Its wonderful Efficacy in changing the Lives of his Master and Mistress.

Not long since, an old gentleman of Harrison Co., Ky., was gathered to his fathers, after having attained the age of seventy-five years. A notice of the old gentleman’s death was mailed to some friends, and they, of course, had a great deal to say about the life and character of their deceased friend. The circumstances of the old gentleman’s death recalled to their minds a very remarkable incident in his life, and we have been so fortunate as to obtain the particulars connected therewith. The truth of the story we can heartily vouch for, because it comes from a source perfectly reliable. We give it to show how it sometimes happens that the current of a man’s life is changed almost in the twinkling of an eye, as it were, and to illustrate the efficacy of prayer.

The circumstance occurred when the gentleman was comparatively a young man, and worldly in the truest sense of the word. (320)

Neither himself nor his wife were members of any church, and up to the time mentioned had never given the subject of religion any serious thought. He was a prosperous farmer, and, as civil war had not desolated the land and changed the condition of the “peculiar institution,” of course owned a number of slaves. Among the number was a colored man named Jacob, who was known to be a very pious man, and whose mind dwelt a great deal on the great truths revealed in the Bible, but he had to conform to the discipline to which all slaves were subjected in those days, and his master was a man of violent temper and unreasonable prejudices. One evening when Jacob came in from work, his master, being in a very ugly frame of mind, objected to something he had done, and chastised him severely for it. Jacob received the chastisement meekly, and went away without a word of complaint, and attended to his usual duties. The next morning he got up looking very solemn and troubled in mind, and refused to eat his breakfast. It was such an unusual thing

for him to refuse to eat that his master concluded that he was “sulking,” and expressed the opinion to his wife that he had not been severe enough with him the night before. He therefore concluded to watch Jacob, and if he saw more signs of “sulkiness,” as he called it, he would chastise him again. He ate his breakfast and walked out to see what Jacob was doing, but at first could not find him. Finally he went near the corncrib, intending to throw a few ears of corn to some calves in the lot; but just as he started to open the door he heard a voice, and paused to listen. He discovered that it was Jacob’s voice, and being curious to know what the former had to say, remained motionless. After listening to the voice a few moments, he was seized with amazement; for Jacob was praying, and for the master who had just a short time before wrongfully punished him. It was a pathetic appeal, full of humble simplicity and a grand unselfishness. The burden of it was that the Lord would pardon the high-tempered master for the wrong he had done his slave, and that he would fill his heart with a love for the true, the beautiful, and the good. “Do

not judge my poor sinful master for his wrong to me,” said his loving slave, “but teach him the error of his ways and bring him to thy feet, and save him from himself.” “If thou wilt but teach him,” he continued, “to feel as I do whenever I hear the story of the sufferings of thy Son on Calvary’s cross, I will not complain of his treatment of me.”

Then he prayed for his mistress, and asked God to forgive her and show her the joys of a humble Christian life. Not one word did he utter for himself, but the end of his prayer was, “Forgive them, forgive them.”

Subsequent events proved that Jacob’s lowly prayer ascended to the throne of God; for both his master and his mistress became changed beings from that time until their death. As soon as the prayer was finished, the master slipped away and wandered over his farm for hours, his heart being disturbed by emotions it had never felt before. In the afternoon he repaired to the house, and his wife was struck with the wonderful change in his appearance and actions; that haughty, overbearing look, peculiar to himself, was gone, and was replaced by one of humble resignation.

His wife could only ask, “William, what has come over you?”

His reply was, “Mary, I have inhumanly chastised an angel, for Jacob is surely one of them.” Then he told her all, and she became almost as much affected as her husband. The result was they gave their hearts to the Lord, and became noted for their Christian virtues. Wherever they were known, their upright walk in life and their noble charities were subjects of general remark, and they were always pointed to as living evidences of the wonderful power of God’s redeeming grace.

It is hardly necessary for us to say that Jacob was never chastised again. His master often remarked afterward that he would almost as soon think of striking the Lord himself as Jacob.

There was never another misunderstanding between Jacob and his master and mistress. He would not receive his freedom, for he said he wished to live and die on the old homestead.

A GOOD LESSON SPOILED.

A DARKENED room, spacious and handsomely furnished—being, in fact, the chamber of Mrs. Wilcox, the mother of the little fellow who occupied the wide bed. He lay there in lugubrious state, the rosy face stained with much crying, just showing above the edge of the counterpane; his tangle of yellow curls crushed upon the bolster. Below these was a white mound, stretched along the middle of the bed, just the length of Robby, aged seven-and-a-half, the youngling of the Wilcox family. Two big blue eyes, glazed with tears, wandered from one to another of the two faces gazing at him from opposite sides of the horizontal pillory. Both were kindly, both loving, both sad. They belonged to the parents of Robby, and he had been convicted, sentenced, and punished for telling a lie.

His mother had sent him to a fruit-store with twenty-five cents and an order for two lemons. The tempter, in the form of a “street-boy,” waylaid him at the corner with

a challenge to a competitive show of tops. The silver “quarter” was in the same pocket with Robby’s new air-top and card, the pride of his soul. He may have drawn it out with his handkerchief when he wiped his face after the game. The tempter may have known more about it than the tempted suspected. At any rate, the money was not to be found, and he was close by and ready with his proposition when Robby discovered the loss.

“Mamma will certainly scold me this time,” he subjoined, turning every pocket inside out, and staring distractedly up and down the street. “I lost ten cents last week, and she told me to be more careful.”

“Don’t tell her! And don’t pay for the lemons. When the bill comes in, your mamma will have forgotten all about sending you for them, or she will think the lemon-feller made a mistake. I know lots of real gamey fellers who get out of scrapes that way. It’s only milk-sops who run to mammy with every little bother.”

The experiment thus suggested and urged, was a success until mamma demanded the change.

“He said there wasn’t any!” faltered the errand-boy.

“No change! out of twenty-five cents!” Then, with a searching look at the scarlet face painfully averted—“Robby!”

The “milk-sop” bethought him of the “gamey fellers.”

“Honest-true, mamma!” he plucked up courage to say.

“Put on your hat, my son, and go with me to the store where you bought the lemons. There is something wrong when my boy cannot look me in the eyes!”

Thus came about the tragedy that darkened the June day for the whole Wilcox household. It was at nine o’clock on Saturday morning that the falsehood was detected. At two P. M. Mrs. Wilcox brought up the prisoner’s dinner. Only bread and water! He had smelled the savory soup and roast lamb, and the cook had hinted at strawberry short-cake when he passed, whistling, through the kitchen, turning the silver quarter over in his pocket. That was almost five hours ago, and he was to lie here until supper-time, alone! When he had eaten the bread of affliction, seasoned with tears of self-pity and remorse, mamma re-appeared with papa.

“My son!” said the latter, “I would rather have you die in your innocent boyhood than grow up a liar! Tell the straight, simple truth always and everywhere. No brave man will lie. Papa does not want his boy to be a coward. No honest man will deceive or tell a falsehood. Papa does not want his boy to be a cheat!”

Mrs. Wilcox sat down on the bed when her husband had gone. All the mother-heart in her was crying out and tearing itself with longing and pity ineffable. Arms and heart ached to enfold the precious little sinner so grievously worsted in the battle with temptation. “Mamma is very sorry that her darling has been so naughty!” she said, bowing her head upon the pillow beside the mat of curls dampened by the rain from the culprit’s eyes.

“Mamma! Indeed, I will never tell another lie—not the leastest fib!” he sobbed.

“God help you to keep your word, my son. Every falsehood is like a drop of ink upon snow to your soul!”

She stroked back his hair and comforted herself by giving him, one after another, the passionate kisses withheld through

all these miserable hours. Holding the chubby fingers in hers, she talked to him a few minutes longer of his sin, and to whom he should look for forgiveness; then bending over him, she prayed in simple words and few for the little one who had stumbled to his own hurt. “Lie still and think it all over, dear!” was her parting injunction.

At the tea-table, Robby was not disposed to talk. He noted and understood the grave gentleness of his father’s countenance and demeanor; the chastened loveliness of his mother’s look; the quiet tone caught by the other children from the grown-up sister who sat next to him. His transgression had affected the spirits of the whole party. The very avoidance of all direct reference to it was significant and impressive. It was something too disgraceful for table-talk. A blackened soul! soiled lips! These were the figures most distinct to his imagination as he crept after supper into the library, and sat down at the alcoved window looking upon a side street. The boys were playing noisily in the warm twilight. Robby watched them, curled up on the window-bench, one foot tucked under him, his face more sober each

minute. He was sure his mother would shake her head sadly were he to request permission to join the joyous group of his fellows. Nor did he care—very much—to go out. The recollection of sin and consequent suffering was too fresh.

Nettie, the grown-up sister, had a visitor, and mamma had joined the girls, and was chatting cheerfully with them—not at all as she looked at the cowering little liar under the counterpane upstairs.

“Mamma,” suddenly exclaimed the daughter, “there are old Mr. and Mrs. Bartol! I do believe you are to be honored by a call from them.”

“I sincerely hope not,” was the answer. “Papa and I had planned a walk on this lovely evening, and our friends the Bartols are given to long sittings.”

“Besides being insufferably prosy,” interpolated plain-spoken Nettie. “They are coming in. Milly, you and I can run away!” and they fluttered through the back-parlor door.

Mamma’s face was overcast with genuine vexation. Her sigh, “How provoking!” reached the alcoved auditor. Then she advanced

to meet a fat old lady, and a fatter, bald old gentleman.

“Is this really yourself, Mr. Bartol? It is an age since I have met you. I am happy to see you both. Pray be seated.”

“Oh, good gracious!” said Robby, under his breath, sinking back into his corner, actually sick and trembling.

When he could listen and think again, papa had been sent for, and Mr. Bartol was apologizing for mingling business with a friendly visit. He wanted to buy a house owned by Mr. Wilcox, situated near his—Mr. Bartol’s—home. The play of negotiation, of parry and thrust, was courteous, as befitted actors and scene, but Mr. Bartol’s intention to buy cheap, and his host’s desire to sell dear, were palpable to the unworldly eavesdropper.

“I am sorry you hold the property at so high a figure!” finally remarked Mr. Bartol, rising to take leave. “I must consult the friend who commissioned me to make inquiries, before I can say anything definite.”

Mr. Wilcox was the impersonation of smiling indifference. “The truth is, my dear sir, I do not care to sell at all. The

property is rising in value, and I may remove to that part of the city myself next year. I should lose on it were I to take less than the price I have named.”

When the guests had gone, Mr. Wilcox turned laughingly to his wife:—

“Well, my love, you have lost your walk, but your husband has made four thousand dollars—clear!”

“You think he will buy the place, then?”

“I know he will! He wants to settle his daughter there. She is to be married next month. I had a hint to that effect some days since. I had the game in my hands from the first. I bought the property, three years ago, at a low figure. The rent has covered interest, taxes, etc. I shall never live there myself. It would not be convenient for my business. I have been anxious this great while to sell. I am already carrying more real estate than I ought to hold.”

“I am afraid Robby is less impressed by the lesson of to-day than we could desire,” observed Mrs. Wilcox sorrowfully to her husband at bed-time. “He strode off to bed without saying ‘Good night’ to any one, and pretended to be asleep when I looked into

his room just now, answering gruffly after I told him I knew he was awake. What shall I do if my child becomes an habitual deceiver?”

“We must watch his associations narrowly,” replied the judicious father. “Everything depends upon the examples and impressions of early life.”

BE TRUE.

Thou must be true thyself, If thou the truth wouldst teach; Thy soul must overflow, if thou Another’s soul wouldst reach; It needs the overflow of heart To give the lips full speech.

Think truly, and thy thoughts Shall the world's famine feed; Speak truly, and each word of thine Shall be a fruitful seed; Live truly, and thy life shall be A great and noble creed.

DO YOUR BEST.

A GENTLEMAN once said to his physician, “I should think, doctor, that at night you would feel so worried over the work of the day that you would not be able to sleep.”

“My head hardly touches the pillow till I fall asleep,” replied the physician. “I made up my mind,” he continued, “at the commencement of my professional career, to do my best under all circumstances, and so doing I am not troubled by any misgivings.”

A good rule for us all to follow. Too many are disposed to say, “No matter how I do this work now; next time I’ll do better.” The practice is as bad as the reasoning, “No matter how I learn this lesson in the primary class; when I get into a higher department, then I’ll study.” As well might the mother in knitting a stocking say, “No matter how the top is done; even if I do drop a stitch now and then, I’ll do better when I get farther along.” What kind of a stocking would that be?

As well might the builder say, “I don’t (334)

care how I make the foundation of this house; anything will do here; wait till I get to the top, then I’ll do good work.”

Said Sir Joshua Reynolds once to Dr. Samuel Johnson, “Pray tell me, sir, by what means you have attained such extraordinary accuracy and flow of language in the expression of your ideas?”

“I laid it down as a fixed rule,” replied the doctor, “to do my best on every occasion, and in every company to impart what I know in the most forcible language I can put it.”

AID YOURSELF.

“Aid yourself, and God will aid you,” Is a saying that I hold Should be written not in letters Wrought of silver or of gold, But upon our hearts be graven, A command from God in Heaven, ’Tis the law of Him who made you,— Aid yourself, and God will aid you.

Aid yourself—who will not labor All his wants of life to gain, But relies upon his neighbor, Finds that he relies in vain. Till you've done your utmost, never Ask a helping hand, nor ever Let the toilful man upbraid you— Aid yourself, and God will aid you.

Aid yourself—you know the fable Of the wheel sunk in the ground; How the carter was not able By his prayers to move the load, Till, urged by some more wise beholder, He moved the wheel with lusty shoulder. Do your own work—your Maker made you— Aid yourself, and God will aid you.

It is well to help a brother Or a sister when in need, But, believe me, there’s another Not-to-be-forgotten creed; Better lore did never science Teach to man than self-reliance. ’Tis the law of Him who made you,— Aid yourself, and God will aid you.

Aid yourself—be not like ivy Clinging still to wall or tree, That can only rise by striving For support unceasingly. Rather be the oak, maintaining Heart and branches self-sustaining; For this “the Great Master” made you— Aid yourself, and God will aid you.

THE WASHERWOMAN.

“I HAVE half a mind to put this bed-quilt into the wash to-day. It does not really need to go; but I think I will send it down.”

“Why will you put it in, Mary, if it does not need to go?” asked her aunt, in her quiet, expressive way.

“Why, aunt, we have but a small wash to-day; so small that Susan will get through by one o’clock at the latest, and I shall have to pay her the same as though she worked till night; so—”

“Stop a moment, dear,” said the old lady, gently, “stop a moment and think. Suppose you were in the situation poor Susan is, obliged, you tell me, to toil over the wash-tub six days out of the seven, for the bare necessaries of life; would you not be glad, now and then, to get through before night, to have a few hours of daylight to labor for yourself and family; or, better still, a few hours to rest? It is a hard way for a woman to earn a living; grudge not the poor

creature an easy day. This is the fourth day in succession she has risen by candlelight and plodded through the cold here and there to her customers’ houses, and toiled away existence. Let her go at noon if she gets through; who knows but she may have come from the sick-bed of some loved one, and she counts the hours, yes, the minutes, till she can return, fearing that she may be one minute too late? Put the quilt back on the bed, and sit down here while I tell you what one poor washerwoman endured, because her employer did as you would to make out the wash.” And the old lady took off her glasses, and wiped away the tears that from some cause had gathered in her aged eyes, and then with a tremulous voice related the promised story :—

“There never was a more blithesome bridal than that of Ada R. None ever had higher hopes, more blissful anticipations. Wedding the man of her choice, one of whom any woman might be proud, few, indeed, had a sunnier life in prospect than she had.”

“For ten years there fell no shadow on her path. Her home was one of beauty and

rare comfort; her husband the same kind, gentle, loving man as in the days of courtship, winning laurels every year in his profession, adding new comforts to his home, and new joys to his fireside. And besides these blessings, God had given another; a little crib stood by the bedside, its tenant a golden-haired baby-boy, the image of its noble father, and dearer than aught else that earth could offer.

“But I must not dwell on those happy days; my story has to do with other ones. It was with Ada and her husband as it has often been with others,—just when the cup was sweetest, it was dashed away. A series of misfortunes and reverses occurred with startling rapidity, and swept away from them everything but love and their babe. Spared to each other and to that, they bore a brave heart, and in a distant city began a new fortune. Well and strongly did they struggle, and at length began once more to see the sunlight of prosperity shine upon their home. But a little while it staid, and then the shadows fell. The husband sickened, and lay for many a month upon a weary couch, languishing not only with mental and bodily

pain, but often for food and medicines. All that she could do, the wife performed with a faithful hand. She went from one thing to another, till, at length, she who had worn a satin dress upon her bridal day, toiled at the wash-tub for the scantiest living.

“In a dreary winter, long before light, she would rise morning after morning, and labor for the dear ones of her lowly home. Often she had to set off through the cold, deep snow, and grope her way to kitchens, which were sometimes smoky and gloomy, and toil there at rubbing, rinsing, starching, not infrequently wading knee-deep in the drifts, to hang out the clothes that froze even before she had fastened them to the line. And when night came, with her scanty earnings she would again grope through the cold and snow to her ofttimes lightless and fireless home; for her husband was too sick, much of the time, even to tend the fire or strike a light. And, oh, with what a shivering heart she would draw near, fearing ever she would be too late! For six weeks, at one time, she never saw the face of her husband or her child, save by lamp-light, except on the Sabbath. How glad she would

have been to have had, now and then, a small washing gathered for her!”

“One dark winter morning, as she was preparing the frugal breakfast and getting everything ready before she left, her husband called her to the bedside.

‘Ada,’ he said, in almost a whisper, ‘I want you to come home early to-night; be here before the light goes; do, Ada.’

“I’ll try,” she answered with a choked utterance.

“I have a strange desire to see your face by daylight; to-day is Friday; I have not seen it since Sunday. I must look upon it once again.”

“Do you feel worse?” she asked, anxiously, feeling his pulse as she spoke.

“No, no, I think not; but I do want to see your face once more by sunlight. I cannot wait till Sunday.”

“Gladly would she have tarried by his bedside till the sunlight had stolen through their little window; but it might not be. Money was needed, and she must go forth to labor. She left her husband. She reached the kitchen of her employer, and with a troubled look waited for the basket to be

brought. A smile played over her wan face as she assorted its contents. She could get through easily by two o’clock; yes, and if she hurried, perhaps by one. Love and anxiety lent new strength to her weary arms; and five minutes after the clock struck one she hung the last garment on the line, and was just emptying her tubs, when the mistress came in with two bed-quilts, saying,— ‘As you have so small a wash to day, Ada, I think you may do these yet.’ After the mistress had turned her back, a cry of agony, wrung from the deepest fountain of the washerwoman’s heart, gushed to her lips. Smothering it as best she could, she set to work again, and rubbed, rinsed, and hung out. It was half-past three when she started for home, an hour too late!” and the aged narrator sobbed.

“An hour too late,” she continued, after a long pause. “Her husband was dying; yes, almost gone! He had strength given him to whisper a few words to his half-frantic wife, to tell her how he had longed to look upon her face; that he could not see her then, as he lay in the shadow of death. One hour

she pillowed his head upon her suffering heart; and then—he was at rest!

“Mary, Mary dear,” and there was a soul-touching emphasis in the aged woman’s words, “be kind to your washerwoman; instead of striving to make her day’s work as long as may be, shorten it, lighten it. Few women will go out to wash daily, unless their needs are pressing. No woman on her bridal day expects to labor in that way; and be sure, my niece, if she is constrained to do so, it is the last resort. That poor woman, laboring now so hard for you, has not always been a washerwoman. She has seen better days. She has passed through terrible trials too. I can read her story in her pale, sad face. Be kind to her; pay her what she asks, and let her go home as early as she can.”

“You have finished in good time to-day, Susan,” said Mrs. M., as the washerwoman entered the pleasant room to get the money she had earned.

“Yes, ma’am, I have; and my heart is relieved of a heavy load too. I was afraid I should be kept till night, and I am needed so at home.”

“Is there sickness there?” said the old aunt, kindly.

Tears gushed to the woman’s eyes as she answered, “Ah, ma’am! I left my baby ’most dead this morning; he will be quite so to-morrow. I know it, I have seen it too many times; and none but a child of nine years to attend him. Oh! I must go, and quickly.” And grasping the money she had toiled for while her babe was dying, she hurried to her dreary home.

Shortly after, they followed her,—the young wife who had scarcely known a sorrow, and the aged matron whose hair was white with trouble. Together they went to the dreary home of the drunkard’s wife, the drunkard’s babes. She was not too late. The little dying boy knew his mother. At midnight he died, and then kind hands took from the sorrowing mother the breathless form, closed the bright eyes, straightened the tiny limbs, bathed the cold clay, and folded about it the pure white shroud; yes, and did more—they gave, what the poor so seldom have, time to weep.

“O aunt!” said Mrs. M., with tears in

her eyes, “if my heart blesses you, how much more must poor Susan’s! Had it not been for you, she would have been too late. This has been a sad, yet holy lesson. I shall never forget it. But, aunt, was the story you told me a true one—all true, I mean?”

“The reality of that story whitened this head when it had seen but thirty summers; and the memory of it has been one of my keenest sorrows. It is not strange that I should pity the poor washerwoman.”

NOT LOST.

The look of sympathy, the gentle word, Spoken so low that only angels heard; The secret art of pure self-sacrifice, Unseen by men, but marked by angel’s eyes; These are not lost.

The kindly plans devised for others’ good, So seldom guessed, so little understood; The quiet, steadfast love that strove to win Some wanderer from the woeful ways of sin; These are not lost.

Not lost, O Lord, for in thy city bright Our eyes shall see the past by clearer light; And things long hidden from our gaze below, Thou wilt reveal, and we shall surely know They were not lost.

A SKEPTIC SILENCED.

I HAVE read,” said the skeptic, “a good deal about the heathen gods, and I believe the account of Christ is taken from some of the heathen writings.”

“Will you abide by your own decision on two questions that I will put to you?” said the Bible-reader. “If so, I will freely do the same. I will abide by your own answers; by doing so we shall save much time, and arrive more quickly at the truth.”

“Well,” said he, “out with it, and let us see if I can answer; there are few things but that I can say something about.”

“Well, my friend,” replied the reader, “my first question is, Suppose all men were Christians, according to the account given to us in the Gospels, concerning Christ, what would be the state of society?”

The skeptic remained silent for some time in deep thought, and then was constrained to say, “Well, if all men were really Christians in practice as well as theory, of course we should be a happy brotherhood indeed.”

“I promised you,” said the reader, “that I would abide by your answer; “will you do the same?”

“Oh, yes,” was the reply, “no man can deny the goodness of the system in practice; but now for the other question; perhaps I shall get on better with that. You have a chalk this time against me.”

“Well, my next question is this, Suppose all men were infidels, what then would be the state of London and of the world?” He seemed still more perplexed, and remained a long time silent, the reader doing the same.

At length he said, “You have certainly beaten me, for I never before saw the two effects upon society. I now see that where the Christian builds up, the infidel is pulling down. I thank you; I shall think of what has passed this afternoon.”

The sequel was that he was fully persuaded in his own mind to give up all his infidel companions, and follow the Lord Jesus Christ. But the change did not stop here. When first the reader called, he had to sit on a dirty broken chair, with a number of half-starved children sitting in their rags on the

floor around him, neglected and uncared for; now they have removed to a better home, in a cleaner street. Within, all is cheerful and happy. The father, no longer faithless, delights in the company of his wife and children, all of whom are neatly dressed; and his chief happiness is to read and speak to them of the things which belong to their everlasting peace.

“Where the Christian builds, the infidel pulls down.” Why is this? The fact cannot be denied. Infidel France wrote, “Death is an eternal sleep,” above her cemeteries, and then tore down civilization, and quenched the light of humanity in seas of blood. And French communists, in 1871, while arresting ecclesiastics and describing them as “servants of a person called God,” dug down the foundations of law, order, peace, and truth, and with fire and sword destroyed their fellow-men by thousands, and made the streets of Paris red with blood.

The fruits of Christianity are as precious as those of infidelity are vile. Where the precepts of Christ have sway, war is unknown; robbery, dishonesty, intemperance, violence, and lust are forbidden; and under

their benign influence, property is secure; life is sacred; poverty is provided for; sickness is pitied; infancy is nurtured; old age is revered; womanhood is cherished; and manhood is ennobled. Such are the fruits of true Christianity; and infidel virtues mostly spring from Christian roots. Skepticism cannot blot out a father’s godly counsels or a mother’s fervent prayers. And as a result, there are often traces of Christian principle where there is no Christian profession; as there are plenty of people who practice infidelity, while they profess Christianity. Do not be deceived by names or professions. Set genuine infidelity and genuine Christianity side by side, watch their fruits, and take your choice.

Whate’er He bids, observe and do; Such be the law that we obey, And greater wonders men shall view Than that of Cana’s bridal day. The flinty heart with love shall beat, The chains shall fall from passion’s slave, The proud shall sit at Jesus’ feet, And learn the truths that bless and save.

FARMER WELLES’ DECISION.

One lovely day in summer, Farmer Welles harnessed up his strong team and drove into town. It was a busy day there, as he knew it would be. Half the farmers in the county seemed to be there with their loaded wagons. Barley, barley, barley, there was nothing else in the air but the talk of that between buyers and sellers. He had his business in town as well as the rest, and as the day went on he felt a healthy man’s hunger, and betook himself to a neat bakery, where, by past experience, he knew he could find great wedges of pie and generous slices of cheese. There were a dozen other farmers there, all of them eating with the best of appetites. At last, however, one of them said,—

“Whereabouts on your farm did you raise your barley this year, Welles? not to the south, where you used to. I looked there for it.”

“You did not see it, did you? Well, I will tell you, Wilson, how it was with me (350)

this year, if you will take two or three minutes to listen,” said Farmer Welles, pushing back his plate, “and when I get through, if you would like to remark that I am crazy, just do it; only it won’t be original with any of you. I have heard it from my neighbors on all sides.

“When I was turning over in my mind how much barley I would raise this year, and telling my wife what a sure and profitable crop it had always proved (I reckon I have raised more than the most of you), I went off in a sort of dream, the very prettiest to begin with that a farmer could fall into. I saw acres of splendid barley waving and nodding in the breeze, the sun shining brightly, the sky clear. I was leaning over a fence, calculating how many bushels to an acre and how many dollars to the whole there would be when such a day as this should come around. I was saying, as we all do, ‘It is a sure crop, a sure crop.’

“Suddenly I dropped right out of that sweet country air and sunshine into darkness, full of the smell of filth and rags. Instead of the bleating of my sheep over in the cool flats, I heard men cursing God and one

another. I heard the evil talk of beings looking as if once they had been women but now herded in with them. One old creature in this underground den was actually keeping shop. She was selling for a few cents the dregs and slops from lager-beer barrels. I was so amazed that I looked over into a pint of the dirty mess, and as it shook in the old cup it framed a picture, like a looking-glass. My barley fields! The waving grain in the sunlight! Me leaning over the fence! Was I really in that den where human beings lived like swine, or was I in the country?

“Soon I was away up in horrible tenement-houses, where sick and starving babies cried for food, and blear-eyed mothers gave them sips of beer. I thought of my cows, and longed to give the little children pure milk, when something called from the cup, ‘Oh, you have given us drink already. Some of your barley is here. It was a great crop, you know. It went a long way.’

“Then I was whirled down and into pleasant summer-gardens, where everything was sweet and clean again. There bright young men with steady hands were sitting

before harmless ‘schooners’ of beer, and all seemed well enough until right behind them came a picture. A country home like ours, a good old mother sitting with closed eyes, her Bible in her lap, praying, as our mothers used to pray for us—for our deliverance from temptation. That was behind. Before, stretching out far ahead, a long row of glasses, glasses, bottles, bottles; beer for awhile, then wine, brandy, rum. Out from the ‘schooner’ floated a shadowy wisp of barley, and seemed to beckon, as if saying, ‘Come on, come on, see where I will end.’ Then the mother with the Bible dropped out of the picture, and a drunken wretch with delirium tremens shouted in my ears, ‘It was a sure crop. Oh, you temperance-talking farmer, you thought you sowed only good grain in your fields; but this is the crop.’

“It was not pleasant to think about,” were the calm, concluding words of Farmer Welles; “and so I did not raise any barley this year for sale on the street. I never shall any more.”

“But barley is used for other things than for beer-making.”

“Yes—but I suppose we can dimly imagine what the regular dealers, to whom you sold your barley this morning, want it for, can’t we?”

“You have too much imagination,” grumbled another. It really was exasperating for a brother farmer to be illuminating the scene, by turning on new lights after this fashion. When they raised barley, they did hard, honest labor. When they sold it, they gave full measure in broad daylight, and received hard cash. That was the end of it—or they wished it to be.

“You have always raised barley yourself,” said Mr. Wilson.

“I said I had, and I might be doing it yet, but one day last winter I asked Bill Sykes, the rumseller, to stop selling Ned Howard whisky after that time he hurt his mother and broke his child’s arm. Sykes told me to ‘shut up,’ that I ‘would score up as many drunkards in the day of Judgment by selling my great crops of barley as he ever did by passing rum and lager over a counter.’ They say a word to the wise is sufficient. I don’t set up for a Solomon, but I can tell you, I took that word home and pondered on it.”

Continue reading: A SMILE FOR HOME.