“Pearly! Pearly!”

It was a woman’s shrill voice that fiercely shrieked the name out into the morning air.

We were homeward bound from the Old Red Spring in Saratoga, when we were arrested by her screams. The sun shone brightly, the robins and other song birds were trilling out their sweetest melodies, the air was heavily scented with white clover blossoms and sweetbrier. It was a rarely beautiful July morning. All the world to us was melody, save the jar made by this thin, haggard, unkempt woman. In her effort to be heard she travelled along the road in the direction she thought Pearly must have gone, crushing the daisies and buttercups down before her.

Two Sabbaths before we had sat at the communion table, and then felt a kinship to all, that our brothers and sisters were not only those of our very own by ties of blood, but were close to us the round world over. The Sabbath before, as the clergyman said, “freely ye have received, freely give,” we thought more of the giving of ourselves than of our money, more of letting others have a share of the good gifts that had been our lot, joy, music, loving-kindness generally, than of offering our filthy lucre. Indeed, it seemed a great descent, for we had been taken up on the moment by our pastor’s tender words, and now must remember Vanity Fair and the necessity for money in this worldly world. And so thinking, this woman with the wild, disagreeable voice, stopped us; and should we not do something to help her, was the question put to ourselves.

She was one of the resident Saratogians. Cross, possibly, because she was tired; haggard, because she had no time for rest. To her the Spring waters were as a myth, and the dry, bracing air little considered in her work-a-day existence. We, therefore, turning in the direction in which this woman went, commenced our search for the little girl, for such we decided she was, but all in vain. Whether Pearly, familiar to the harsh voice and recognizing extra work or disagreeable duty as a result of coming to the front, had hidden behind the large clumps of elderberry bushes which grew thickly around, or had run off to the woods for protection, we know not; we only know that we had to leave the woman to conclude her search alone. But the words, “Pearly! Pearly!” now and again caught our ear, though indistinctly, as the distance widened between us, and later we lost the sound altogether. Then it was that another Pearly came into our thought.

She had been baptized Margaret; but the old-fashioned long name had been shortened during her babyhood to the beautiful name, “Pearl.” She has always been loving and lovable, and always seemed consecrated, even from her cradle. Many of the wise people have often gravely said of her, “That child can never live to grow up. She is too good.” But she has lived to grow up, and, nothing happening, in a year or two more she will be graduated from one of our most respected women’s colleges. She, even as a little child, never had to be punished. “Pearl, that is wrong; you should not act or speak that way,” was the most serious chiding she ever needed to receive; for when told she had done wrong, she would immediately say, “I will try never to do that again.” And she invariably would keep her promise.

As a schoolgirl she is a general favorite, being popular enough to receive the unanimous vote for class president, for Pearl is a sunny, bright, sympathetic girl. The truly good are always the truly happy. Her religion is of the character to attract, not to repel. And possibly there are nowhere to be found keener or more severe critics than schoolgirls are of one another. The long-faced piety, as it is sometimes called, would receive from them only ridicule and contempt. The abandon of youth is not slow in exposing what they consider trustless and wrong.

But my story would be too long to tell many incidents in the life of Pearl; to tell the many ways she has helped all with whom her short life of eighteen years has brought her in contact; to tell of her sympathetic words, helpful handclasp, feet swift to run on deeds of kindness, voice raised in song, thus aiding others in the schoolroom, the prayer-meeting or the home. Indeed, Pearl was constantly forming new ties, thus binding the hearts of all who met her to herself.

The incident of which I would particularly write is her work as a King’s Daughter. She was one of the earliest to join this organization, and the first band she formed was to pay for the education of a young girl in the same school as herself. This young girl was the only child of a rich father, but it was the old story—a dishonest partner used the firm’s money for speculating purposes, and in an evil hour all was gone; not only money, but reputation also, and Elsie, the only child, must now leave school, it seemed, forever. Then it was Pearl came to the rescue; and first binding her ten to secrecy, because it would wound Elsie to ever know, it was arranged with the President and officers of the school that this band should pay for Elsie’s schooling; and she will graduate with Pearl, all unconscious of the one to whom she is indebted.

Elsie’s father was notified by the school President that his daughter was too much beloved not to have an opportunity to finish her education. If he was ever able to refund the money, all right, if not, it was still all right; and this is all Elsie or her father know.

Since then Pearl has started nine other bands, each doing noble work for Christ and humanity. With only one of these is she herself connected. It every year supports ten poor, aged women, who otherwise would be obliged to go to the almshouse. By the help of this King’s Daughters’ Band these women remain in their own little homes, passing the hours as their desires dictate, and not feeling the pain which Will Carleton so vividly describes in his poem, “Over the Hills to the Poorhouse.” No wonder that these poor old women frequently ask God’s blessing on these young girls, for they are so comfortable and happy as they thus quietly wait for the summons to the other home whose builder and maker is God. And no wonder that Pearl wears a happy face, for the face indicates the heart within. The good she has done, and may yet do, will never be known here, nor is it necessary. Sufficient for Pearl will be the words which we hope will also be ours some day, “Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.”