment. In that day God will judge the secrets of men; He will bring to light the hidden things of darkness, and will make manifest the counsels of the heart. There is another book spoken of in the Bible. The book of Life, and it is said that no one can enter heaven whose name is not written in the Lamb’s book of Life. Angels are now weighing moral worth.250 The record will soon close, either by death or the decree, “He that is unjust, let him be unjust still, and he which is filthy, let him be filthy still; and he that is righteous let him be righteous still; and he that is holy let him be holy still.” We have but one short, preparing hour in which to redeem the past and get ready for the future. Our life-record will soon be examined. What shall it be! There are two angels that attend unseen
Each one of us, and in great books record
Our good and evil deeds. He who writes down
The good ones, after every action, closes
His volume and ascends with it to God;
The other keeps his dreadful day-book open
Till sunset, that we may repent; which doing,
The record of the action fades away,
And leaves a line of white across the page.
The beautiful precept, “Do unto others as you would that they should do unto you,” is drawn from our Lord’s sermon on the mount, and should be observed by all professing Christians. But unless we are truly his children, we can never observe this great command as we ought. History records the fact that the Roman emperor Severus was so much struck with the moral beauty and purity of this sentiment, that he ordered the “Golden Rule,” to be inscribed upon the public buildings erected by him. Many facts may be stated, by which untutored heathen and savage tribes in their conduct have put to shame many of those calling themselves Christians, who have indeed the form of godliness, but by their words and actions deny the power of it. One such fact we here relate. Many years ago, on the outskirts of one of our distant new settlements, was a small but neat and pretty cottage or homestead, which belonged to an industrious young farmer. He252 had, when quite a lad, left his native England, and sought a home and fortune among his American brethren. It was a sweet and quiet place; the cottage was built upon a gently rising ground, which sloped toward a sparkling rivulet, that turned a large saw-mill situated a little lower down the stream. The garden was well stocked with fruit-trees and vegetables, among which the magnificent pumpkins were already conspicuous, though as yet they were wanting in the golden hue which adorns them in autumn. On the hill-side was an orchard, facing the south, filled with peach and cherry-trees, the latter now richly laden with their crimson fruit. In that direction also extended the larger portion of the farm, now in a high state of cultivation, bearing heavy crops of grass, and Indian corn just coming into ear. On the north and east, the cottage was sheltered by extensive pine woods, beyond which were fine hunting-grounds, where the settlers, when their harvests were housed, frequently resorted in large numbers to lay in a stock of dried venison for winter use. At that time the understanding between the whites and Indians, was not good; and253 they were then far more numerous than they are at the present time, and more feared. It was not often, however, that they came into the neighborhood of the cottage which has been described, though on one or two occasions a few Minateree Indians had been seen on the outskirts of the pine forests, but had committed no outrages, as that tribe was friendly with the white men. It was a lovely evening in June. The sun had set, though the heavens still glowed with those exquisite and radiant tints which the writer, when a child, used to imagine were vouchsafed to mortals to show them something while yet on earth, of the glories of the New Jerusalem. The moon shed her silvery light all around, distinctly revealing every feature of the beautiful scene which has been described, and showed the tall, muscular figure of William Sullivan, who was seated upon the door steps, busily employed in preparing his scythes for the coming hay season. He was a good-looking young fellow, with a sunburnt open countenance; but though kind-hearted in the main, he was filled with prejudices, acquired when in England, against Americans in general, and the North American254 Indians in particular. As a boy he had been carefully instructed by his mother, and had received more education than was common in those days; but of the sweet precepts of the gospel he was as practically ignorant as if he had never heard them, and in all respects was so thoroughly an Englishman, that he looked with contempt on all who could not boast of belonging to his own favored country. The Indians he especially despised and detested as heathenish creatures, forgetful of the fact that he who has been blessed with opportunities and privileges, and yet has abused them, is in as bad a case, and more guilty in the sight of God, than these ignorant children of the wilds. So intent was he upon his work, that he heeded not the approach of a tall Indian, accoutred for a hunting excursion, until the words:— “Will you give an unfortunate hunter some supper, and a lodging for the night?” in a tone of supplication, met his ear. The young farmer raised his head; a look of contempt curling the corners of his mouth, and an angry gleam darting from his eyes, as he replied in a tone as uncourteous as his words:— “Heathen Indian dog, you shall have nothing here; begone!” The Indian turned away; then again facing young Sullivan, he said in a pleading voice:— “But I am very hungry, for it is very long since I have eaten; give only a crust of bread and a bone to strengthen me for the remainder of my journey.” “Get you gone, heathen hound,” said the farmer; “I have nothing for you.” A struggle seemed to rend the breast of the Indian hunter, as though pride and want were contending for the mastery; but the latter prevailed, and in a faint, voice he said:— “Give me but a cup of cold water, for I am very faint.” This appeal was no more successful than the others. With abuse, he was told to drink of the river which flowed some distance off. This was all that he could obtain from one who called himself a Christian, but who allowed prejudice and obstinacy to steel his heart—which to one of his own nation would have opened at once—to the sufferings of his red-skinned brother. With a proud yet mournful air the Indian256 turned away, and slowly proceeded in the direction of the little river. The weak steps of the native showed plainly that his need was urgent; indeed he must have been reduced to the last extremity, ere the haughty Indian would have asked again and again for that which had been once refused. Happily his supplicating appeal was heard by the farmer’s wife. Rare indeed is it that the heart of woman is steeled to the cry of suffering humanity; even in the savage wilds of central Africa, the enterprising and unfortunate Mungo Park was over and over again rescued from almost certain death by the kind and generous care of those females whose husbands and brothers thirsted for his blood. The farmer’s wife, Mary Sullivan, heard the whole as she sat hushing her infant to rest; and from the open casement she watched the poor Indian until she saw his form sink, apparently exhausted, to the ground, at no great distance from her dwelling. Perceiving that her husband had finished his work, and was slowly bending his steps toward the stables with downcast eyes—for it must be confessed he did not feel very comfortable—she left the house, and was soon at the Indian’s side, with257 a pitcher of milk in her hand, and a napkin, in which was a plentiful meal of bread and roasted kid, with a little parched corn as well. “Will my red brother drink some milk?” said Mary, bending over the fallen Indian; and as he arose to comply with her invitation, she untied the napkin and bade him eat and be refreshed. When he had finished, the Indian knelt at her feet, his eyes beamed with gratitude, then in his soft tone he said: “Carcoochee protect the white dove from the pounces of the eagle; for her sake the unfledged young shall be safe in its nest, and her red brother will not seek to be revenged.” Drawing a bunch of heron’s feathers from his bosom, he selected the longest, and giving it to Mary Sullivan, said:—“When the white dove’s mate flies over the Indian’s hunting-grounds, bid him wear this on his head.” He then turned away, and gliding into the woods, was soon lost to view. The summer passed away; harvest had come and gone; the wheat and maize, or Indian corn, was safely stored in the yard; the golden pumpkins were gathered into their winter quarters, and the forests glowed with the rich258 and varied tints of autumn. Preparations now began to be made for a hunting excursion, and William Sullivan was included in the number who were going to try their fortune on the hunting-grounds beyond the river and the pine forests. He was bold, active, and expert in the use of his rifle and woodman’s hatchet, and hitherto had always hailed the approach of this season with peculiar enjoyment, and no fears respecting the not unusual attacks of the Indians, who frequently waylaid such parties in other and not very distant places, had troubled him. But now, as the time of their departure drew near, strange misgivings relative to his safety filled his mind, and his imagination was haunted by the form of the Indian whom in the preceding summer he had so harshly treated. On the eve of the day on which they were to start, he made known his anxiety to his gentle wife, confessing at the same time that his conscience had never ceased to reproach him for his unkind behavior. He added, that since then all that he had learned in his youth from his mother upon our duty to our neighbors had been continually in his mind; thus increasing the burden of his self-denial.259 Reproach, by reminding him that his conduct was displeasing in the sight of God, as well as cruel toward a suffering brother. Mary Sullivan heard her husband in silence. When he had done, she laid her hand in his, looking up into his face with a smile, which was yet not quite free from anxiety, and then she told him what she had done when the Indian fell down exhausted upon the ground, confessing at the same time that she had kept this to herself, fearing his displeasure, after hearing him refuse any aid. Going to a closet, she took out the beautiful heron’s feather, repeating at the same time the parting words of the Indian, and arguing from them that her husband might go without fear. “Nay,” said Sullivan, “these Indians never forgive an injury.” “Neither do they ever forget a kindness,” added Mary. “I will sew this feather in your hunting cap, and then trust you, my own dear husband to God’s keeping; but though I know he could take care of you without it, yet I remember my dear father used to say that we were never to neglect the use of all lawful means for our safety. His maxim was, ‘Trust like a child, but like a man;’ for we260 must help ourselves if we hope to succeed, and not expect miracles to be wrought on our behalf, while we quietly fold our arms and do nothing.” “Dear William,” she added, after a pause, “now that my father is dead and gone, I think much more of what he used to say than when he was with me; and I fear that we are altogether wrong in the way we are going on, and I feel that if we were treated as we deserve, God would forget us, and leave us to ourselves, because we have so forgotten him.” The tears were in Mary’s eyes as she spoke; she was the only daughter of a pious English sailor, and in early girlhood had given promise of becoming all that a religious parent could desire. But her piety was then more of the head than of the heart; it could not withstand the trial of the love professed for her by Sullivan, who was anything but a serious character, and like “the morning cloud and the early dew,” her profession of religion vanished away, and as his wife she lost her relish for that in which she once had taken such delight. She was very happy in appearance, yet there was a sting in all her pleasures, and that was the craving of a spirit261 disquieted and restless from the secret though ever present conviction that she had sinned in departing from the living God. By degrees these impressions deepened; the Spirit of grace was at work within, and day after day was bringing to her memory the truths she had heard in childhood and was leading her back from her wanderings by a way which she knew not. A long conversation followed; and that night saw the young couple kneeling for the first time in prayer at domestic worship. The morning that witnessed the departure of the hunters was one of surpassing beauty. No cloud was to be seen upon the brow of William Sullivan. The bright beams of the early sun seemed to have dissipated the fears which had haunted him on the previous evening, and it required an earnest entreaty on the part of his wife to prevent his removing the feather from his cap. She held his hand while she whispered in his ear, and a slight quiver agitated his lips as he said, “Well, Mary dear, if you really think this feather will protect me from the red-skins, for your sake I will let it remain.” William then put on his cap, shouldered his rifle, and the262 hunters were soon on their way seeking for game. The day wore away as is usual with people on such excursions. Many animals were killed, and at night the hunters took shelter in the cave of a bear, which one of the party was fortunate enough to shoot, as he came at sunset toward the bank of the river. His flesh furnished them with some excellent steaks for supper, and his skin spread upon a bed of leaves pillowed their heads through a long November night. With the first dawn of morning, the hunters left their rude shelter and resumed the chase. William, in consequence of following a fawn too ardently, separated from his companions, and in trying to rejoin them became bewildered. Hour after hour he sought in vain for some mark by which he might thread the intricacy of the forest, the trees of which were so thick that it was but seldom that he could catch a glimpse of the sun; and not being much accustomed to the woodman’s life, he could not find his way as one of them would have done, by noticing which side of the trees was most covered with moss or lichen. Several times he started in alarm,263 for he fancied that he could see the glancing eye-balls of some lurking Indian, and he often raised his gun to his shoulder, prepared to sell his life as dearly as he could. Toward sunset the trees lessened and grew thinner, and by and by he found himself upon the outskirts of an immense prairie, covered with long grass, and here and there with patches of low trees and brush-wood. A river ran through this extensive tract, and toward it Sullivan directed his lagging footsteps. He was both faint and weary, not having eaten anything since the morning. On the bank of the river there were many bushes, therefore Sullivan approached with caution, having placed his rifle on half-cock, to be in readiness against any danger that might present itself. He was yet some yards from its brink, when a rustling in the underwood made him pause, and the next instant out rushed an enormous buffalo. These animals usually roam through the prairies in immense herds, sometimes amounting to many thousands in number; but occasionally they are met with singly, having been separated from the main body either by some accident, or by the Indians, who show the most wonderful264 dexterity in hunting these formidable creatures. The buffalo paused for a moment, and then lowering his enormous head, rushed forward toward the intruder. Sullivan took aim; but the beast was too near to enable him to do so with that calmness and certainty which would have insured success, and though slightly wounded, it still came on with increased fury. Sullivan was a very powerful man, and though weakened by his long fast and fatiguing march, despair gave him courage and nerved his arm with strength, and with great presence of mind he seized the animal as it struck him on the side with its horn, drawing out his knife with his left hand, in the faint hope of being able to strike it into his adversary’s throat. But the struggle was too unequal to be successful, and the buffalo had shaken him off, and thrown him to the ground, previously to trampling him to death, when he heard the sharp crack of a rifle behind him, and in another instant the animal sprang into the air, then fell heavily close by, and indeed partly upon the prostrate Sullivan. A dark form in the Indian garb glided by a moment after, and plunged his hunting-knife deep into the neck of the buffalo,265 though the shot was too true not to have taken instant effect, having penetrated to the brain; but the great arteries of the neck are cut, and the animal thus bled, to render the flesh more suitable for keeping a greater length of time. The Indian then turned to Sullivan, who had now drawn himself from under the buffalo, and who, with mingled feelings of hope and fear, caused by his ignorance whether the tribe to which the Indian belonged was friendly or not, begged of him to direct him to the nearest white settlement. “If the weary hunter will rest till morning, the eagle will show him the way to the nest of his white dove,” was the reply of the Indian, in that figurative style so general among his people; and then taking him by the hand he led him through the rapidly increasing darkness, until they reached a small encampment lying near the river, and under the cover of some trees which grew upon its banks. Here the Indian gave Sullivan a plentiful supply of hominy, or bruised Indian corn boiled to a paste, and some venison; then spreading some skins of animals slain in the chase, for his bed, he signed to266 him to occupy it, and left him to his repose. The light of dawn had not yet appeared in the east when the Indian awoke Sullivan; and after a slight repast, they both started for the settlement of the whites. The Indian kept in advance of his companion, and threaded his way through the still darkened forest with a precision and a rapidity which showed him to be well acquainted with its paths and secret recesses. As he took the most direct way, without fear of losing his course, being guided by signs unknown to any save some of the oldest and most experienced hunters, they traversed the forest far more quickly than Sullivan had done, and before the golden sun had sunk behind the summits of the far-off mountains, Sullivan once more stood within view of his beloved home. There it lay in calm repose, and at a sight so dear he could not restrain a cry of joy; then turning toward the Indian, he poured forth his heartfelt thanks for the service he had rendered him. The warrior, who, till then, had not allowed his face to be seen by Sullivan, except in the imperfect light of his wigwam, now fronted him, allowing the sun’s rays to fall267 upon his person, and revealed to the astonished young man the features of the very same Indian whom, five months before, he had so cruelly repulsed. An expression of dignified yet mild rebuke was exhibited in his face as he gazed upon the abashed Sullivan; but his voice was gentle and low as he said: “Five moons ago, when I was faint and weary, you called me ‘Indian dog,’ and drove me from your door. I might last night have been revenged; but the white dove fed me, and for her sake I spared her mate. Carcoochee bids you to go home, and when hereafter you see a red man in need of kindness, do to him as you have been done by. Farewell.” He waved his hand, and turned to depart, but Sullivan sprang before him, and so earnestly entreated him to go with him, as a proof that he had indeed forgiven his brutal treatment, that he at last consented, and the humbled farmer led him to his cottage. There his gentle wife’s surprise at seeing him so soon was only equaled by her thankfulness at his wonderful escape from the dangers which had surrounded him, and by her gratitude to the noble savage who had thus repaid268 her act of kindness, forgetful of the provocation he had received from her husband. Carcoochee was treated not only as an honored guest, but as a brother; and such in time he became to them both. Many were the visits he paid to the cottage of the once prejudiced and churlish Sullivan, now no longer so, for the practical lesson of kindness he had learned from the untutored Indian was not lost upon him. It was made the means of bringing him to a knowledge of his own sinfulness in the sight of God, and his deficiencies in duty toward his fellow men. He was led by the Holy Spirit to feel his need of Christ’s atoning blood; and ere many months passed, Mary Sullivan and her husband both gave satisfactory evidence that they had indeed “passed from death unto life.” Carcoochee’s kindness was repaid to him indeed a hundred fold. A long time elapsed before any vital change of heart was visible in him; but at length it pleased the Lord to bless the unwearied teaching of his white friends to his spiritual good, and to give an answer to the prayer of faith. The Indian was the first native convert baptized by the269 American missionary, who came about two years after to a station some few miles distant from Sullivan’s cottage. After a lengthened course of instruction and trial the warrior, who once had wielded the tomahawk in mortal strife against both whites and red-skins, went forth, armed with a far different weapon, “even the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God,” to make known to his heathen countrymen “the glad tidings of great joy,” that “Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.” He told them that “whosoever believeth on him should not perish, but have everlasting life,” whether they be Jews or Gentiles, bond or free, white or red, for “we are all one in Christ.” Many years he thus labored, until, worn out with toil and age, he returned to his white friend’s home, where in a few months he fell asleep in Jesus, giving to his friends the certain hope of a joyful meeting hereafter at the resurrection of the just. Many years have passed since then. There is no trace now of the cottage of the Sullivans, who both rest in the same forest churchyard, where lies the bones of Carcoochee; but their descendants still dwell in the same township.270 Often does the gray-haired grandsire tell this little history to his rosy grandchildren, while seated under the stately magnolia which shades the graves of the quiet sleepers of whom he speaks. And the lesson which he teaches to his youthful hearers, is one which all would do well to bear in mind, and act upon, namely, “Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.”