Earlier text: LOVING AND FORGIVING.“LET’S play visiting,” said Jennie. “You be uncle John, and I’ll be mother, and I’ll come and make you a visit.” “Pshaw!” said Dick, scornfully; “that’s girls’ play, and it’s silly. Let’s play soldier, that’s ever so much better!” “It isn’t a bit more silly than soldier is, and not half as hard work. I won’t play it, anyway,” and Jennie sat down on the steps very determinedly. “You’re real mean!” cried Dick, impetuously, “and I know you’re lazy, or you wouldn’t say playing soldier was hard work. I’d like to play it all day. Come now, won’t you?” “Oh, Dick, I can’t,” said Jennie, pushing her hair out of her eyes; “it’s so warm, and I’m so tired.” “Tired! pooh! Lazy you mean!” Dick said, with a contemptuous sneer. “I’m not lazy,” protested Jennie; “not a bit more than you are.” “Then come and play,” said Dick.309 “I’ll play visiting,” said Jennie, “but I won’t play soldier.” “You ugly, good-for-nothing girl. I’ll never play with you again! I hate you! there now! And I wish you’d never speak to me again so long as you live!” Dick did not stop to think what he was saying. His anger was so fierce and deep that he could not check it, and it poured itself out in a torrent of bitter words. Did I say he could not check it? Perhaps he might have done so, but he did not try. “I don’t care what you say,” answered Jennie, very coolly. “I won’t play soldier anyway,” she added, with a laugh at Dick’s red face and angry gestures. Dick did not answer back, for he was too mad to speak, and Jennie got up and went into the house, leaving him alone. Shortly after Mrs. Grey called Dick, and sent him to the village on an errand. It was nearly dark before he got back, and his mother informed him that Jennie had gone to bed not feeling very well. So Dick did not see her again that day. The next morning he was told that she was very sick.310 She had been taken ill suddenly, and the doctor had been sent for in the night. He came and pronounced it a very bad case of fever. Poor Dick! The very first thought that entered his mind was—what if Jennie should die? And then the memory of his cruel, wicked words came up before him, and he felt ashamed of himself; and somehow he could not get the thought out of his mind that if she should die he should feel guilty all his life. How much he would have given to unsay those words. But there was no way in which he could get them out of his mind. They haunted him continually. Day by day Jennie grew worse. Dick plead to be allowed to see her for just one moment, but the doctor would not allow it. Strict quiet was ordered, and none but her parents were admitted into the sick room. It seemed to Dick that he could not possibly get along a great while without asking her forgiveness. He could think of nothing but his unkindness. It seemed so strange that he could ever use such words to her, his only sister! At last the doctor said that there was no311 hope for Jennie. She would die in spite of all he could do for her. When Dick heard this, he made up his mind that he must see her again. He did not see how he could stand it if she were to die and not tell him that she forgave him for being so unkind, and saying such bad, cruel things. He remembered how she had complained of feeling tired, and he knew she must have felt the approach of the disease that now had her in its clasp. And he had called her “lazy” when she was sick! How still the room was where Jennie lay. He was not refused when he asked to see her once more. There was no need of his being kept away any longer, for the disease had gone too far to admit of hope, Dr. Thorne said. Dick stood by the bed and looked down into the poor, pale face of his little sister. Great tears welled up into his eyes, and dropped over his cheeks like rain, when he saw the change a week had wrought. “Oh, Jennie, say you forgive me before you die! Please, do, Jennie, for I can’t bear it any longer so,” Dick cried, and knelt down by the bedside with his face close to hers. “I love you, Dick,” she replied in a faint, weak voice, and held up her lips for a kiss. Dick kissed her with such a pang at his heart! How he would miss her when she was gone! Jennie closed her eyes wearily. They thought she was dying, and the doctor lifted Dick up gently from the bed. But it was not death; after a little she opened her eyes again, and then with a sweet, touching smile said she was going to sleep. And she did sleep, not the last, long sleep of death, as they imagined it to be, but slumber quiet and refreshing. When she awoke from it, the doctor said she would recover if nothing happened to prevent it more than he could foresee. Her disease had turned, and Jennie had a chance for her life after all. And she did get well. Dick was her most faithful nurse. The lesson he had learned was never forgotten, and he never afterward let his anger get the control of his better judgment. GUARD well thy lips; none, none can know
What evils from the tongue may flow;
What guilt, what grief, may be incurred,
By one incautious, hasty word.
Be “slow to speak;” look well within,
To check what there may lead to sin;
And pray unceasingly for aid,
Lest unawares thou be betrayed.
“Condemn not, judge not”—not to man
Is given his brother’s faults to scan;
One task is thine, and one alone,
To search out and subdue thine own.
Indulge no murmurings; oh, restrain
Those lips so ready to complain!
Let words of wisdom, meekness, love,
Thy heart’s true renovation prove.
Set God before thee; every word
Thy lips pronounce by Him is heard;
Oh, couldst thou realize this thought,
What care, what caution, would be taught!
Think on thy parting hour; ere long
The approach of death may chain thy tongue,
And powerless all attempts be found,
To articulate one meaning sound.
“The time is short”—this day may be
The very last assigned to thee;
So speak, that shouldst thou ne’er speak more,
Thou mayst not this day’s words deplore.
Do, grandmother, tell us about the little drummer boy whose motto was, ‘Stand by the ship.’” “Grandmother is not used to telling children stories; but, if you will be quiet, she will try.” And this is the story she told us:— During one of the fiercest battles of the late rebellion, the colonel of a Michigan regiment noticed a very small boy, acting as drummer. The great coolness and self-possession of the boy, as displayed during the engagement; his habitual reserve, so singular in one of his years; his orderly conduct, and his fond devotion to his drum—his only companion, except a few well worn books over which he was often seen to pore—in which he took delight; this had attracted notice, both from the officers and the men. Colonel B.’s curiosity was aroused, and he desired to know more of him. So he ordered that the boy should be sent to his tent. The little fellow came, his drum on his315 breast, and the sticks in his hands. He paused before the colonel and made his best military salute. He was a noble looking boy, the sunburnt tint of his face in good keeping with his dark crisp curls; but strangely out of keeping with the rounded cheeks and dimpled chin, was the look of gravity and thoughtfulness, although at variance with his years. He was prematurely taught the self-reliance of a man. A strange thrill went through Colonel B.’s heart as the boy stood before him. “Come forward, I wish to talk to you.” The boy stepped forward, showing no surprise under the novel position he found himself. “I was very much pleased with your conduct yesterday,” said the colonel, “from the fact that you are so young and small for your position.” “Thank you colonel; I only did my duty; I am big enough for that, if I am small,” replied the noble little fellow. “Were you not very much frightened when the battle commenced?” questioned Colonel B. “I might have been, if I had let myself think of it; but I kept my mind on my316 drum. I went in to play for the men; it was that I volunteered for. So I said to myself: ‘Don’t trouble yourself about what don’t concern you, Jack, but do your duty, and stand by the ship.’” “Why that is sailors’ talk,” said the colonel. “It is a very good saying, if it is, sir,” said Jack. “I see you understand the meaning of it. Let that rule guide you through life, and you will gain the respect of all good men.” “Father Jack told me that when he taught me to say, ‘Stand by the ship.’” “No, sir—I never had a father, but he brought me up.” “Strange,” said the colonel, musing, “how much I feel like befriending this child. Tell me your story, Jack.” “I will tell it, sir, as near as I can like Father Jack told it to me. My mother sailed on a merchant ship from France to Baltimore, where my father was living. A great storm arose; the ship was driven on rocks, where she split, and all hands had to take to the boats. They gave themselves up317 for lost; but at last a ship bound for Liverpool took them up. They had lost everything but the clothes they had on; but the captain was very kind to them; he gave them clothes, and some money. My mother refused to remain at Liverpool, though she was quite sick, for she wanted to get to this country so badly; so she took passage in another merchant ship, just going to New York. She was the only woman on board. She grew worse after the ship sailed; the sailors took care of her. Father Jack was a sailor on this ship, and he pitied her very much, and he did all he could for her. But she died and left me, an infant. Nobody knew what to do with me; they all said I would die, all but Father Jack; he asked the doctor to give me to him. The doctor said: “Let him try his hand, if he has a mind to; it’s no use, the little one will be sure to go overboard after its mother.” The doctor was wrong. I was brought safe to New York. He tried to find my father, but did not know how to do it, for no one knew my mother’s name. He left me with a family in New York, when he went to sea again; but he could never find out anything about318 my mother, although he inquired in Liverpool and elsewhere. The last time he went to sea, I was nine years old, and he gave me a present on my birthday, the day before he sailed. It was the last—he never came back again—he died of ship fever. He did a good part by me; he had me put to a free school, at seven years of age, and always payed my board in advance for a year. So you see, sir, I had a fair start to help myself, which I did right off. I went errands for gentlemen, swept out offices and stores. No one liked to begin with me, for they all thought me too small, but they soon saw I got along well enough. I went to school just the same. I did my jobs before nine in the morning, and after school let out, I had plenty of time to work and learn my lessons. I wouldn’t give up my school, for Father Jack told me to learn all I could, and some day I would find my father, and he must not find me a poor ignorant boy. He said I must look him in the face, and say to him without falsehood: ‘Father, I may be poor and rough, but I have always been an honest boy and stood by the ship, so you needn’t be ashamed of me.’ Sir, I could never forget319 those words.” He dropped his cap, drum and sticks; he bared his little arm, and showed the figure of a ship in full sail, with this motto beneath it, pricked into the skin: “Stand by the ship.” “When I was twelve, I left New York and came to Detroit with a gentleman in the book business. I was there two years, when the war broke out. One day, a few months after the war broke out, I was passing by a recruiting office. I went in. I heard them say they wanted a drummer. I offered; they laughed and said I was too little; but they brought me a drum and I beat it for them. They agreed to take me. So the old stars and stripes was the ship for me to stand by.” The colonel was silent; he seemed to be in deep thought. “How, do you ever expect,” he said “to find your father? You do not even know his name.” “I don’t know, sir, but I am sure I shall find him, somehow. My father will be sure to know I am the right boy, when he does find me, for I have something to show him that was my mother’s,” and he drew forth a little canvas bag, sewed tightly all around,320 and suspended from his neck by a string. “In this,” he said, “is a pretty bracelet that my mother always wore on her arm. Father Jack took it off after she died, to keep for me. He said I must never open it until I found my father, and that I must wear it so around my neck, that it might be safe.” “A bracelet, did you say?” exclaimed the colonel, “let me have it—I must see it at once!” With both his little hands clasped around it, the little boy stood looking into Col. B.’s face; then, slipping the string from over his head, he silently placed it in his hand. To rip open the canvas was but the work of a moment. “I think I know this bracelet,” stammered Col. B. “If it be as I hope and believe, within the locket we will find two names—Wilhelmina and Carleton, date, May 26, 1849.” There were the names as he said, Col. B. clasped the boy to his heart, saying, “My son! my son!” I must now go back in my story. In the first year of his marriage, Col. B. and his lovely young wife sailed for Europe, expecting321 to remain several years in Southern Europe, on account of the delicate health of his wife. He was engaged in merchandise in the city of Baltimore. The sudden death of his business partner compelled his return to America, leaving his wife with her mother in Italy. Soon after he left, his mother-in-law died. Mrs. B. then prepared to return to Baltimore at once, and took passage on the ill-fated steamer which was lost. Vainly he made inquiries; no tidings came of her. At last he gave her up as lost; he almost lost his reason from grief and doubt. Fourteen years had passed; he did not know that God in his mercy had spared to him a precious link with the young life so lost and mourned. Restless, and almost aimless, he removed to Michigan. When the war broke out, he was among the first to join the army. There stood the boy, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Father,” he said, “you have found me at last, just as Father Jack said. You are a great gentleman, while I am only a poor drummer boy. I have been an honest boy, and tried my best to do what was right. You won’t be ashamed of me, father!” “I am proud to call you my son, and thank322 God for bringing you to me just as you are.” My little hero is now a grown man. As the boy was so is the man. “Stand by the ship.” LIFE, believe me, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day,
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
Oh, why lament its fall?
Rapidly, merrily,
Life’s sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily,
Enjoy them as they fly!
What though Death at times steps in,
And calls our best away?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O’er hope, a heavy sway?
Yet hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair!
“Well,” said Bessie, very emphatically, “I think Russel Morton is the best boy there is, anyhow.” “Why so, pet?” I asked, settling myself in the midst of the busy group gathered around in the firelight. “I can tell,” interrupted Wilfred, “Bessie likes Russ because he is so polite.” “I don’t care, you may laugh,” said frank little Bess; “that is the reason—at least, one of them. He’s nice; he don’t stamp and hoot in the house—and he never says, ‘Halloo Bess,’ or laughs when I fall on the ice.” “Bessie wants company manners all the time,” said Wilfred. And Bell added: “we should all act grown up, if she had her fastidiousness suited.” Bell, be it said in passing, is very fond of long words, and has asked for a dictionary for her next birthday present. Dauntless Bessie made haste to retort. “Well, if growing up would make some folks more agreeable, it’s a pity we can’t hurry about it.” “Wilfred, what are company manners?” interposed I from the depths of my easy chair. “Why—why—they’re—It’s behaving, you know, when folks are here, or we go a visiting.” “Company manners are good manners;” said Horace. “Oh yes,” answered I, meditating on it. “I see; manners that are too good—for mamma—but just right for Mrs. Jones.” “But let us talk it over a bit. Seriously, why should you be more polite to Mrs. Jones than to mamma? You don’t love her better?” “Oh my! no indeed,” chorused the voices. “Well, then, I don’t see why Mrs. Jones should have all that’s agreeable; why the hats should come off and the tones soften, and ‘please,’ and ‘thank you,’ and ‘excuse me,’ should abound in her house, and not in mamma’s.” “Oh! that’s very different.” “And mamma knows we mean all right. Besides, you are not fair, cousin; we were talking about boys and girls—not grown up people.” Thus my little audience assailed me, and I was forced to a change of base, “Well, about boys and girls, then. Cannot a boy be just as happy, if, like our friend Russel, he is gentle to the little girls, doesn’t pitch his little brother in the snow, and respects the rights of his cousins and intimate friends? It seems to me that politeness is just as suitable to the play ground as the parlor.” “Oh, of course; if you’d have a fellow give up all fun,” said Wilfred. “My dear boy,” said I, “that isn’t what I want. Run, and jump, and shout as much as you please; skate, and slide, and snowball; but do it with politeness to other boys and girls, and I’ll agree you shall find just as much fun in it. You sometimes say I pet Burke Holland more than any of my child-friends. Can I help it? For though he is lively and sometimes frolicsome, his manners are always good. You never see him with his chair tipped up, or his hat on in the house. He never pushes ahead of you to get first out of the room. If you are going out, he holds open the door; if weary, it is Burke who brings a glass of water, places a chair, hands a fan, springs to pick up your handkerchief—and all this without being told to do so, or326 interfering with his own gayety in the least. This attention isn’t only given to me as the guest, or to Mrs. Jones when he visits her, but to mamma, aunt Jenny, and little sister, just as carefully; at home, in school, or at play, there is always just so much guard against rudeness. His courtesy is not merely for state occasions, but a well fitting garment worn constantly. His manliness is genuine loving kindness. In fact, that is exactly what real politeness is; carefulness for others, and watchfulness over ourselves, lest our angles shall interfere with their comfort.” It is impossible for boys and girls to realize, until they have grown too old to easily adopt new ones, how important it is to guard against contracting careless and awkward habits of speech and manners. Some very unwisely think it is not necessary to be so very particular about these things except when company is present. But this is a grave mistake, for coarseness will betray itself in spite of the most watchful sentinelship. It is impossible to indulge in one form of speech, or have one set of manners at home, and another abroad, because in moments of confusion or bashfulness, such as every327 young person feels sometimes who is sensitive and modest, the habitual mode of expression will discover itself. It is not, however, merely because refinement of speech and grace of manners are pleasing to the sense, that our young friends are recommended to cultivate and practice them, but because outward refinement of any sort reacts as it were on the character and makes it more sweet and gentle and lovable, and these are qualities that attract and draw about the possessor a host of kind friends. Then again they increase self-respect. The very consciousness that one prepossesses and pleases people, makes most persons feel more respect for themselves, just as the knowledge of being well dressed makes them feel more respectable. You can see by this simple example, how every effort persons make toward perfecting themselves brings some pleasant reward. A YOUNG man, who was in prison awaiting his trial for a serious crime, was asked what ruined him. “Sir,” he replied with tears in his eyes, “it was my street education that ruined me! I had a good home education, but I would slip out of the house and go off with the boys in the street. In the street, I learned to lounge. In the street, I learned to swear. In the street, I learned to smoke. In the street, I learned to gamble. In the street, I learned to steal.” So you see, my dear children, the street ruined that youth. It seemed pleasant to him, as it does to some of you, to spend his hours abroad with idle, boisterous lads. No doubt he thought his father and mother were too strict, too particular, and notional, when they wished him not to frequent the street; and, thinking so, he chose to have his own way even at the price of disobeying his parents. He did have his own way. To what did it lead him? To destruction! I329 think he paid too high a price altogether for having his own way. Do you agree with me in this opinion? If so, beware how you imitate him, beware how you cherish a love for the street, and street companions. Find your enjoyment at home, especially in the evening. You may depend upon it, boys and girls, that to pass safely along the ways of life, you must be careful of your steps. It will not do for you to tread a path merely because flowers grow in it and you feel a desire to pluck them. The most flowery paths often lead to the most dangerous places. You must seek, therefore, for the right rather than for the pleasant way. Indeed, the right path is always the most pleasant in the end. To find the right way, and thus to avoid the dangers of the wrong one, you need a guide for your feet. I have read somewhere, that, on a part of the seashore in England, there are steep cliffs rising abruptly from the beach. To keep smugglers from landing foreign goods on which duties have not been paid, a guard is stationed to watch, night and day. The men composing this guard have to ascend and descend the cliffs in the night.330 Their path is very narrow, and it runs close to the edge of the cliff. A single misstep would cause a man to fall over on to the beach, and to be dashed in pieces. How do you suppose the men of that guard find their way up and down those cliffs at night in safety? If you were to examine their path, you would see a row of very white stones set in it all the way up from the beach. These stones can be seen in the darkest night. The men look for them and thus traverse the giddy path with safety. Now, my dear children, God meant his holy book to be to you, on your life journey, what those white stones are to the men who guard that cliff in England. It tells you where to go and where not to go, what to do and what to avoid. If you wish, then, for safety, you must both study and obey the Bible. If you will not, why, like the young man in the prison, you must find pain, shame, and death in your pathway. One Mr. Tongue, of much renown,
Who lived at large in Tattletown,
Was mischief full, and wicked too,
As all could tell, if Tongue they knew.
The statute brought the charge was plain,
That tongue was full of deadly bane.
Tongue then was seized, to court was brought,
Pleading himself the impending suit:
’Tis neighbor Heart, plead Mr. Tongue,
Who leads me into so much wrong.
I should be good, as neighbors are—
As Mr. Nose, or eye, or ear,—
If neighbor Heart, who lives below,
Were changed by grace, or made anew.
’Tis very hard to bear the wrong
Of neighbor Heart, said Mr. Tongue.
The plea was sound of Mr. Tongue.
Jurors and Judge said, all as one
While neighbor Heart is all so wrong,
No good, they said, could come from Tongue.”
The Court decide, as the best good,
To renovate the neighborhood,
That Mr. Heart must be renewed,
Or never Tongue can be subdued.
“H!” thought Anna Markham to herself as she closed the book she had been reading, a history of the mission in Madagascar, “How I wish it were possible for me to do something like this for Christ,” and here Anna lost herself in a sort of heroic dream. She pictured herself teaching, exhorting the heathen in India, or in some far African station, where the gospel had never before been heard. She thought of herself as parting, almost without a regret from her friends, to encounter all the hardships of a mission life, the dangers of fever, wild beasts and persecution, especially the persecution. Anna fancied herself enduring suffering, starvation, imprisonment and torture for her faith, and had just come so far in her romance as to be “led out for execution,” and “forgive her murderers with her last breath,” when her mother called her from the next room. The rapt ecstatic look on Anna’s face gave way instantly to a fretful frown. “Oh, dear!” she said sharply to herself, “I never can be let alone a minute.” She threw down the book and went to her mother. “Well, what is it?” she said in a most ungracious tone. “I want you to run over to Mrs. O’Hara and take her the dinner Katy has got ready for her, and Anna, if you can, get her up and make up her bed.” “Oh, mother!” said Anna, as if she had been asked to perform impossibilities, “I can’t bear to go to Mrs. O’Hara’s, and the house is so dirty and disagreeable.” “She is an old lady, and all alone,” said her mother in some displeasure. “She cannot do anything for herself now, and it is the duty of her neighbors to take care of her till she is well.” “She might go to the hospital and let the Sisters of Charity take care of her.” “She won’t go, as you know very well, and there are some good reasons on her side too, and besides do you think it would be any more agreeable for the Sisters to nurse Mrs. O’Hara than it is for you?” “Well I don’t like to,” said Anna very crossly. “I’ll go, Aunt Jane,” said Anna’s cousin,334 Miss Kent, who was drawing by the window. “No Milly, Anna will go,” said Mrs. Markham. “I advise you to think what manner of spirit you are of, my daughter.” Anna made no answer and she obeyed her mother, for she knew she must; but she performed her errand in so ungracious and uncharitable a manner, and assumed such an air of martyrdom, that Mrs. O’Hara, who was by no means reserved in speech, told her rather decidedly, that she’d “never be the lady her mother was,” and Anna went home disgusted, and wished herself away from a home where “no one understood her.” By the next day, however, she had forgotten about the matter, and was talking to her cousin Milly about the missionary work of the church. “Oh,” she said with enthusiasm, “I should like nothing better than to go as a missionary to Africa.” “What would you do there?” asked Milly, rather amused. “Oh! teach the children, and the women, and take care of the sick, and so forth.” “You think the heathen savages of Africa would be less disagreeable than Mrs. O’Hara335 and you would take more pleasure in doing for them than for your own neighbor?” said Milly. Anna was very much vexed for a moment, but then she began to feel a little ashamed. “Isn’t it rather better on the whole,” said Milly, “to look about us and see what little things we can do if we will, than to spend the time fancying what great things we would do if we only could?” After a little consideration Anna began to see how little of the true missionary spirit she possessed, and to feel that she was not actuated by right motives. Nothing is more natural than for us to be selfish and love our own ways; but a feeling that would lead us to be unmindful of the fact that others have equal rights and desires for enjoyment with ourselves is a selfishness that should be overcome. We must be willing to take up the little crosses that lie in our pathway, and to labor for the good of others. In doing this we may show a true missionary spirit.