O LOVING and forgiving,
Ye angel-words of earth,
Years were not worth the living
If ye too had not birth!
O loving and forbearing,
How sweet your missions here;
The grief that ye are sharing
Hath blessings in its tears.
O stern and unforgiving,
Ye evil words of life,
That mock the means of living,
With never ending strife.
O harsh and unpretending,
How would ye meet the grave,
If Heaven as unrelenting,
Forbore not, nor forgave!
THE LITTLE WEAVER.
At a great sacrifice, a little maiden was once rescued from cruel bondage by a noble and powerful king. Many others had been ransomed in like manner, and the monarch extended to them all an invitation to unite in a grand jubilee to celebrate their liberation.
These captives wrought at the loom, and the king bade each weave a beautiful robe to wear at the great feast. If the work was faithfully performed, he promised to receive them into his own palace, as members of the royal family.
Filled with love and gratitude to her deliverer, the little maiden eagerly began her task. Day after day, the shuttle flew swiftly to and fro, weaving, in a pure white groundwork, beautiful figures of bright blue and shining gold.
As time passed on, she grew weary; the syren’s song fell sweetly on her ear, and soon she left her toil to join the giddy throng worshiping at pleasure’s shrine. But she found272their fair exterior covering oft an aching heart; sharp, cruel thorns were hidden ’neath the roses wreathed around her brow, and the silver-hued illusions vanished from her grasp. Then she remembered him who had redeemed her at so great a price and turned back to her task again. Alas! an enemy had been at work. There were dark stains on the white groundwork, and the golden threads were tarnished. With bitter tears of penitence she confessed her wanderings and hastened to the fountain where the soiled fabric might be made pure once more. No longer could the gayety around attract her notice, for beyond the distant hills her fancy saw the sunlight gleaming on the palace-walls, and with new courage she plied the shuttle.
Sometimes her cunning foe would steal the golden thread and substitute a false tinsel, but it was detected by the test—the precious guide-book which the king had given—and she carefully removed it, for a single thread would mar the garment and bar her forever from her promised home.
In every time of need the king provided help, and still she persevered. Others who had dropped their shuttles, now resumed273them, once more sought the golden thread, and washed their defiled garments in the all-cleansing fountain. A few of the gay revelers, attracted by her glad songs and cheering words of the bright land afar, turned from their folly and joined her in the service of the master.
At last the work was done. The king, with all his retinue, came to receive his faithful servants. With joy, and yet in fear, the maiden went to meet him. Deeply she felt her own unworthiness, and timidly advancing fell at his feet as he received the fabric she had wrought. He gazed with loving tenderness on the bowed form before him, and gently bade her rise again; “Thou hast done well the work which I commanded, and behold, I have received thee;” then he passed his hand over the garment, and the tears that had fallen here and there became pure, shining pearls. Throwing over it a transparent, silvery covering of dazzling brightness, he cast the robe around her, placed in her hand a harp, and on her brow a glittering crown, where, for every one whom she had led to serve the king, a star shone now.
Oh! pen may not describe, or artist picture,274
the beauty of that land which was to be the home of the redeemed; and as they reached its shining portals, the king himself threw back the palace gates and bade them enter in, amid the glories there, to dwell forevermore.
Dear reader, this is no fancy sketch. We are all working at the loom. Let us weave, for our robe of character, the spotless white of purity, the clear, bright blue of truth, and the golden thread of love to God and man. Let us beware of the tinsel of selfishness, for it can never enter the holy City. Let us set a guard over ourselves lest in a thoughtless hour we weave in threads soiled and spotted with envy, deceit and kindred evils; for only a character formed by a life of faithful obedience to God and cleansed by the atoning blood of Christ, can receive that glorious covering—His righteousness.
THE LOOM OF LIFE.
All day, all night, I can hear the jar,
Of the loom of life, and near and far
It thrills with its deep and muffled sound,
As the tireless wheels go always around.
Busily, ceaselessly goes the loom,
The wheels are turning early and late,
And the woof is wound in the warp of fate.
Click, clack! there’s a thread of love woven in!
Click, clack! and another of wrong and sin;
What a checkered thing will this life be,
When we see it unrolled in eternity!
Time, with a face like a mystery,
And hands as busy as hands can be,
Sits at the loom with its warp outspread,
To catch in its meshes each glancing thread.
When shall this wonderful web be done?
In a thousand years? Perhaps in one;
Or to-morrow. Who knoweth! Not you nor I,
But the wheels turn on, and the shuttles fly.
Ah, sad-eyed weaver, the years are slow,
But each one is nearer the end, I know.
And some day the last thread shall be woven in,
God grant it be love instead of sin.
Are we spinners of woof for this life-web—say?
Do we furnish the weaver a thread each day?
It were better then, oh my friend, to spin
A beautiful thread, than a thread of sin.
THE USE OF LEARNING.
“I AM tired of going to school,” said Herbert Allen to William Wheeler, the boy who sat next to him. “I don’t see any great use, for my part, in studying geometry, and navigation, and surveying, and mensuration, and the dozen other things that I am expected to learn. They will never do me any good. I am not going to get my living as a surveyor, or measurer, or sea captain.”
“How are you going to get your living, Herbert?” his young friend asked, in a quiet tone, as he looked up into his face.
“Why, I am going to learn a trade; or, at least, my father says that I am.”
“And so am I,” replied William; “and yet my father wishes me to learn everything that I can; for he says that it will all be useful some time or other in my life.”
“I’m sure I can’t see what use I am ever going to make, as a saddler, of algebra or surveying.”
“Still, if we can’t see it, Herbert, perhaps our fathers can, for they are older and wiser277than we are. And we should endeavor to learn, simply because they wish us to, even if, in everything that we are expected to study, we do not see clearly the use.”
“I can’t feel so,” Herbert replied, tossing his head, “and I don’t believe that my father sees any more clearly than I do the use of all this.”
“You are wrong to talk so,” his friend said, in a serious tone. “I would not think as you do for the world. My father knows what is best for me, and so does your father know what is best for you; and if we do not confide in them, we will surely go wrong.”
“I am not afraid,” responded Herbert, closing the book over which he had been poring reluctantly for half an hour, in the vain effort to fix a lesson on his unwilling memory; and, taking some marbles from his pocket, he began to amuse himself with them, at the same time that he concealed them from the teacher’s observation. William said no more, but turned to his lesson with an earnest attention. The difference in the character of the two boys is too plainly indicated in the brief conversation we have recorded, to need further illustration. To their teacher278it was evident in numerous particulars—in their conduct, their habits, and manners. William always recited his lessons correctly, while Herbert never learned a task well. One was always punctual at school, the other a loiterer by the way. William’s books were well taken care of, Herbert’s were soiled, torn, disfigured and broken.
Thus they began life. The one obedient, industrious, attentive to the precepts of those who were older and wiser, and willing to be guided by them; the other indolent, and inclined to follow the leadings of his own will. As men, at the age of thirty-five, we will again present them to the reader. Mr. Wheeler is an intelligent merchant, in an active business, while Mr. Allen is a journeyman mechanic, poor, in embarrassed circumstances, and possessing but a small share of general information.
“How do you do, Mr. Allen?” said the merchant to the mechanic, about this time, as the latter entered the counting-room of the former. The contrast in their appearance was very great. The merchant was well dressed, and had a cheerful look; while the other was poorly clad, and seemed troubled and dejected.
“I cannot say that I do very well, Mr. Wheeler,” the mechanic replied, in a tone of despondency. “Work is very dull, and wages low; and, with so large a family as I have, it is tough enough getting along under the best circumstances.”
“I am really sorry to hear you say so, Mr. Allen,” replied the merchant, in a kind tone. “How much can you earn now?”
“If I had steady work, I could make nine or ten dollars a week. But our business is very bad. The substitution of steam engines on railroads for horses on turnpikes has broken in seriously upon the harness-making business. The consequence is, that I do not average six dollars a week, the year round.”
“Is it possible that railroads have wrought such a change in your business.”
“Yes; in the harness making branch of it, especially in large cities like this, where the heavy wagon trade is almost entirely broken up.”
“Did you say that six dollars a week was all that you could average?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How large is your family?”
“I have five children, sir.”
“Five children! And only six dollars a week!”
“That is all sir; but six dollars a week will not support them, and I am, in consequence, going behindhand.”
“You ought to try to get into some other business.”
“But I don’t know any other.”
The merchant mused awhile, and then said: “Perhaps I can aid you in getting into something better. I am president of a newly-projected railroad, and we are about putting on the line a company of engineers, for the purpose of surveying and locating the route. You studied surveying and engineering at the same time I did, and I suppose have still a correct knowledge of both; if so, I will use my influence to have you appointed surveyor. The engineer is already chosen, and at my desire he will give you all requisition, until you revive your early knowledge of these matters. The salary is one hundred dollars a month.”
A shadow, still darker than that which had before rested there, fell upon the face of the mechanic. “Alas! sir,” he said, “I have not the slightest knowledge of surveying.281It is true I studied it, or rather pretended to study it, at school; but it made no permanent impression on my mind. I saw no use in it then, and am now as ignorant of surveying as if I had never taken a lesson on the subject.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Allen,” the merchant replied in real concern. “If you were a good accountant, I might, perhaps, get you into a store. What is your capacity in this respect?”
“I ought to have been a good accountant, for I studied mathematics long enough; but I took little interest in figures, and now, although I was for many months, while at school, pretending to study book-keeping, I am utterly incapable of taking charge of a set of books.”
“Such being the case, Mr. Allen, I really do not know what I can do for you. But stay; I am about sending an assorted cargo to Buenos Ayres, and thence to Callao, and want a man to go as supercargo, who can speak the Spanish language. The captain will direct the sales. I remember that we studied Spanish together. Would you be willing to leave your family and go? The282wages will be one hundred dollars a month.”
“I have forgotten all my Spanish, sir. I did not see the use of it while at school, and therefore it made no impression upon my mind.”
The merchant, really concerned for the poor mechanic, again thought of some way to serve him. At length he said: “I can think of but one thing that you can do, Mr. Allen, and that will not be much better than your present employment. It is a service for which ordinary laborers are employed, that of chain carrying to the surveyor to the proposed railroad expedition.”
“What are the wages, sir?”
“Thirty-five dollars a month.”
“And found?”
“Certainly.”
“I will accept it, sir, thankfully,” the man said. “It will be much better than my present employment.”
“Then make yourself ready at once, for the company will start in a week.”
“I will be ready, sir,” the poor man replied, and then withdrew.
In a week the company of engineers started, and Mr. Allen with them as a chain283carrier, when, had he, as a boy, taken the advice of his parents and friends, and stored up in his memory what they wished him to learn, he might have filled the surveyor’s office at more than double the wages paid to him as chain carrier. Indeed, we cannot tell how high a position of usefulness and profit he might have held, had he improved all the opportunities afforded him in youth. But he perceived the use and value of learning too late.
The writer earnestly hopes that none of his young readers will make the same discovery that Mr. Allen did, when it is too late to reap any real benefit. Children and youth cannot possibly know as well as their parents, guardians, and teachers, what is best for them. They should, therefore, be obedient and willing to learn, even if they cannot see of what use learning will be to them.
THE GARDEN OF PEACE.
In an ancient city of the east, two youths were passing a beautiful garden. It was closed by a lofty trellis, which prevented their entering; but, through the openings they could perceive that it was a most enchanting spot. It was embellished by every object of nature and art that could give beauty to the landscape. There were groves of lofty trees, with winding avenues between them; there were green lawns, the grass of which seemed like velvet; there were groups of shrubs, many of them in bloom, and scattering delicious fragrance upon the atmosphere.
Between these pleasing objects, there were fountains sending their silvery showers into the air; and a stream of water, clear as crystal, wound with gentle murmurs through the place. The charms of this lovely scene were greatly heightened by the delicious music of birds, the hum of bees, and the echoes of many youthful and happy voices.
The two young men gazed upon the scene with intense interest; but, as they could only285see a portion of it through the trellis, they looked about for some gate by which they might enter the garden. At a little distance they perceived a gateway, and they went to the spot, supposing they should find an entrance there. There was, indeed, a gate; but it was locked, and they found it impossible to gain admittance.
While they were considering what course they should adopt, they perceived an inscription over the gate, which ran as follows:—
“Ne’er till to-morrow’s light delay
What may as well be done to day;
Ne’er do the thing you’d wish undone,
Viewed by to-morrow’s rising sun.
Observe these rules a single year,
And you may safely enter here.”
The two youths were very much struck by these lines; and, before they parted, both agreed to make the experiment by trying to live according to the inscription.
I need not tell the details of their progress in the trial; both found the task much more difficult than they at first imagined. To their surprise, they found that an observance of the rule they had adopted required an almost total change of their modes of life; and this taught them what they had not felt before, that a very large part of their lives—286a very large share of their thoughts, feelings, and actions—were wrong, though they were considered virtuous young men by the society in which they lived.
After a few weeks, the younger of the two, finding that the scheme put too many restraints upon his tastes, abandoned the trial. The other persevered, and, at the end of the year, presented himself at the gateway of the garden.
To his great joy he was freely admitted; and if the place pleased him when seen dimly through the trellis, it appeared far more lovely, now that he could actually tread its pathways, breathe its balmy air, and mingle intimately with the scenes around.
This garden fitly represents the happy home promised to those who conquer selfishness, those who conquer their passions, and do their duty. The tall gateway is the barrier interposed by human vices and human passions, which separates mankind from that peace, of which we are all capable. Whoever can conquer himself, and has resolved firmly that he will do it, has found the key to that gate, that he may freely enter here. If he cannot do that, he must continue to be an outcast from the Garden of Peace.
DICK HARRIS: OR, THE BOY-MAN.
DICK HARRIS was called a clever boy. No one believed this more firmly than himself. He was only fourteen years of age, and yet he dearly loved to be thought a man. As he was about to leave school, his friends often asked him what he intended to be. Dick could not tell; only, that it must be something great. Now while Dick had learned some good things in school, he had also learned many evil habits—among them the practice of smoking. Dick’s father smoked. He saw men smoking in the streets and so Dick thought it would be manly to smoke. Along with some of his school-mates, he used to hide himself and take his turn of the one pipe or cigar which they had among them; as they were afraid of being found out, they hid the pipe when any one came near. His father, who although he smoked himself, forbade Dick doing so, asked him one day why his clothes smelled so of tobacco-smoke.
“Some of my school-mates smoke, father.”
“But do you smoke!”
“No.”
“Take care you don’t then; it’s all very well for men, but I won’t have any of my children smoking.”
Dick went away, as the Bible says, “with a lie in his right hand.”
And yet he wanted to be a man. Now look at that, my lads. What is it that makes a man—I mean a true man? There are many things. The Bible says that the glory of young men is their strength—strength of body, and strength of mind. Would Dick, get this kind of glory by smoking? He certainly would not strengthen his body, for it has been proved again and again that boys who smoke weaken their bodies. Tobacco is a poison—slower perhaps than strong drink, but quite as sure; and although it may not kill you outright, because the quantity taken is not large enough, yet it pollutes the blood, injures the brain and stomach, and paralyzes many of the healthy functions of the body. The result is stunted growth and general weakness. A boy who smokes much never can have the glory of bodily strength. Dick found this out for himself, to his bitter experience, And besides this, did his conduct show strength of mind? He began the practice of smoking, not because289he believed it to be right, but because men smoked. He was only a boy, yet he wished to appear a man—that is, to appear what he was not. What could be more weak than for a boy to have no reason for doing a thing than this—Men do it and I must do it? But it led to something worse. He was smoking on the sly, and to conceal it he became a liar. He lied in the school by his conduct, he lied at home by his words. We could have respected him, although we pitied him, had he smoked openly and taken the consequences; but who can respect a coward? He is not worthy of the name of a man. Dick continued to smoke after he left school, and was apprenticed in a large warehouse. Here again the old desire to be like men influenced him. They had cigars, he must have one; they smoked he must do so. This conduct had its invariable effects. He became the associate of “fast” young men—got into debt—learned to drink—stayed out late at night—and before his apprenticeship had ended was ruined in health; and, but for the indulgence of his employers would have been discharged in disgrace. Was that acting the part of a man?
This happened many years ago. Last290week, amidst a crowd who surrounded a polling booth, there stood a man about forty years of age—he looked twenty years older. On his head was a battered hat; he wore a seedy black coat; both his hands were in his pockets, and in his mouth the stump of a cigar which had been half-smoked by another man; his face was bloated, his eyes bleared and languid. Even a vulgar crowd looked at him with contempt. I looked into his face thinking there was in it a resemblance to one I had known. Slowly and painfully came the sad truth, that the drunken creature was Dick Harris; he had become a man, but he was a lost man. It has often been said, What a great fire a small spark kindles. The spark which kindled a blaze among Dick’s evil passions was the spark which lit the tobacco-pipe at school. Bad habits are easily acquired, but they are hard to get rid of. See what smoking had done for Dick. It led him to drink, and the two habits have left him a wreck.
But you say to me, There are many thousands who smoke, and yet are strong men. It is so. But in almost all cases these strong smokers did not begin the habit while they291were boys; if they had done so, the likelihood is they would never have become strong men. Besides, how much stronger might they have been if they had never smoked. Many also who smoke and appear strong have their constitution undermined, and when an unusual strain comes upon it there is a collapse.
But again you say, All who smoke do not learn to drink, and so lose true manhood. That may be, and yet there is a significant fact that scarcely such a one can be found as a confirmed drunkard who does not smoke. It has recently been shown that the great majority of those who break their temperance pledge are smokers. Smoking and drinking are branches of the same deadly tree, whose leaves curse the nation.
And now my lads, “Quit you like men, be strong.” The next time any one says to you, “Have a cigar,” say “No.”
And if he says it is manly to smoke, say “No; it is manly to be self-restrained, to act from principle, to have cleanly habits, to be unselfish, to pay one’s debts, to be sober, and to have the approval of one’s conscience—and I might lose all these elements of manhood if I learned to smoke.”
BERTHA’S GRANDMOTHER.
BERTHA GILBERT was fourteen years of age, and had just come home from boarding-school, where she had finished her first year—a very nice, pleasant school, of about thirty girls, besides the day-scholars; and Mrs. Howard made it, as she promised, a kind of social, united family, giving each one her immediate supervision. Bertha had improved a great deal in her studies and deportment, and was a very lady-like, agreeable girl.
But as no little boys and girls are perfect, or large ones either, for that matter, I am going to tell you what a mistake Bertha made, and how she was cured of a feeling that might have settled into a very disagreeable habit. Indeed, I have met with some grown people who have fallen into the way of treating elderly members of the family with a disregard that bordered on contempt.
Bertha was delighted to be at home once more, to be clasped to her dear mother’s heart, to find her father quite improved in health, and her two little brothers as merry as ever;293and to meet her dear old grandmother, an old lady who was nearly eighty years of age, yet bright and active, with a fair, sweet face, and silvery hair, which was nearly all covered with a fine muslin cap, the border being crimped in the daintiest fashion you ever saw. I used to think she looked just like a picture, of a summer afternoon, when she put on a fresh cap and kerchief—as she used to call the white half square of lawn that she wore round her shoulders—and her clean, checked apron. For all she was such an old lady, she did a great deal of work around the house, and I do not believe George and Willie would have known how to live without her.
The Gilberts were in very moderate circumstances, for Mr. Gilbert had been compelled to leave his business and retire to the country on account of ill health. This little village of Hillside was a very pretty place. A river ran on one side, and on the opposite side ran a railroad that led directly to New York. Consequently, a good many rich and fashionable people lived here, as well as a poorer class.
Bertha had often looked at one handsome house with much admiration. It was occupied294by a Mr. and Mrs. Bell, very wealthy people. The lawn and gardens were very beautiful, and they had an elegant greenhouse and a grapery, indeed, everything heart could wish. Then Mrs. Bell had travelled nearly all over Europe, and had been to China.
Bertha had met with two of Mrs. Bell’s nieces at school; one was a young lady, and the other a little girl not quite as old as herself; but somehow she and Ada Wilson became great friends. The two girls were to visit Mrs. Bell during their vacation, and Ada had promised to spend a day with Bertha—indeed, to come and see her real often.
“For Aunt Bell is such a great lady,” Ada had said, “and there are no children; so I’m afraid I shall be lonesome; and you must return my calls.”
The idea of going to the grand house quite elated Bertha. She told it over to her mother with a great deal of pleasure.
But nothing ever happens just as one wants it. The Gilberts’ parlor had been re-papered, and there was some delay in getting the new carpet down. They would surely be in order by the time the Wilsons arrived, Bertha thought to herself one afternoon, as she295brought her tiny work-basket to the sitting-room and took out a piece of braiding to finish.
There was a long piazza across the front of the house. In the center was the hall-door—the parlor being on one side, the sitting-room on the other. As Bertha’s eyes roved idly out of the window, she saw Mrs. Bell’s beautiful grays coming down the road, and a carriage full of ladies. That made her think of her friend Ada. Why, they were actually stopping; the man handed out two ladies and a little girl, and opened the gate for them.
Indeed, the Wilsons had reached Hillside a week earlier than they had expected. When Ada spoke of her friend, Mrs. Bell proposed that they should call as early as possible, so that Ada and Bertha might see the more of each other.
“O, mother!” Bertha exclaimed, in astonishment, “here they are—Ada and Miss Frances, and their aunt.”
“Go and receive them, my dear,” said her mother; and she rose also.
The introductions took place on the porch. Mrs. Bell was very gracious, and with a certain unassuming sweetness that immediately set at ease every one with whom she met.296She and Mrs. Gilbert exchanged very pleasant greetings. Then they were all led into the sitting-room, and Bertha flushed a little. She seemed to see all its shabbiness at a glance—the worn spot of carpet by her father’s desk, and another in front of the sofa, the old-fashioned furniture, and grandmother sitting there in her corner, knitting a blue yarn stocking.
Old Mrs. Gilbert rose and courtesied to the ladies. Her dress had no fashionable trail, but showed her low prunella shoes and white, home-knit stockings. She was a prim little body, looking as neat as a pin, but very old-fashioned.
Mrs. Bell presently crossed over to her. “It looks quite like old times to see any one knitting,” she said, in her low, pleasant voice. “I think there ought to be a grandmother in every house; they always give a place such a comfortable, home-like look. I remember how my great-grandmother used to knit when I was a little girl.”
“It isn’t of much account,” returned grandmother. “Stockings are so cheap nowadays; but I do think hum-knit wears better for boys. George and Willie do scour out stockings ’mazin’ fast. And then it serves to keep an old woman like me busy.”
Ada Wilson glanced up with a peculiar look, and Bertha flushed. The young ladies at Mrs. Howard’s were taught to pronounce their words correctly, and not allowed to use any careless phrases.
Mrs. Bell continued the conversation, however, and grandmother did her best to be entertaining. But she was old-fashioned, and confused her grammar in various ways. Ada, in the meantime, showed a strong disposition to laugh, and finally begged Bertha to take her out to look at the flowers.
“O dear!” she exclaimed, as they went around the walk at the side of the house; “O dear! Isn’t your grandmother a funny old woman! I couldn’t keep my face sober.” Ada laughed as if she considered it very amusing.
Bertha ought to have understood that this was very ill-bred, and espoused her grandmother’s cause at once; but instead of that she was ashamed of her, and felt like crying. If she could but have taken her guests in the parlor, where they would not have seen grandma.
“Such a funny old woman, with that immense check apron! Bertha, she looks like298some of the little old lady pin-cushions that I’ve seen, and she makes such a queer mouth when she talks. She hasn’t a tooth in her head, has she? and I guess they didn’t teach grammar when she went to school. Why do you let her wear that white cap? all the old ladies that I know wear black lace caps, with ribbons. And I thought I should laugh outright when she made that little dip of a courtesy.”
“But she is real old,” said Bertha, deprecatingly, “and she has lived in the country most of her life.”
“I should think she had come from the backwoods! I wonder she doesn’t make you wear ‘hum-knit’ stockings; or don’t you ‘scour yours out?’ O dear!”
“It is not right to laugh at old persons,” Bertha said, summoning all her courage; yet she was mortified and humiliated in the extreme.
“Oh! I don’t mean anything, you know—only it’s so funny! You ought to see my grandmother. She is nearly eighty, I believe, but she only owns to seventy.”
Bertha was too deeply hurt to make any comment. Then Ada kissed her and coaxed299her into good humor, telling her of the enjoyments aunt Bell had in preparation.
When they returned to the room, Mrs. Bell was preparing to leave, and the carriage stood at the gate.
“We have decided on Thursday, Ada.” Mrs. Bell said to her niece; “and, Miss Bertha, I have coaxed your grandmother to pay me a visit. I think a pleasant old lady, in possession of all her faculties, is rare good company—quite a treat for me. Now, Mrs. Gilbert, I shall send the carriage, and you will be sure not to disappoint me, if you are well.”
“You are very kind, indeed;” and old Mrs. Gilbert gave another little “dip of a courtesy.”
Bertha looked amazed.
She was very quiet after her visitors had gone. Her mother appeared to admire Miss Frances Wilson, and grandma said of Mrs. Bell: “She’s a tender, true-hearted Christian lady.”
“Mother,” said Bertha, the next day, when they were alone; “couldn’t you fix grandma up a little to go to Mrs. Bell’s?”
“Why, she has a nice brown silk dress to wear, and a clean cap and kerchief.”
“But she looks so—so—old-fashioned.”
“My dear, she is an old-fashioned lady. I think she looks a great deal prettier than to be dressed like people thirty or forty years younger than she is.”
“But—”
“O Bertha! you are not ashamed of dear grandmother?” and Mrs. Gilbert looked at her daughter in amazement.
Bertha’s cheeks flushed, and tears came to her eyes.
“My little daughter, I am deeply pained!”
Some way the story came out, and Bertha sobbed away her mortified feeling.
“My dear Bertha!” her mother said, “I am disappointed to see you evince so little true courage and warmth of heart. Ada Wilson has certainly shown herself very ill-bred and heartless in thus criticising so old a person to one of her own relatives. I am not sure but it would be better to decline the invitation altogether.”
“O mother! I do not think Ada meant any real harm. She laughs at the girls, and mimics everybody; but she’s real good and generous, for all that. And grandma does make mistakes.”
“Bertha, when you are tempted to despise your dear old grandmother, I want you to think of her life—a little girl, twelve years old, going to work in a mill, to help her mother take care of her younger brothers and sisters, and then afterward taking the whole charge of the family upon herself. Fifty-three years ago she married a plain farmer, and went West, into what was a wilderness at that time. In her turn, she was left a widow, with a large family, and I shall always honor her for the wisdom she displayed. It would be hard to find four better men than your uncles and papa. Aunt Bessy was poor and had a great deal of trouble, but grandma staid with her to the very last, and now she has come to me. I really don’t know what I should do without her, and her life has been most praiseworthy in every respect. To-day she would give her life for any of us. Suppose she were cross and fretful, and thought, as some old ladies do, that we ought to work every moment, and never take a bit of pleasant recreation! She is a genial, tender-hearted woman, serving God and doing good every day of her life, and I am sure Mrs. Bell honors her.
“Suppose, Bertha, that I began to fret at her old-fashioned ways, the caps she loves to wear, and the manner in which she expresses herself? It would make her nervous and timid, and if she thought we were growing ashamed of her, I really believe her heart would break. Would you be willing to give her such a wound?”
“Oh no,” returned Bertha, sobbing. “Dear grandmother.”
“I think the commandment to honor one’s father and mother takes in one’s grandparents equally. And, most of all, I want to see my little daughter brave enough to respect true worth, even if it is not clad in fashionable garments, and fresh from school.”
Bertha began to think she had been very weak and foolish, and after a nice long talk with her mother, she resolved that Ada should never speak so disrespectfully in her presence again.
And so, when Mrs. Bell’s carriage came, they started on their visit, grandma looking as fresh and sweet as a rose. For all she was wrinkled, her skin was white and clear, and her soft brown eyes were overflowing with love.
Mrs. Bell welcomed them warmly; but she took possession of grandma while the young folks amused themselves. Such a lovely house as it was, and full of curiosities, beautiful pictures, handsome statues, and elegant furniture!
Some unexpected visitors came in the afternoon, and Bertha found her grandmother quite the center of attraction. She overheard one lady say: “What a charming old lady, Mrs. Bell! I feel like envying her relatives!”
As for Ada, she made no further remarks. Her sister had been shocked at her thoughtless levity, and had threatened to inform aunt Bell, of whom she stood in awe; and so Bertha had a very pleasant visit, after all.
She grew up with a sincere respect for old age; and Bertha Gilbert’s pretty manners were often remarked upon. If she met with people less refined than herself, or poorly educated, instead of ridiculing, she tried to think of their hard lives and few advantages, and was most tender and gracious. Let us all try to be kind to the poor and aged, for some of them are God’s choicest jewels.
“WITH A WILL, JOE.”
It was a summer afternoon; the wheelbarrow stood before Mrs. Robins’ door; the street was empty of all traffic, for the heat was intense. I sauntered languidly along on the shady side opposite the widow’s house, and noticed her boy bringing out some linen in baskets to put on the wheelbarrow. I was surprised at the size of the baskets he was lugging along the passage and lifting on to the wheelbarrow, and paused to look at him. He pulled, and dragged, and then resting a moment began again, and in the silence of the street, I heard him saying something to himself. I half crossed the road. He was too busy to notice me, and then, in a pause of his toil, I heard him gasp out, “With a will, Joe.” He was encouraging himself to a further effort with these words. At last, bringing the large basket to the curbstone, he ran in and got a piece of smooth wood as a lever; resting one end of the basket on the wheelbarrow, he heaved up the other end, and305saying a little louder than before, “With a will, Joe,” the basket was mounted on to the wheelbarrow.
As he rested, and looked proudly at his successful effort, he saw me, and his round, red face, covered with perspiration, became scarlet for a moment, as I said, “That’s a brave boy.” The mother’s voice sounded in the passage, “I’m coming, Joe,” and out she came as the child, pointing to the basket, said, “I’ve managed it, mother.” It was a pretty sight, the looks of the widow and her willing boy. Though no further word was spoken, the sense of satisfaction on each face was very plain, and I have no doubt in each heart there was a throb of pleasure that words have no language for.
I went on my way, but the saying, “With a will, Joe,” went with me. How much there was in that simple phrase, “With a will!” How different is our work according as we do it with or against our will. This little fellow might have cried or murmured, or left his mother to do the work, and been dissatisfied with himself, and a source of discontent to his mother, but he had spurred himself on to toil and duty,306with his words, powerful in their simplicity—“With a will, Joe.”
Often since have I recalled the scene and the saying. When some young lady complains to me, “I have no time to give to doing good. I’ve visits to make, and shopping to do, and embroidery to finish, how can I help the poor when I’m so pressed for time?” I am apt to say mentally, “How different it would be with her, if she had ever said to herself, ‘With a will.’”
Yes, with a will we can do almost anything that ought to be done; and without a will we can do nothing as it should be done. To all of us, whatever our station, there come difficulties and trials. If we yield to them we are beaten down and conquered. But if we, ourselves, conquer the temptation to do wrong, calling the strength of God to aid us in our struggle with the enemy, we shall grow stronger and more valiant with every battle, and less liable to again fall into temptation. Our wisdom and our duty are to rouse ourselves,—to speak to our own hearts as the child did in his simple words, “With a will, Joe.” When there is any wrong thing that we want to do, our will then is strong enough.307The Evil One comes with his temptation, and helps us to our ruin, with his strength.
The times when we flag are when we want to do right. “When I would do good, evil is present with me,” was the testimony of the apostle of the Gentiles, and it is the experience of all, unless they go to Him who can make our wills obedient to His will. Our prayer should be, “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit (will) within me.”
DO WITH YOUR MIGHT.
WHATSOE’ER you find to do,
Do it, boys, with all your might!
Never be a little true,
Or a little in the right.
Trifles even
Lead to heaven,
Trifles make the life of man;
So in all things,
Great or small things,
Be as thorough as you can.