“I should like being good well enough, if we could only do it once for all, and have it done with,” said Maybee, despairingly; “but to just keep at it and keep at it! Don’t you ever get tired, mamma?” “How little children know about the doctrines nowadays,” remarked Aunt Cynthia, severely. “Now, I knew them all by heart before I was old as Maybee,—sanctification, perseverance of the saints—” “It was sinners I meant,” said Maybee, scowling, “folks what have to be forgived every single day. I do believe, mamma, the Miss Nancy was very different from Miss Lomy. She had a thin, peaked face, a mouth always drawn down at the corners, and reminded you of a northeast drizzle as much as anything. “I thought somebody had been talking to my little girl to make her so blue this morning, or else that she had lost her way,” said mamma. “Lost what, mamma?” “What was the hymn you learned last sabbath? Wait a minute,—let’s smooth out some of the scowls, and shake a little sunshine into these cloudy eyes. There! that’s better. Now we’ll listen.” Maybee laughed, and climbing into mamma’s lap despite Aunt Cynthia’s warning “Ahem!” she began,—
TOD’S “PERSECUTE.”
Tod came home from school one day, his eyes red and swollen, his clothes dusty and tumbled; with him came Maybee, fierce, angry, revengeful. “They’re such dre-eadful boys!” she sputtered,—“such mean, hateful, wre-etched boys! I wish I could pound ’em! I wish they’d catch the measles or lock-jaw, an’ mos’ pretty near die! I wish—” Aunty laid one hand over the angry lips. “Let’s wait till we feel pleasanter,” she said. “Run up to the bath-room, both of you, and then into the nursery for a nice play with baby. After that we’ll hear about those ‘dre-eadful’ boys.” “It was some of those new ones and Tom But aunty playfully drove the little talker through the hall and up the stairs. Half an hour later two clean, happy-faced children came into the cool back-parlor, and nestled down beside her. “Well, what is it?” she said. “Wam, we play marbles, you know,” began Tod. “Big boys an’ all,” interpolated Maybee. “Yes; and my beat ’em—” “Who beat?” asked mamma. “My—me—no, I beat ’em,” amended Tod, who was learning the nominative case; “an’ then they wanted to play for keeps, an’ I said my mamma wouldn’t ’low it; and they laughed real loud and teased me to put up my new dime ’gainst Tom’s knife, you know; and I said I couldn’t ’cause it was wicked, and then they said ‘Pish!’ and ‘Pho!’ and spwinkled sand in my hair, “I saw ’em,” said Maybee, her eyes flashing; “but we can’t go one step off our own side, now; and if you say a word to Mr. Blackman, he calls you a tell-tale. I’m glad he’s going over to the ’cademy; we’ll have a woman-teacher, and I guess she’ll ’tend to things and not be flustrated to bits, neither.” “But what became of my little boy?” asked aunty rather anxiously. “Did he stick bravely to the right?” “I wasn’t vewy bwave,—I cwied,” said Tod, carefully examining his thumb, “‘cause they kep’ pulling; but I didn’t pwomise, an’ then the bell wung—” “But the minute school was out they went “I would,” said aunty, stroking the downcast face beside her. “Well, then, he’d better not say much more about being good.” “He’d better not say much about it, only when it’s necessary, but I hope he’ll be just as good as he knows how.” “An’ be laughed at, an’ screwed round, an’ hung up?” queried Maybee, with wide-open eyes. “It hurts ’nough to be scairt, and poked fun at, I think.” “Yes; but whose little servants are you trying to be? Who tells you to be brave and honest and truthful?” “Jesus,” said Tod, softly. “Well, once, when papa was a little boy,”—how eagerly the four little ears listened!—“he went a long journey, away up into Vermont, with his father and mother, Grandma Smith, you know. They missed their way one night, and had to sleep in a log cabin, with only dry bread and cold johnny-cake for supper. The little boy looked pretty sober; there wasn’t much johnny-cake, and dry bread he didn’t fancy at all. Their host, who had given them the best he had, said, possibly, by going a quarter of a mile, he could get the boy a drink of milk. Theddy’s eyes began to shine; but he happened to look around, and there was mamma “Oh, wasn’t he nice!” cried Tod, clapping his hands. “I mos’ know my papa would have done perzactly so, only he wasn’t there,” remarked Maybee. “I think so, too,” said aunty. “And should not all Jesus’ little boys and girls be willing to suffer, if He did?” “Not—to—be—crucified?” inquired Maybee, huskily. “Yes, if need be; but Jesus suffered many other things. The Jews used to stone Him and tell stories about Him and call Him names; and don’t you remember, when He was before Pilate, how they spit in His face, and put a crown of sharp thorns on His head, and mocked Him and struck Him—” “Boys just like Tom Lawrence, do you s’pose?” “Well, but did they?” “Yes; all the disciples were treated very unkindly, and most of them put to death by those same wicked Jews.” “Folks don’t do so now?” said Maybee, rather anxiously. “Not in our own land; but they sometimes laugh at those who follow Jesus, and try to frighten them out of being good.” “Is that being persecuted?” asked Maybee, in astonishment. “’Tisn’t but a little mite of a persecute, when we fink about Jesus’s, is it, mamma?” said Tod. “I don’t mean to even cwy, next time.” “And remember,” added aunty, this time stroking Maybee’s rosy cheek,—“Jesus never answered back nor wished any evil upon “Yes’m,” said Maybee, drawing a long breath. “I guess—I’d better not think ’bout that Tom Lawrence any more.”
WILL CARTER.
“Seems’s if our minister never preached such helpful sermons,” said Miss Lomy. She would never know how helpful her own little sermon, handed over from Maybee to Molly Dinah, and from Molly Dinah to her pastor, had proved to the latter. He had written over his study-table, “Unto the Lord and not unto men,” but men found the simple, earnest, glowing words he brought from thence strangely attractive. The congregation grew larger, the prayer-meetings were never so full. Some of the boys, Tom Lawrence among them, began to drop in and fill the “back seats,” “Like as not they would come into Sabbath School if we asked them. Our class is running-over full, but we could have another seat, and Miss Marvin might work wonders with Tom,” said Dick to Will Carter. The two were good friends now, having entered the academy together, with Will ranking too far ahead to fear Dick’s rivalry at present. The misspent years in the past would always bother poor Dick. “For goodness sake, don’t get any more riffraff into our class!” rejoined Will, contemptuously. “That Bill Finnegan is bad enough. Count me out if there’s to be any more.” “But what can we do? They’ll expect to come in our class if we ask them.” “Let them alone, then. I don’t see any particular need of doing anything. I give you fair warning, there’ll be trouble if you do.” Varney Lowe walked home with Will that Varney was a little surprised, but on the whole rather relieved to hear that. The truth was, he had almost made up his mind he ought to be a Christian. He had thought while Mr. Sampson was preaching he would say so in meeting that evening. First, however, he determined to sound Will Carter. Will was the deacon’s son and prided himself on doing exactly right. This was the result, and if Will was simply disgusted, he, Varney Lowe, would drop the matter altogether, which he did, much to Miss Marvin’s disappointment. A week or two afterwards the minister met Will on the street, and after a few pleasant remarks, asked very earnestly, “Will, my boy, when do you mean to become a Christian?” Will drew himself up stiffly. Didn’t Mr. Sampson know he and Tom were two very different boys? “I have more than I can attend to, now, sir,” he replied; “what with all my studies and the Lyceum; you know I have Geology and Chemistry this term, and I really haven’t time for those other things even if I felt any desire.” Mr. Sampson looked grieved, and transferring his hand from Tom’s shoulder to Will’s, he stooped and whispered something in his ear. “Wish I knew what ’twas,” thought Tom, walking slowly on. Directly Mr. Sampson was beside him. “You didn’t answer my question, Tom.” “I—oh! I’m dreadfully busy, too; you know there’s hen-roosts to rob and melons to It was very rude and saucy in Tom, but street-corners and saloon-steps soon teach a boy to be that. Mr. Sampson, however, instead of looking horrified and disgusted, laid his hand on Tom’s shoulder again, and said, “My dear boy, you may work for Satan all your life,—work hard, too,—and depend upon it, he’ll turn you off at last without even a reward of merit. He promises well, I know. He may pay up a while in counterfeit coin most as good as the real, except that it won’t pass in another world, but he’ll give you the slip some time. There is only one Master whose ‘promise to pay’ is good for this world and the world to come. I’ve served Him twenty-five years, and I ought to know something about it, hadn’t I? Come to my house to-night and let us tell you what a good Master he is. A few of us are going to meet to talk over this very thing. This evening, remember, at seven o’clock.” Will looked at him a full minute without speaking. What a battle there was between good and evil in that sixty seconds! Then he said coolly and deliberately, “No; I’m not going, and I don’t know what it is to you if I was.” “Nor I either; haven’t the least idea,” rejoined Tom, turning on his heel and whistling his way back to Jack Mullin’s, to play “toss-up” as usual. Will sat still in the gathering darkness, recalling the words Mr. Sampson had spoken in his ear:— “You may be shutting others out of heaven, as well as refusing to go in yourself, Will. Remember what Christ said of such. You know you are a leader among the boys—” (Yes; Will straightened even now at the thought,—but what was it Mr. Sampson Away off in the wood a whip-poor-will seemed to make reply, “Woe-to-poor-Will! Woe-to-poor-Will!” while close beside the step a cricket chirped sorrowfully, “Shut-out-of-heaven! Shut-out-of-heaven!”
HOW DICK CARRIED THE DAY.
Dick could not quite give up his Sabbath School project. He first did what the apostle James tells all those who lack wisdom, to do, and then he consulted Miss Marvin. She proposed that the boys of her class should withdraw and form a new one, inviting as many as they pleased from outside to join them. “But none of us want to leave you,” said Dick, regretfully, “and it won’t help the matter for Will any.” “I shall be sorry to lose you, but it is the good of others, not our own pleasure, we are seeking. And Judy tells me there are several of the mill girls who would join the school if they could come into her class. “Sure enough, that will suit him exactly. I wish Miss Cox hadn’t moved away, so she could take the girls. Whom shall we have for a teacher?” “Oh! we will find somebody. First, catch your class—” “No, it’s first catch Will Carter; and I rather think I can if I set about it right,” said Dick, musingly. “Be wise as a serpent but harmless as a dove,” laughed Miss Marvin. “Fishers of men sometimes need to work as warily as those who go down to the sea in ships.” Dick went around to Will’s that very night and began earnestly setting forth the advantages of the new class and the necessity of Will’s taking the lead. “You know we’ve always depended on you for the reasoning out of things, and the making it interesting generally,” he said. And it was true every word. Will always had his lesson well learned, was posted on the “The boys will all think as much again of the class if you get it up, and there’s no telling how much good you might do,” continued Dick; and to his great surprise Will raised no objection whatever. Whether Dick’s pleasant way of putting things, or the steady chirp-chirp of the cricket under the doorstep, had most to do with it, nobody knew. He preferred, however, that Dick should see the other boys, and invite anybody he liked,—yes, Tom Lawrence, and even Jack Mullin, for all he cared. Varney Lowe consented as soon as he heard Will had. Dick went to see Bill Finnegan; but the good, honest soul knew he wasn’t expected to have any opinion. He “Show ’em to me. I’ll pitch into ’em,” rejoined Dick, hopefully. “I’ll come over to-morrow noon, and you and I together will fetch ’em, see if we don’t.” He met Tom Lawrence next, and was quite taken aback by a prompt, decided “Not by a long shot!” He had felt sure of Tom. How he did coax and persuade! What inducements he offered! How skilfully he parried every excuse! till at last Tom wound up with,— “For pity’s sake, hush up! Go it is. You’re dead set, now, Dick, since you ‘begun over,’ and you ain’t none the worse for it either.” Wasn’t that a compliment worth having? “And I shall depend on you to bring Jack Mullin,” said Dick. “He and some of the other boys do just about as you say.” Tom straightened as proudly as Will ever “They’ll be on hand, trust me,” he said; and Dick went his way, so thoroughly happy he had to turn a somerset every other step. He must run around and see Robert Rand; but Rob wouldn’t care a straw,—he never said anything any way. What was Dick’s astonishment when Rob declared his intention of leaving Sabbath School altogether. It took him so completely by surprise he could not think of a thing to say; he had never dreamed of opposition in that quarter, and just did the very first thing his Master put it into his heart to do. He threw both arms around his friend’s shoulder, and said very earnestly, “I’m so sorry, Rob, because I’ve been hoping this great while you’d be a Christian, too.” And then he stood back, utterly confounded, to see the usually impassive Robert hurry off into the orchard and fling himself down on the grass, sobbing like a child. He followed him, half-frightened, half-hopeful. “It’s—you know—I didn’t suppose anybody cared. I’d have been glad to, if I knew how; but you never said a word, and she never even looked at me in particular.” You could detect something of Nettie’s jealous disposition, but there was more of a real longing for personal help and sympathy which had been withheld. Even Miss Marvin, faithful Christian that she was, had, as too many of us do, looked into the eyes full of eager questioning, wilful defiance, or forlorn hopelessness, but had passed thoughtlessly by the dull, ordinary, well-enough boy. “She didn’t mean to,—indeed she didn’t,” said Dick, slipping one hand into his friend’s; “and I never supposed you ever thought of the thing; but I have—prayed for you, Rob, lots of times; and only think, if there’s two of us to pray for the rest—oh, I’m so glad you’re really going to try!” Was he going to? Had he really decided? People of Robert’s temperament seldom fully Almost before he knew it, they were going in Mr. Forbush’s gate. “Miss Marvin could tell him how, so much better,” Dick said. There seemed no way of backing out, even if Rob had wanted to, and he certainly went home that night more thoroughly in earnest than he ever was in all his life before.
HOW FARMER VANCE REASONED.
Mr. Vance was to take the new class in Sabbath School. He declared it was the most absurd thing ever thought of, but Mr. Sampson insisted. He knew the farmer to be a well-read man, and that, although but a learner himself in Bible lore, he had that quick, keen, sympathetic grasp of human nature which enables one to attract and influence others. Only Will Carter objected. He had supposed Mr. Sampson would take the class himself. What could Farmer Vance, who had only recently begun to attend church, teach a boy well versed in algebra, geometry, and all the ’ologies? Will made extra preparations for that first Sabbath, studied up on Biblical history, primed The latter had his hands full, to say the least,—what with the factory boys, to whom everything was new and strange; Tom and his set, who meant to have a good time out of it; stupid Bill Finnegan, indifferent Varney Lowe, and wise Will Carter,—but his ready tact, a suggestion here, an illustration there, a hand upon Jack Mullin’s knee when the latter’s risibles threatened to become unmanageable, a quiet deferring to Will’s gratuitous information, all together, maintained at least a show of interest and order. Very plainly, however, he considered contemporary events of minor importance. Will secretly chafed at the way everything drifted round to the one first, foremost thought,—Christ and Him crucified. Heretofore he had always been able to dodge the practical questions, but Mr. Vance made them all practical. The lesson was in the twenty-sixth chapter of Second Chronicles,— “Just a year older than Dick and Will,—and only think how much more he knew!” said Robert Rand, so honestly even Mr. Vance smiled. “Was knowing so much the cause of his prosperity, Robert? Read the fifth verse.” “As long as he sought the Lord, God made him to prosper.” “Do you suppose the Jews invented the engines of war mentioned in the fifteenth verse?” interrupted Will. “Possibly.” “It seems we made a mistake when we named our Base Ball Club. It’s the Catapulta, you know; but the catapultÆ were used for casting darts, and the balistÆ for stones. Sometimes the stones weighed three hundred pounds. Rather awkward things, compared with weapons of war now.” “Yes,” said Mr. Vance. “Men have spent a great deal of money and genius to “Josephus says,” interposed Will, “that engines of this sort were used with tremendous effect in the siege of Jerusalem by the Romans. They would discharge stones to the distance of two furlongs. There was an elastic bar, you see, bent back by a screw or cable, with a trigger to set it free, and a sort of spoon towards the top to fling the stones. At the siege of Jotapa, they were sent with such force as to break down the battlements and carry away the angles of the towers. Both sides used them at the siege of Jerusalem.” Here Tom Lawrence puckered up his mouth and rolled his eyes around in such mock amazement that a broad smile over-spread Bill Finnegan’s freckled face, and Jack Mullin giggled outright. “The main point was, which side used them with the greatest effect,” said Mr. Vance, who had read Josephus thoroughly, but who had quite another thing in his mind. “By “Who?—me!—what?” stammered Jack. “Reckon there don’t nobody fire stones at this chap and not get as good as they send.” “Yes, there’s an enemy who must have machines something like those Will has described. He begins with very small stones. You wouldn’t really think Satan had anything to do with that little game of ‘toss-up’ you and Tom were having. He flings very little sins at first,—just a bad thought, a wrong desire,—and we think it’s all fun; but by and by there comes a three-hundred-pounder and takes men right off their feet, puts them in state-prison, or sends them to the gallows. We need something to hurl back in self-defence, you see. Do you remember what telling shots Christ sent against the tempter on that high mountain? Bible truth! That’s “He grew proud as he grew great, and insisted on burning incense, which only the priest had a right to do, and God sent leprosy upon him.” “Josephus says,” put in Will, “that there was an earthquake just at that moment, and a rent made in the temple through which the sun shone upon Uzziah’s face, and he was immediately struck with leprosy.” “That should remind us of the day of judgment,” rejoined Mr. Vance, solemnly. “Then all the earth shall be shaken, and Christ, the Judge, shall sit upon His throne, the brightness of His glory far exceeding the sun; and in that clear light all who have not been washed in the blood of the Lamb will be shown covered with the dreadful leprosy of sin. It says of Uzziah not only that the priests thrust him out of the temple as The superintendent’s bell announced the closing exercises, and then the boys rushed noisily out. “Every word forgotten already,” thought Mr. Vance, watching Tom and Jack go whistling down the street. “What does make our Will so uneasy?” his mother said that night, as the former sat down to read, first on the doorstep, then in the garden, in the parlor, and lastly in his own room. She couldn’t hear the cricket, the bees, even the clock, saying over and over, “Shut out of heaven forever! Shut out of heaven forever,—forever,—forever.”
FARMER VANCE’S “LEADING.”
“When one has a ‘leading,’ it is best to follow straight on, isn’t it, mother?” asked Farmer Vance, bringing in a basket-full of sweet corn for dinner. “It’s the safest way, I suppose,” answered his wife, with a smile. She was busy over her ironing table, the week’s mending yet untouched, the fall sewing ready to step into line, corn and apples waiting to be dried, with no end of pickling and preserving. Her hands still kept time to the old tread-mill measure of household duties, but her heart had now a rhythm of its own. She could afford to smile,—to watch and even wait for God’s opportunities. “It’s about those boys of mine,” resumed “You couldn’t have thought of a better plan,” said Mrs. Vance, changing her irons. “Only do be careful! I’m so afraid of a sail-boat.” “Oh! Griggs will take us out, and he is an old seaman. All the trouble is, everything is hurrying me just now,—corn, apples, and potatoes to be harvested. I don’t know how “I don’t think people look for such ‘leadings’ as much as they might,” remarked Mrs. Vance, leaving her ironing to beat up a pudding. “Don’t obey them, you mean,” said Mr. Vance, stopping in the doorway. “That’s the point. It’s superstitious folks who keep looking and listening for them. I reckon they come when we need them, and all we’re to do is to follow.” A “leading” or nor, all the boys were delighted with the project. Will Carter pronounced Mr. Vance a “brick,” and the factory boys gave three cheers and a “tiger” when he came out of the office with a leave-of-absence for the whole half-dozen. The appointed day was the very perfection of an Indian summer. They were on the road long before sunrise, the big moving-wagon And then, all the long, cool, delicious evening, they lounged on the rocks, telling stories, guessing riddles, singing familiar songs,—was there ever anything half so jolly?—with the round, full moon overhead and the great tranquil ocean spread out before them. “And not the least bit of a preach,” thought Will, as he rolled himself up in his blanket and stretched out beside Dick, already sound asleep. “I had my suspicions he’d contrive to make us feel earthquake-y before he let us off for the night. But that little short prayer was well enough, and I certainly
ALMOST PERSUADED.
Somebody was singing,—a rich, clear, tenor voice. Will could hear every word distinctly:— “‘Almost persuaded’ now to believe, ‘Almost persuaded’ Christ to receive. Seems now some soul to say, ‘Go, Spirit, go thy way, Some more convenient day On thee I’ll call.’ “‘Almost persuaded,’ come, come to-day, ‘Almost persuaded,’ turn not away. Jesus invites you here, Angels are ling’ring near, Prayers rise from hearts so dear. O wand’rer, come! “‘Almost persuaded,’ harvest is past, ‘Almost persuaded,’ doom comes at last. ‘Almost’ cannot avail, ‘Almost’ is but to fail. Sad, sad that bitter wail— ‘Almost, but lost.’” Will buried his ears in his blanket and began counting backwards, to shut out the “sad, bitter wail” softly echoed by the waves as they chased each other over the moon-lighted beach.
NEEDLE ROCK.
Griggs took them out sailing the next day, but was obliged to be back before noon to accommodate a second party; so Mr. Vance concluded to stay over another night, enjoy a sail by moonlight, and start for home early in the morning. Meanwhile, he took one of the horses and set out to hunt up an old friend settled somewhere in the vicinity. The boys were to spend the time as they pleased, provided they kept out of danger. Half a dozen of them, headed by Jack Mullin, started on a tramp along shore, with their lunch in their hands. Two or three others borrowed a gun of Griggs and struck off inland. “Let’s we have dinner over on that big “Griggs says those low rocks and that strip of sand are all covered at high tide,” remarked Bill Finnegan. “High fiddle-sticks!” said Will Carter, who never lost an opportunity of snubbing poor Bill. “Better wait till you’re asked for advice. We’ll dine on the peninsula, and if it changes to an island, so much the better. I shouldn’t suppose such a swimmer would be afraid.” Will could not forgive Finnegan for being the best swimmer in the party. Why couldn’t he have told he was born and brought up beside the water, and was as much at home in it as a water-rat? Will had expected to lead off himself, most of the boys being novices, and chose to consider Bill’s accomplishments a personal grievance. Dick, on the contrary, was overjoyed to see how Finnegan “blossomed out,” as he termed it; dull, awkward, uncouth at home, “You know your father said we were to keep out of danger,” he remarked to Dick, as the latter began preparations for his picnic. “Yes; but man alive! don’t you know the tide can’t come in in a minute? I don’t see any harm, only the trouble, and ‘many hands make quick work.’ Lend us a couple, won’t you?” Needle Rock seemed especially suited to their purpose. There was a broad, shelving base large enough to accommodate them all comfortably on the shady side of the sharp, conical peak which gave the small promontory its name. They found a sort of natural fire-place on the opposite side, where they built their fire, broiled fish, and made coffee. If one was smoky and the other muddy, nobody considered it any objection, and nobody so much as looked at the sky, till a loud peal of thunder sounded just over their heads. They were on their feet in an instant. The sky was fearfully black. “But the path—where is it? Oh! it’s all gone—all gone! We are drowned! We are drowned!” and poor Robert ran this way and that, half frantic with fear. “Don’t be a goose, Bob!” said Will, his own voice a trifle unsteady. “I’m not sure it wouldn’t be a good thing if he was,” said Dick, taking a quick survey of the situation. “You were right, Finnegan; we oughtn’t to have come over here, but I meant to keep a good lookout.” “Pho! all ’tis, we must climb up on that high shelf,” said Carter, carelessly. “Of course the rock is never half covered. Out of the way, Bill, unless you are too scared to move.” Bill shut his teeth tightly together and moved a little nearer the edge. He had heard Griggs say the water sometimes rose to the very tip of the Needle. Most likely that was in a storm; but if the wind should go “We shall be ‘high’ if we aren’t ‘dry,’ up here,” called out Dick. “Only it’s a dreadfully narrow ‘shelf.’ Next time we’ll look twice before we leap.” “Oh dear! the water’s clear up to our fire-place,” cried Robert, shivering with the rain and fright. “Don’t crowd so, Varney. What shall we do if it comes any higher? Oh, I shall certainly blow off! Do get up here quick, Bill, so I needn’t be right on the edge.” “He’s looking out for a more comfortable berth, where he won’t be crowded,” sneered Will, wedging himself into a corner. “I’m going around the other side,” Bill spoke sharp and quick, and disappeared under the overhanging rocks. “Come over to me, Rob,” said Dick. “There! brace your feet and you’ll be all right. It’s going to be more wind than rain, and if we only stick close—” but there was a tremor in his voice which silenced the oath For the next fifteen minutes nobody spoke a word, or could have heard themselves if they had, it thundered so incessantly. The wind came in gusts, seeming to gather strength in each lull of its fury. “How high is the water now?” asked Rob, when only the lashing of the waves broke the stillness. “Has it carried away the tea-kettle?” “I guess it’s gone to sea by this time,” said Dick, trying to speak cheerily, although he shuddered at the steady rise of the angry waves towards their narrow refuge. Pretty soon Varney uttered a sharp cry as the white foam broke over his feet. “Couldn’t a fellow swim ashore, if he knew how?” asked Tom, huskily. Will Carter stood up and looked around. “Not in such a sea as that, and there isn’t a boat in sight,” he said, shortly. “There’s no way; we might as well give up; it will be over our heads in less than an hour.” Suddenly Robert, who was clinging convulsively to Dick, cried out, “Say it over, Dick! Say it out loud! Will said there wasn’t any way, and that’s so dreadful. Please, Dick!” “I can’t think of the beginning,” Dick said slowly. “I learned it last winter, you know, but the third verse came to me when Will spoke. Perhaps I can think of the rest,” and in a voice low and tremulous at first, but growing stronger and clearer as the wind battled against it, he repeated,— “He bringeth them unto their desired haven.” Dick sprang suddenly to his feet. “There’s something—I do believe—yes, it is—it is a boat. Call, boys, as loud as you can! All together, now!” The wind stripped the frail sound into shreds, but all the same the boat came steadily that way, and was evidently making directly for them. Brave Bill Finnegan, when he disappeared behind the rocks, had stopped only long enough to pull off his clothes and cast one quick, appealing glance up into the blackened sky, with a thought of Him who he had been told could still even the raging sea; then he struck out into the boiling, seething waters. It was their only chance. Help, if it came But his strong muscle and early training stood him in good stead now, although it was some minutes after he was seemingly flung upon the shore before he could more than crawl out of reach of the cruel water. He climbed the cliff at last, and fortunately found Griggs close by, in a sort of shanty, taking a smoke with two other brawny-armed, bronzed-faced seamen. In less time than we can tell it, although not without some growling about the foolishness of boys in general and the fool-hardiness of Bill in particular, the three were on their way to the Needle. Bill insisted on going back with them, but was peremptorily ordered up to the house, where he was taken in hand by Mother Griggs, sent to bed, dosed with hot drinks and rubbed When he opened his eyes they were all there. Dick sprang on the low couch, and gave him a suffocating hug. Mr. Vance leaned over, with tears in his eyes, and said, “How shall we ever thank you, my brave boy!” Then Tom and Varney and the rest crowded up, laughing, talking, sobbing,—a little hysterical yet, in spite of Mother Griggs’ herb teas and hot baths. The clouds were all piled away in the southwest, their gold and crimson linings fluttering in the sunset; the tired waves rolled heavily in, scattering pearls and diamonds over the black, pitiless rocks; the moon crept quietly up in the background: but a sail was out of the question even had any one felt inclined. Robert and Bill were content to lie quietly on their couches; none of the others were apparently the worse for their exposure. Mother Griggs insisted on making a chowder for the entire party; Griggs himself regaled them with “yarns” about life in mid-ocean; “Cur’us, ain’t it, now, how things work round?” said Griggs. “I’d a good mind as ever I had to eat to put in at Long Wharf where I left t’other party, and wait till the blow was over,—I could see it comin’; but Larkins an’ Sam wanted to git on towards home. Ef we hadn’t, ye see, there wouldn’t a been a man anywheres round. It’s what I call cur’us.” Bill looked up eagerly at Mr. Vance. “I see Mother Griggs’ garden survived the shower,” the latter remarked carelessly, going to the window; “I expected to find it washed away, lying on a slope so. Ah! there is a sort of breakwater to turn the freshet. How fortunate that should be there, in the nick of time!” “Guess I think too much of my wife’s posies not to look out for the wash,” said Griggs, slapping his own knee approvingly. “And don’t you suppose the God who rules the tempests loves His creatures enough to provide a way of escape from any or all dangers?” “Well, now, you’ve come it over me slick,” said Griggs, taking out his pipe, and thoughtfully wiping his mouth. “And not only from temporal dangers,” continued Farmer Vance, “but he has also provided a ‘way of escape’ from temptation, sin, and death.” “I’ve allus reckoned there was a God,” said Griggs, slowly. “One can’t live close t’ the sea and disbelieve that there; an’ I’d like to believe He ’tends to things down here, but it never struck me jest so afore. Take an early start to-morrow, sir?” “We must have a short sail first, to leave a pleasant taste of old ocean in our mouths,” rejoined Mr. Vance, smiling; “and now, boys, before we separate” (half of them were to sleep in the big covered wagon and “Oh, give thanks unto the Lord for He is good;” and, as they had done the night before, but with a far different understanding of its meaning, the boys joined in the refrain,— “Oh, that men would praise the Lord for His goodness and for His wonderful works to the children of men.” Once and again and again; but after the words— “He commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. “They mount up to the heaven, they go down again to the depths. “Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and He bringeth them out of their distresses. “He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. “Then are they glad because they be quiet; so He bringeth them unto their desired haven,”— one and another voice trembled and broke. Even old Griggs cleared his throat suspiciously. “Whoso is wise, and will observe these things, even they shall understand the loving-kindness of the Lord,” and with a short, simple prayer, closed a day the events of which no one of them could ever forget. Even old Griggs would never again look out anxiously over the stormy seas, without a thought of the words— “So He bringeth them unto their desired haven.”
WILL’S DEBT.
“I’m sorry, Bill, and so ashamed.” Will Carter said that, sitting beside Bill Finnegan, in the big covered wagon. The others had all jumped out to run up the last, long hill on their way home. Finnegan’s pale face flushed scarlet. Will had not spoken to him the night before, had avoided him all that day, and his quick Irish blood had felt it keenly. “It was downright mean, the way I treated you,” Will continued, “and meaner still not to have owned up sooner, and before the boys too. I’ll do it yet. Only say you forgive me, Bill, and if there’s anything in the world I can do for you—ever, please let me. I Bill was looking back, out of the carriage. “It’s queer, folks do forget—that,” he said, absently, and then, flushing more deeply, he continued hurriedly, “I didn’t mean—I was thinking—it’s all right, Carter, an’ you needn’t never say no more about it, afore the boys nor no time. ’Twas just as much for Number One you know, what I did; and them other things ain’t worth minding, now. Only if—maybe, you could help me a bit; you know how so much better.” “About lessons?” asked Will. “Well, no, not exactly; I’m dull enough at them, but it’s the ‘understanding,’ I’m thinking about; because I ain’t the least bit ‘wise.’ I’m going to try all the same, though.” “Try what?” asked the other, in surprise. “Why, the ‘way,’—provided, you know. It come all plain to me last night, after Mr. Vance had prayed, and we’d all got quiet, how we belonged to whoever made us, “You’re a great ways ahead of me now,” It was Bill’s turn to look surprised. “I believe I’ve felt a good deal about it as you have,” continued Will, “as if it was something beneath me; but you’ve made out it is mean and ungrateful not to be a Christian. I thought it would be giving up a great deal, and you talk as if it was just stepping into the best possible ‘way.’” “Well, isn’t it, don’t you think?” asked Bill, earnestly. “Why, yes, it does look so; but what are you going to do about ‘conviction’ and ‘change of heart,’ and lots of things nobody can understand?” Bill shook his head. “I don’t even know what they mean; all I know is, I’d ought to serve Him that made me an’ takes care of me, an’ I mean to. O Mr. Vance, won’t you tell us how ’tis?” That gentleman had looked in at the back of the wagon, but seeing the two boys in That he made plain things even plainer may be inferred from the happy, hopeful look that replaced the puzzled expression on Bill’s face. Will drew quietly back when the noisy crew came trooping in, and scarcely spoke till they were nearly home. Then he leaned forward, and under cover of the loud talking, said quietly, “It’s queer, Bill, but you’ve set this thing straight for me, and helped me make up my mind at last. That leaves me doubly in debt, you see.” “No, oh no, indeed!” returned the other, earnestly. “It was all Mr. Vance.” “Well, both of you together, then; but remember, old fellow, I’m ‘yours to command’ for life, or ought to be, whatever this old proud heart of mine may say to the contrary.” “And we’ll both be His ‘to command’ always,” said Bill, his plain, homely face glowing with the thought.
MR. BLACKMAN.
“I hope the c’mmittee’s satisfied now,” sputtered Maybee. “They’ve got a degraded school, with me in one room and Tod in another. I don’t care! Mr. Blackman’s gone to the ’cademy, and we have wimmins to teach us. Mine has curls, and Tod’s hasn’t, and mine prays a real nice little prayer before she says ‘Our Father.’ Mr. Blackman never said only that, quick’s ever he could,—Amen! ring-a-ling-a-ling, right along together, as if it didn’t mean nothing ’tall.” Maybee was right. “Our Father” had no meaning to Mr. Blackman. Dick and Will, who were both trying to be Christian boys now, were talking it over one day. “It isn’t so much what he says,” “Yes, and then it sounds so grand,” Will rejoined, “when he talks about the Good and the True and Beautiful,—how they of themselves will help men up, and how Reason teaches us all we need to know, and about matter and law and evolution. I couldn’t understand it any more than I could father’s free agency and election, but it made me feel easier, and didn’t say do anything in particular, so I liked to think it might be true. Queer, wasn’t it, Bill Finnegan should be the one to open my eyes? but queerer yet, as he said, that I or anybody could ever forget or not care that Christ died for us.” Dick looked thoughtful. “It seems stranger anybody can believe there is a God, and not care to know about Him or try to please Him, than it does not to believe in Him at all, like Mr. Blackman. I wonder if he reads the Bible? He never goes to church. Would you dare ask him to?” “But it ought not to make us feel so. If he should turn up his nose at the sun, we shouldn’t think any the less of it. I’ve a good mind to. It would come a little tough to say anything of that sort to him, but—I guess I could.” “I do wish you would, then. Oh, dear! you are so much braver than I, Dick, about these things.” “Oh! that’s something in the grain, I guess, but I don’t see why we should be ashamed of our Master. It would be mean enough for us to feel ashamed of Bill Finnegan anywhere after what he did for us; and Jesus Christ has done so much more, besides being God’s own Son and the Lord of heaven and earth.” That evening Mr. Blackman’s bell rang,—the very faintest tingle; but when he opened The Bible tells of a certain king who went into battle disguised, and who supposed himself quite safe, covered as he was with a strong armor; but somebody drew a bow at a venture and smote him between the joints of his breastplate and killed him. Now, Mr. Blackman prided himself that nothing Conscience or anybody else might say about God and religion ever had made or ever could make the least impression upon his armor of arguments and proofs; but just those few simple words, so earnestly spoken, found a crevice somewhere, and struck right home to his heart. “What makes you wish so?” he asked, taking the boy’s hand. “Because—because you’re so good and kind and know most everything, and God “Do you think so? Well, suppose I go to-night, just to please you,” and Mr. Blackman reached at once for his hat. Dea. Carter looked at Mr. Sampson, and Mr. Sampson said “Thank God!” in his heart when the two came in together. Mr. Blackman was an excellent teacher for the older pupils, and had a great deal of influence over them; many a parent had been praying it might yet weigh on the Lord’s side. Who shall say that was not the reason Dick’s bold effort for the Master was so successful? “He went to please me, that night,” Dick said joyfully, some four weeks later. “Now I guess he goes to please himself. I’m so glad I asked him.” And well you may be, Dick; only remember the results are not always thus speedy and pleasant; but all the same, never be ashamed of your Master.
MAYBEE’S “PREACH” AND PRACTICE.
A bit of black crape hung from the door of the little red house in the woods. Aunty McFane had gone home. Kind friends placed the poor wasted body in the plain coffin, covered it with fragrant flowers, and laid it away under the new-fallen snow. “Fought the fight, the victory won!” sang Maybee that night, sitting in her little rocker before the open fire. “I shouldn’t think you’d sing wight after you’ve been to a fooneral,” said Tod, curled up on the hearth-rug. “Why, they sung it to-day, right beside the coffin,” said Maybee, “and mamma ’xplained it to me coming home, how “Wimmins don’t fight,” said Tod, disbelievingly. “Yes, they do; everybody does that kind of fighting. Don’t you know our Sabbath School hymn says,— “‘I’m glad I’m in this army’?” “Yes, but I thought it meant when we march Fourth of Julys and have flags and cannon and evewyfing.” “Why, The-od-o-re Smith! I’m surprised! Don’t you know what fighting means, the Bible way? Suppose it’s time for you to go to bed and you don’t want to. It’s the ‘don’t want to’ you fight with, and if you beat and go straight along, just as aunty says, all pleasant, that’s being a conqueror; but if you don’t—” “I’m weal hungwy, ain’t you?” interposed Maybee was nothing loth, and after a nice frolic they sat down on the steps to rest and make snow images. “Wouldn’t you like to be a sure-enough soldier?” asked Maybee, rolling up a tiny ball for a head. “I’d wather be a cap’n or a gen’wal,” said Tod, “an wide a horse, and have folks say ‘Hurwah’!” “Yes, but everybody can’t be generals, ’cause who’d carry the guns? And you know we can be ever so much greater.” “No; how?” “We can be greater than Napoleon or George Washington. The Bible says so. My mamma showed me the verse. It says, ‘He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.’” “What is wuling his spiwit?” asked Tod. “Oh, it’s being real mad and not saying a single word till you feel pleasant. I guess it “Did anybody speak—I mean squeal?” queried Tom, staring all around. “I saw a couple of magpies—no; ’pon my word, one is a bumble-bee. Hear it buzz, now.” But Maybee worked on without a word. “Oh, she’s mad; regular spitfire, she is. I wonder what she’s making,—a duck or a toad.” Maybee reddened, but rejoined quite cheerfully, “Tod’s making a house. Mine is a soldier, and this stick is for a gun.” “Look out, then! Here comes one of Carter’s three-hundred-pounders,” and sending a huge snowball over the fence, the two boys moved leisurely on. It fell directly on the roof of Tod’s house, quite demolishing it. “Never mind,” said Maybee, pulling a “They didn’t skwush your house all to nuffin, an’ you was just showing off, you was. I wish I could fump ’em,” said Tod, excitedly. “That’s very wicked; you can’t be one of Christ’s soldiers and wish such bad things,” said Maybee, plastering a knapsack on to her soldier. “I do, sometimes,” she added, more humbly, “but I don’t mean to ever again,—much,” and she began singing, louder than before, “Fought the fight, the victory won.” Tod worked away, rebuilding his house, putting on two “chimleys” this time. By and by, just as Maybee was giving the finishing touch to her image, he reached over for a fresh handful of snow, lost his balance, and in trying to recover himself, managed to hit the poor soldier in the breast with his elbow, leaving him a shapeless ruin. “Yes’m,” said Tod, sitting coolly down and facing her. She turned quickly, and lifted one foot. Another moment and Tod’s pretty cottage, with its “merandah” and bay-window, would have shared the fate of its predecessor; but a better thought came suddenly to Maybee, in the words of her song,— “Fought the fight, the victory won.” A real victory this would be,—no make-believe, no mere “showing-off,” as Tod had called it; and to tell the truth, she did feel just like the Pharisee mamma read about all the time she was being so polite, but now she was—oh, so dreadfully angry! If she could speak pleasant, wouldn’t that be “ruling her spirit,” “real, sure-enough.” “I’ll try not to mind,” she said, slowly. “Let’s build some more houses, a whole village; yours is so pretty.” “Oh, my gwief!” ejaculated Tod. “I “I just wanted to show it to papa,” sighed Maybee, furtively wiping away a few tears. Tod sprang up, and set both feet squarely on the dainty snow-house. “There! my’ll punish my’s own self,” he cried, forgetting his nominative case in his excitement. “My is sorwy as my can be, my never will do so again. Please, won’t you forgive my this time?” and putting both arms around her neck, the little fellow burst into tears. “I declare, there must be a thaw,—such a freshet! What is the matter?” asked Dick Vance, coming up the walk, and sitting down beside them. Tod explained as well as he could. “I don’t feel much bad now,” said Maybee, “but I think that kind of fighting is better to talk about than ’tis to do! “Did you fump ’em, or fight th’ other way,” inquired Tod, eagerly. “I’m afraid I ‘fumped,’—that is, I felt real cross—” “What’s the matter with you?” laughed Sue, coming out on the piazza. “Oh! it’s Tom and Jack. You know they don’t come to Sabbath School scarcely any, now, but they keep promising to, and just now, when I asked them, they were so awfully provoking. I don’t believe I’ll ever say another word to them.” “We mustn’t forget it’s a fight for life,” said Sue, gently. “You see, I’ve been talking with mother about this very thing. I do so want Bell to be a Christian, and I get so discouraged. But mother says a soldier must not expect to win every battle with the first shot. Some places have to be besieged for months. And she says the very hardest kind of fighting is waiting patiently and bearing “I’d better remember I was just as bad, and might not have been a bit better now if I hadn’t been shut right up there with Aunty McFane. Oh, how good she did use to talk!” “Dear old aunty! Isn’t it nice to think of her up in heaven, all well and happy? Think what a Christmas she will have.” “O me! I’d most forgot the miser’blest thing of all,” broke in Maybee, dolefully. “Uncle Thed isn’t going to have any Christmas tree. I heard him tell mamma so.” “Not have any Christmas tree!” exclaimed Sue and Tod together. “That is as you say,” said mamma, standing in the door. “He will leave it all to you. Come in to supper now and we will talk it over,—you, too, Dick, for if we They listened with wide-open eyes while she told them that, because of the hard times, a great many little boys and girls would have no Christmas at all, no presents, no dinner even; that what Uncle Thed’s annual Christmas party, tree, presents, supper and all cost would go a great ways towards making such children happy, and if they would agree to go without their nice presents, Uncle Thed would help them make out a list of names; they should decide on a present for each one, and Christmas Eve they could go around and leave the parcels on the doorsteps. “Oh, oh! in a sleigh an’ eight tiny weindeer, just like St. Nicholas!” screamed Tod. “Won’t that be nice?” “With Steady and Frolic instead of the reindeer,” laughed mamma. “That would be a little bit nice,” said Maybee, gravely. “And then there’ll be the miser’ble part,—not having a single thing our own selves.”
UNCLE THED’S CHRISTMAS PLAN.
The children could talk of little else. They thought over it, slept over it, and one at least cried over it. Maybee had so set her heart on a little cooking-stove like cousin Daisy’s and a new doll with a Saratoga outfit. And Daisy’s papa, who lived in New York, and who, whenever he could not come himself and bring the twins, always sent such elegant presents to them all, might,—who knew? But now, Uncle Thed wanted them to ask Uncle Grant to send the money instead, unless he preferred giving it to poor children in the city. It would be just the forlornest Christmas! “But not to have the least bit of a present nor any dinner either would be forlorner yet,” “Well, but—” Sue laid a warning hand over Maybee’s mouth. It was not to be told how one day the ’Squire met Tod and Maybee on the street and asked them what they wanted for a Christmas present; and how, when they told him Uncle Thed’s plan, he laid a five-dollar bill in each little palm. That money was to provide new winter cloaks, trimmed with fur, for Say and Tilly Ellis. You see, Say had asked if she might make something for the Nobody else! And the ’Squire, her father’s own brother, rolling in riches, with only an old grudge to hinder him from making the widow’s and orphans’ hearts sing for joy, once a year at least. “It is his own loss,” thought Uncle Thed, taking Say’s thin, pale face between his two hands, and leaving a fatherly kiss on the pleading lips, Maybee all the while tugging at his coat and making almost audible demonstrations of her wonder what would be done with the two cloaks if Say was allowed to be of the party. “We’ll send Jackson with them while you are gone,” whispered mamma; and away danced Maybee to charge Nanny Carter “not to breathe one single word about cloaks to a living soul, ’specially Say Ellis.” What a long list they made out! Thirty-four names, among which were the McFanes,—Mose and little Peter,—the Hartes, Judy The Hartes lived very comfortably now, Dan having steady work at the ’Squire’s; but sickness and the “hard times” would prevent their indulging in anything but necessities. Jack Mullin lived with his uncle, a hard, close-fisted man, never known to give his own children a penny’s worth. “Jack doesn’t deserve a thing, any way,—he acts so,” said Jenny King. “But none of us deserve anything,” said Sue, “and you know Christ said His Father was ‘good to the unthankful and the evil.’” And Jack’s name was added, although Maybee demurred about trying to “mind the whole Bible to once.” It was real fun deciding what each one would like. The children puzzled their heads over it a week, and then the wonderful order went to Uncle Grant to be filled. I wish I could tell you what they left at each house, and how sometimes they looked in at the windows and watched them undo the parcels; and how Mrs. Harte was in the front room alone, fastening three bits of candle, half a dozen cornballs, as many tiny bags of candy, and one or two penny picture-books to the scrawniest little bush, and how, when she left the room a minute, Uncle Thed raised the loose sash, dropped the big bundle under the bit of pine, and hurried away as fast as he could; how Tod begged to hang the basket on Molly Dinah’s door, and how the infirm old latch suddenly uncaught, and the roast chicken, round yellow apples, Tod, and two “Oh, it has been so much better than pearl rings!” said Sue, when the horses’ heads were at last turned homeward. “Wait till other folks show you their things, and you haven’t got nothing much yourself,” sighed Maybee. “I ’xpect to feel miser’ble then.” “You couldn’t feel miserable if you should try,” said Dick. “Seems as if this was the first real Christmas I ever had.” “I don’t envy Bell the least bit,” said “There’ll be something miser’ble, even to a party,” said Maybee, brightening. “If it isn’t anything else, it’ll be the fruit-cake; the molasses or something’ll make you, oh, just as sick! when you’ve most pretty near ate enough. But then, I s’pose the miser’ble times run along between the good ones same’s the mud and mire down to the marsh, and we’d better jump right over and never mind.” “Then the good times are stepping-stones,” added Sue. “So much better than a plank walk, you know Tod said.” “Hasn’t this been a bouncer?” laughed Dick. “I wonder how Bill likes his skates and the other fixings. I wish Rob could have come with us, but Nettie wouldn’t hear a word to it.” “I know that money Rob gave me was some his grandfather sent him to buy a pistol with,” said Will. “Rob asked if I thought it would be any like a ‘thank-offering.’ We “Not forgetting the Gift for which none of us can ever be thankful enough,” rejoined Uncle Thed. “Beside that, all temporal blessings and deliverances are as nothing,—God’s best Gift to dying men, the Lord Jesus Christ, a saving knowledge of whom makes the only ‘real Christmas.’ Suppose we sing one verse of our Christmas Carol.” Out upon the clear, frosty air floated the happy voices:— “Merry, Merry Christmas everywhere! Cheerily it ringeth through the air. Christmas bells, Christmas trees, Christmas odors on the breeze. Merry, Merry Christmas everywhere! Cheerily it ringeth through the air. Deeds of Faith and Charity, These our off’rings be, Leading every soul to sing, Christ was born for me!” Transcriber’s note: Punctuation has been standardised; spaces have been removed from contractions. Hyphenation and spelling have been retained as they appear in the original publication except as follows: Page 39 Page 68 Page 84 Page 98 Page 110 Page 116 Page 134 Page 147 Page 159 Page 166 Page 335 |
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