"Come, Mamie, darling," said Mrs. Peterson, "before you go into the land of dreams you will kneel at my knee and thank your heavenly Father for what he has given you today."
Mamie came slowly towards her mother, and said, "I've been very naughty, and I can't pray, Mama."
"If you've been naughty dear, that is the more reason that you need to pray."
"But, Mama, I don't think God wants little girls to come to Him when they are naughty."
"You are not naughty now, my dear, are you?"
"No, I am not naughty now."
"Well, then come at once."
"What shall I say to God about it, Mama?"
"You can tell God how very sorry you are."
"What difference will that make?"
"When we have told God that we are sorry, and when he has forgiven us, then we are as happy as if we had not done wrong; but we cannot undo the mischief."
"Then, Mama, I can never be quite as rich as if I had not had a naughty hour today."
"Never, my dear; but the thought of your loss may help you to be more careful in the future, and we will ask God to keep you from sinning against him again."
—Selected
[Illustration]
My dear little friend: I want to tell you about a little girl in Switzerland who died to save her father's life. I hope it will lead you to think of Him who died a dreadful death on the cross, that we might be saved from sin and sorrow here, and at last dwell with Him in bright mansions in the skies.
This little girl lived near a deep ravine at the foot of one of the mountains in Switzerland. A huge rock had fallen down the mountain side, and lodged in the ravine, and thus made a natural bridge, so that those who wished to pass from one side of the mountain to the other, could cross the bridge.
The mother of the child was an earnest Christian, and often told her daughter about the blessed Savior, who died in the place of sinners, who deserved to be punished that they might be forgiven and saved in heaven. And she told her also that unless she came to Jesus, and trusted in Him, she would be lost forever. At first the little girl did not care very much about what her mother said, but at last the mother's prayer was answered. Her little one felt herself to be a lost sinner, and that Christ alone could save her. God's spirit taught her that Jesus had paid the debt, and that He stood with open arms ready to receive her, and wash her sins away. Then she felt sure that heaven would be her home forever. Her father was not a Christian. He never gathered his loved ones around the family altar.
One day when about to cross the deep ravine upon the rock bridge, the mother saw that it was just ready to fall. The frost had loosened it. She told her little child that if she ever crossed it again it would fall, and she would be dashed in pieces.
[Illustration]
The next day the father told his child that he was going over to the other side across the bridge. She told him it was not safe, but he only laughed at her. He said he had been across it before she was born, and that he was not afraid. When the dear little thing saw that he was determined to go she asked if she could go with him.
While they were walking along together, she looked up into her father's face, and said: "Father, if I should die, will you promise to love Jesus and meet me in heaven?"
"Pshaw!" he said, "what put such a wild thought into your head? You are not going to die, I hope. You are only a wee thing and will live many years."
"Yes, but if I should die, will you promise to love Jesus just as I do, and meet me in heaven?"
"But you are not going to die. Don't speak of it," he said.
"But if I should die, do promise, Father, you will be a good Christian and come up and live with Jesus and me in heaven."
"Yes, yes!" he said at last.
When they came near the crossing-place, she said: "Father, please stand here a minute." She loved him dearly and was willing to run the risk of dying for him. Strange as it may seem she walked quickly and jumped upon the loose rock, and down it went with the girl. She was crushed to death. The trembling parent crept to the edge, and eyes dimmed with tears, gazed wildly upon the wreck. Then he thought of all his little child had told him about how Jesus had died to save us. He thought he had never loved her so much. But he began to see that he had far more reason to love Jesus who had suffered much more to save him from the "bottomless pit." And then he thought of the promise he so carefully made to his daughter. What could he do but kneel down and cry to God to have mercy upon him?
If they meet in heaven, do you think that daughter will be sorry that she sacrificed her life for her father's sake? Can you not imagine that tears often filled the eyes of that father when he spoke of his sainted little one?
You would say that he would have been a very wicked man if he had not loved the memory of his child. But is it not a thousand times more wicked for you not to love Him who has loved you so much more than that little one loved her father?
How can you help loving such a precious Savior? Will you not ask Him to forgive you and help you to live for Him the rest of your life?
—The Way of Faith
"Mother, you have forgotten my soul," so said a little girl, three years old as her kind and careful mother was about to lay her in bed. She had just risen from repeating the Lord's prayer. "But, Mother," she said, "you have forgotten my soul."
"What do you mean, Anna?"
"Why,
'Now I lay me down to sleep,I pray the Lord my soul to keep!If I should die before I wake,I pray the Lord my soul to take.'
"We have not said that."
The child meant nothing more, yet her words were startling. And, oh! from how many rosy lips might they come with mournful significance!
[Illustration]
You, fond mother, so busy hour after hour preparing and adorning garments for their pretty little form, have you forgotten the soul? Do you commend it earnestly to the care of its God and Savior? Are you leading it to commit itself, in faith and love to his keeping?—Selected.
At the close of a prayer-meeting, the pastor observed a little girl about twelve years of age remaining upon her knees, when most of the congregation had retired. Thinking the child had fallen asleep, he touched her and told her it was time to return home. To his surprise he found that she was engaged in prayer, and he said: "All things whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive." She looked up at the pastor earnestly, and inquired: "Is that so? Does God say that?"
[Illustration]
He took up a Bible and read the passage aloud. She immediately began praying: "Lord, send my father here; Lord, send my father to the chapel." Thus she continued for about half an hour, attracting by her earnest cry the attentions of persons who had lingered about the door. At last a man rushed into the chapel, ran up the aisle and sank upon his knees by the side of his child, exclaiming: "What do you want of me?" She threw her arms about his neck, and began to pray: "Oh, Lord, convert my father!" Soon the man's heart was melted and he began to pray for himself. The child's father was three miles from the chapel when she began praying for him. He was packing goods in a wagon and felt impressed with an irresistible impulse to return home. Driving rapidly to his house, he left the goods in his wagon and hastened to the chapel, where he found his daughter crying mightily to God in his behalf; and he was led there to the Savior.
—Foster's Encyclopedia
In a dark alley in the great city of New York, a small, ragged boy might be seen. He appeared to be about twelve years old, and had a careworn expression on his countenance. The cold air seemed to have no pity as it pierced through his ragged clothes, and made the flesh beneath blue and almost frozen.
[Illustration: "I am dying now, because I feel so queer; and I can hardly see you. I can kinder see the angels holding out their hands for me to come to that beautiful place they call heaven."]
This poor boy had once a happy home. His parents died a year before, and left him without money or friends. He was compelled to face the cold, cruel world with but a few cents in his pocket. He tried to earn his living by selling newspapers and other such things. This day everything seemed to go against him, and in despair he threw himself down in the dark alley, with his papers by his side. A few boys gathered around the poor lad, and asked in a kind way (for a street Arab): "Say, Johnny, why don't you go to the lodges?" (The lodge was a place where almost all the boys stayed at night, costing but a few cents.) But the poor little lad could only murmur that he could not stir, and called the boys about him, saying: "I am dying now, because I feel so queer: and I can hardly see you. Gather around me closer boys. I cannot talk so loud. I can kinder see the angels holding out their hands for me to come to that beautiful place called heaven. Goodbye, boys. I am to meet father and mother." And, with these last words on his lips, the poor lad died.
Next morning the passers-by saw a sight that would soften the most hardened heart. There, lying on the cold stone, with his head against the hard wall, and his eyes staring upward, was the poor little frozen newsboy. He was taken to the chapel near by, and was interred by kind hands. And those who performed this act will never forget the poor forsaken lad.
—Golden Dawn
"I wonder if there can be a pair of shoes in it!"
Little Tim sat on the ground close beside a very ugly dark-colored stone jug. He eyed it sharply, but finding it quite impossible to see through its sides, pulled out the cork and peered anxiously in. "Can't see nothin', but it's so dark in there I couldn't see if there was anything. I've a great mind to break the hateful old thing."
He sat for awhile thinking how badly he wanted a pair of shoes to wear to the Sunday School picnic. His mother had promised to wash and mend his clothes, so that he might go looking very neat indeed; but the old shoes were far past all mending and how could he go barefoot?
Then he began counting the chances of his father being very angry when he should find his jug broken. He did not like the idea of getting a whipping for it, as was very likely, but how could he resist the temptation of making sure about those shoes? The more he thought of them, the more he couldn't. He sprang up and hunted around until he found a good size brick-bat, which he flung with such vigorous hand and correct aim that the next moment the old jug lay in pieces before his eyes.
How eagerly he bent over them in the hope of finding not only what he was so longing for but, perhaps, other treasure! But his poor little heart sank as he turned over the fragments with trembling fingers. Nothing could be found among the broken bits, wet on the inside with a bad-smelling liquid.
Tim sat down again and sobbed as he had never sobbed before; so hard that he did not hear a step beside him until a voice said:
"Well, what's all this?"
He sprang up in great alarm. It was his father, who always slept late in the morning, and was very seldom awake so early as this.
[Illustration]
"Who broke my jug?" he asked. "I did," said Tim, catching his breath half in terror and half between his sobs.
"Why did you?" Tim looked up. The voice did not sound quite so terrible as he had expected. The truth was his father had been touched at sight of the forlorn figure, so very small and so sorrowful, which had bent over the broken jug.
"Why," he said, "I was looking for a pair of new shoes. I want a pair of shoes awful bad to wear at the picnic. All the other chaps wear shoes."
"How came you to think you'd find shoes in a jug?"
"Why Mama said so. I asked her for some new shoes and she said they had gone into the black jug, and that lots of other things had gone into it, too—coats and hats, and bread and meat and things—and I thought if I broke it I'd find them all, and there ain't a thing in it—and Mama never said what wasn't so before—and I thought 'twould be so—sure."
And Tim, hardly able to sob out the words, feeling how keenly his trust in mother's word had added to his great disappointment, sat down again, and cried harder than ever.
His father seated himself on a box in the disorderly yard and remained quiet for so long a time that Tim at last looked timidly up.
"I am real sorry I broke your jug, Father. I'll never do it again."
"No, I guess you won't," he said, laying a hand on the rough little head as he went away leaving Tim overcome with astonishment that his father had not been angry with him.
Two days after, on the very evening before the picnic, he handed Tim a parcel, telling him to open it.
"New shoes! new shoes!" he shouted. "Oh, Father, did you get a new jug and were they in it?"
"No, my boy, there isn't going to be a new jug. Your mother was right all the time—the things all went into the jug; but you see getting them out is no easy matter so I am going to keep them out after this."
—New York Observer
Little Jennie was eight years old, March 30, 1886. The April following she was taken very sick, and from that time until June 4, she seemed a little suffering angel. Then Jesus, who had so blessedly sustained her during all her sufferings took her to Himself. She would say, when able to talk: "Mama, I do not care what I suffer, God knows best." When she was very low, we would often see her dear lips moving, and listening, hear her praying. She would finish her prayer and after saying "Amen" having noticed that we were listening to her, would look up into our faces to see if we wanted anything.
This patience and devotion characterized her whole life. Often, when she was at play with her sister, who was the older by five years, when some little trouble would arise, she would take her sister by the hand and say: "Kitty, let's tell Jesus." Then bowing her little head, she would pour out her whole heart in prayer to God, with the fervency that is shown by a true Christian.
About three weeks after she was taken ill her little body was paralyzed and drawn all out of shape it seemed. Then in a few days her little limbs were so we could almost straighten them. What suffering she endured all that time, no one knows but those who were with her.
May 25th, which was Tuesday, while suffering terribly, she said: "Mama, play and sing." I took my guitar, and without stopping to think what to sing, began that beautiful song in the Gospel Hymns: "Nearer my home, today, than I have been before." I could praise God just then, for I was filled with His Spirit. She lay there looking at me with her little blue eyes and trying in her weak voice to help me. At last she seemed soothed by the music. But we knew that Jesus in his infinite love, had quieted her for a time, because we were willing to submit to His will. We had said all the time: "Lord, not my will, but thine."
She rested quite well until about three o'clock in the afternoon; then suddenly she spoke and her voice sounded quite strong. She said: "Oh, Mama see those people, how funny they look! They look like poles." She was lying so that she could look out of the window and as she spoke her eyes seemed to rest on some object there. Then she spoke louder; "OH, MAMMA, COME AND SEE THE LITTLE CHILDREN! I never saw so many in my life."
I sat down on the front of the bed and said: "Jennie, is there any there that you know?"
She looked them over so earnestly, then said: "No, not one." I asked her how they looked. She said: "Mama, every one has a gold crown on its head, and they are all dressed in white." I thought that Jesus was coming for her then. After telling me that there were none that she knew she sank back on the pillows exhausted. But in a few moments she raised up again and said: "Oh, Mama, hear that music! Did you ever hear such grand music? Now, do not shut the windows tonight, will you?" I told her that I would not.
The next morning she called Kittie into the room and said: "Kittie, I want to tell you what I saw last night." She then proceeded to tell her the same as she had told me the evening before. Then she said: "Now, Kittie, you will forgive me for ever being cross to you won't you?"
Kittie answered, "Little darling, you have never been cross to me. Will you forgive me, sister, for being cross to you?"
"Darling sister," she said, "that is all right."
Thursday night she was paralyzed in her left side so that she had no use of it. Friday all day she lay unconscious, and that night the same. Saturday, about ten o'clock, she commenced to whisper. We could hear her say: "Papa, Mama." We tried to understand her, but at first could not. She kept whispering plainer, and finally we heard her say: "Take—me— upstairs. I—want—to—lie—on—my—own—bed—once—more." But of course we could not move her. Suddenly she said aloud: "I am going to die! kiss me quick, Mama."
I bent down and kissed her, and she looked so wretched. I said: "Jennie, you will not have to go alone; Jesus will take you."
She answered: "I know it. I wish that He would come this minute. Kiss me again, Mama."
I did so; then she wished us to sing. Again, without giving one thought, I commenced singing the same words that I sang the Tuesday before. She raised her right hand arm's length, and began to wave it and bow her head. Oh! she was so happy. Then she said: "Play." They brought the guitar, and she continued to wave her little hand, while I played and sang the whole piece. One of her aunts, standing near the bed took hold of her hand to stop it, but it moved just the same; and I said: "Ollie, let go of her hand, that is the Lord's doings." After I finished, she kissed her father, mother, and sister and bade them goodbye; then called four other very dear friends and told them goodbye after kissing them. She then called for a book and wanted the music teacher, who was present, to play and sing a piece which she dearly loved.
Before she was sick she would have little prayer meetings, and her sweet little face would shine with happiness. She would say: "Oh, Mama, how the Lord has blessed me."
[Illustration: "They brought the guitar, and she continued to wave her little hand, while I played and sang the whole piece."]
While the dear teacher was playing and singing her favorite she was waving her little hand. We sang three or four other pieces around her bed. We all thought that Jesus would take her then. Oh, what joy! it was heaven below. Jesus was there and the room was filled with glory on account of of His presence. Two of her aunts said that it seemed as though they were in heaven.
She never spoke after that, but would try to make us understand by motioning when she wanted anything. Sometimes it would take us a long time, but she would be so patient. She was ready and waiting. She had peace that the world cannot give, and, praise God! that the world cannot take away. The dear little one lived until the next Tuesday afternoon, and went to Jesus about three o'clock. That was the time she saw the vision the Tuesday before. Tuesday morning before daylight she tried to tell me something. I said "Sing?" She looked so happy and bowed her head. I began singing: "I am Jesus' little lamb." She bowed her head again. In the forenoon she kept looking at her aunts, Ollie and Belle, and pointing up. Oh! it meant so much. It seemed to me that she was saying, that it meant: "Meet me in heaven." Finally she motioned for me to raise the window curtain. I did so and she looked out the window so eagerly, as though she was expecting to see the little children. Then the little blue eyes closed to open no more in this world, but in heaven.
—Mrs. L. Jones.
[Illustration]
A poor emigrant had gone to Australia to "make his fortune," leaving a wife and little son in England. When he had made some money, he wrote home to his wife: "Come out to me here; I send the money for your passage; I want to see you and my boy." The wife took ship as soon as she could, and started for her new home. One night, as they were all asleep there sounded the dreaded cry of "Fire, fire!" Everyone rushed on deck and the boats were soon filled. The last one was just pushing off then a cry of "there are two more on deck," arose. They were the mother and her son. Alas! "Only room for one," the sailors shouted. Which was to go? The mother thought of her far away home, her husband looking out lovingly and longingly for his wife. Then she glanced at the boy, clinging frightened to her skirts. She could not let him die. There was no time to lose. Quick! quick! The flames were getting around. Snatching the child, she held him to her a moment. "Willie, tell Father I died for you!" Then the boy as lowered into the sailor's willing arms. She died for him.
—Selected.
A great many years ago, I knew a lady who had been sick for two years, as you have seen many a one, all the while slowly dying with consumption. She had one child—a little boy named Henry.
One afternoon I was sitting by her side and it seemed as if she would cough her life away. Her little boy stood by the post of the bed, his blue eyes filled with tears to see her suffer so. By and by the terrible cough ceased. Henry came and put his arms around his mother's neck, nestled his head in his mother's bosom, and said, "Mother, I do love you; I wish you wasn't sick."
An hour later, the same loving, blue-eyed boy came in all aglow, stamping the snow off his feet.
"Oh, Mother, may I go skating? it is so nice—Ed and Charlie are going."
"Henry," feebly said the mother, "the ice is not hard enough yet."
"But, Mother," very pettishly said the boy, "you are sick all the time— how do you know?"
"My child, you must obey me," gently said his mother.
"It is too bad," angrily sobbed the boy, who an hour ago had so loved his mother.
"I would not like to have my little boy go," said the mother, looking sadly at the little boy's face, all covered with frowns; "you said you loved me—be good."
"No, I don't love you now, Mother," said the boy, going out and slamming the door.
Again that dreadful coughing came upon her, andwethought no more of the boy. After the coughing had commenced, I noticed tears falling thick upon her pillow, but she sank from exhaustion into a light sleep.
In a little while muffled steps of men's feet were heard coming into the house, as though carrying something; and they were carrying the almost lifeless body of Henry.
Angrily had he left his mother and gone to skate—disobeying her; and then broken through the ice, sunk under the water, and now saved by a great effort, was brought home barely alive to his sick mother.
I closed the doors feeling more danger for her life than the child's and coming softly in, drew back the curtains from the bed. She spoke, "I heard them—it is Henry; oh, I knew he went—is he dead?" But she never seemed to hear the answer I gave her. She commenced coughing—she died in agony—strangled to death. The poor mother! The boy's disobedience killed her.
After a couple of hours I sought the boy's room.
[Illustration]
"Oh, I wish I had not told mother I did not love her. Tomorrow I will tell her I do," said the child sobbing painfully. My heart ached; tomorrow I knew we must tell him she was dead. We did not till the child came fully into the room, crying, "Mother, I do love you."
Oh! may I never see agony like that child's, as the lips he kissed gave back no kiss, as the hands he took fell lifeless from his hand, instead of shaking his hand as it always had, and the boy knew she was dead.
"Mother, I do love you now," all the day he sobbed and cried, "O Mother,Mother, forgive me." Then he would not leave his mother. "Speak to me,Mother!" but she could never speak again, and he—the last words she hadever heard him say, were, "Mother, I don't love you now."
That boy's whole life was changed; sober and sad he was ever after. He is now a gray haired old man, with one sorrow over his one act of disobedience, one wrong word embittering all his life—with those words ever ringing in his ears, "Mother, I don't love you now."
Will the little ones who read this remember, if they disobey their mother, if they are cross and naughty, they say every single time they do so, to a tender mother's heart, by their actions if not in the words of Henry, the very same thing, "I don't love you now, Mother."
She was a clear-eyed, fresh-cheeked little maiden, living on the banks of the great Mississippi, the oldest of four children, and mother's "little woman" always. They called her so because of her quiet, matronly care of the younger Mayfields—that was the father's name. Her own name was the beautiful one of Elizabeth, but they shortened it to Bess.
She was thirteen when one day Mr. Mayfield and his wife were called to the nearest town, six miles away. "Be mother's little woman, dear," said Mrs. Mayfield as she kissed the rosy face. Her husband added: "I leave the children in your care, Bess; be a little mother to them."
Bess waved her old sun-bonnet vigorously, and held up the baby Rose, that she might watch them to the last. Old Daddy Jim and Mammy had been detailed by Mr. Mayfield to keep an unsuspected watch on the little nestlings, and were to sleep at the house. Thus two days went by, when Daddy Jim and Mammy begged to be allowed to go to the quarters where the Negroes lived, to see their daughter, "Jennie, who was pow'ful bad wid the toothache." They declared they would be back by evening, so Bess was willing. She put the little girls to bed and persuaded Rob to go; then seated herself by the table with her mother's work-basket, in quaint imitation of Mrs. Mayfield's industry in the evening time. But what was this? Her feet touched something cold! She bent down and felt around with her hand. A pool of water was spreading over the floor. She knew what it was; the Mississippi had broken through the levee. What should she do? Mammy's stories of how homes had been washed away and broken in pieces were in her mind. "Oh, if I had a boat!" she exclaimed. "But there isn't anything of the sort on the place." She ran wildly out to look for Mammy; and stumbled over something sitting near the edge of the porch. A sudden inspiration took her. Here was her boat! a very large, old-fashioned, oblong tub. The water was now several inches deep on the porch and she contrived to half-float, half-row the tub into the room.
Without frightening the children she got them dressed in the warmest clothes they had. She lined the oblong tub with a blanket, and made ready bread and cold meat left from supper. With Rob's assistance she dragged the tub upstairs. There was a single large window in the room, and they set the tub directly by it, so that when the water rose the tub would float out. There was no way for the children to reach the roof, which was a very steep, inclined one. It did not seem long before the water had very nearly risen to the top of the stairs leading from below.
Bess flung the window open, and made Rob get into their novel boat; then she lifted in Kate, and finally baby Rose, who began to cry, was given into Rob's arms, and now the little mother, taking the basket of food, made ready to enter, too; but, lo! there was no room for her with safety to the rest. Bess paused a moment, drew a long breath, and kissed the children quietly. She explained to Rob that he must guard the basket, and that they must sit still. "Goodbye, dears. Say a prayer for sister, Rob. If you ever see father and mother, tell them I took care of you." Then the water seized the insecure vessel, and out into the dark night it floated.
[Illustration: ]
The next day Mr. Mayfield, who, with his neighbors, scoured the broad lake of eddying water that represented the Mississippi, discovered the tub lodged in the branches of a sycamore with the children weeping and chilled, but safe.
And Bess? Ah, where was Bess, the "little mother," who in that brief moment resigned herself to death? They found her later, floating on the water with her brave childish face turned to the sky; and as strong arms lifted her into the boat, the tears from every eye paid worthy tribute to the "little mother."
—Detroit Free Press
"What can be the matter with Walter," thought Mama Ellis as she sat sewing in her pleasant sitting-room. "He came in so very quietly, closed the door gently and I think I even heard him go to the closet to hang up his books. Oh! dear. I hope he isn't going to have another attack of 'Grippe,'" and Mrs. Ellis shivered as she glanced out at the snow-covered landscape. As her eyes turned once more to the warm, luxurious room in which she was seated, the portieres were pushed aside and a little boy of ten years of age entered. Little Walter was all that remained of four beautiful children, who, only a year ago, romped gaily through the large halls. That dread disease, diphtheria, had stolen the older brother and laughing little sisters in one short week's time, so that now, as the sad anniversary came near to hand, Mrs. Ellis' heart ached for her lost birdlings and yearned more jealously than ever over her remaining little one. Today his usually merry face was very grave and he looked very thoughtful as he gave his mother her kiss and allowed himself to be drawn upon her lap.
"What ails mother's Pet? Is he sick?" she asked anxiously.
"No, Mother dear, I'm not sick, but I feel so sad at heart. You see," he continued in answer to her questioning look, "Robbie Goodman and I always walk together going and coming from school, and I have noticed that he has never worn any overcoat this winter, but you know its been unusually warm and I thought perhaps his mother did not make him wrap up like you did me, but this morning it was so cold and he was just shivering, but he never had on any overcoat—just his mittens and muffler and cap were his wraps. Of course I noticed it, for nearly everyone else was all bundled up; but I didn't say anything as I did not want to be impolite. After awhile he said, 'My, I am so cold,' and I said: 'Where's your overcoat?' Then he told me it was too small and his papa can't buy him any this winter so he is afraid he will have to stop school. His mama says she would cut his papa's up for him, only then he would not have any; and of course he must have one to wear when he goes to the chapel and to see sick people. Even that one is thin and patched. He says he and his little sisters have been praying so hard for an overcoat for him and shoes for them, but they did not come at Christmas like they thought they would, and they are real discouraged.
"Tonight, Mother," continued Walter, "he had an awful cold and coughed just like our Harry did last year," and the long pent up tears flowed from the child's eyes. As mother and son dried their tears, the child looked up with perfect confidence as he said, "The Lord will answer Robbie's prayer, won't he. Mama?"
[Illustration]
"Yes darling," said Mrs. Ellis; and sent the child off to the play room.
"By the way, my dear," remarked Mrs. Ellis as they sat chatting at the tea-table after Walter had retired, "what has become of that preacher Goodman who preached for us once on trial?"
"Oh, he has a mission down on the other side of the city, but he lives on this side as Moore gives him the house rent free. I met him the other day. He looked very needy. The man had wonderful talents and might have a rich congregation and improve himself; but he is persistent in his ideas concerning this holiness movement, and of course a large church like ours wants something to attract and interest instead of such egotistical discourses. I, for one, go to sleep under them." And Mr. Ellis drew himself up with a pompous air as he went into the library, whither his wife presently followed.
He had picked up a newspaper and was apparently absorbed, but Mrs. Ellis had not had her say, so she continued "Walter was telling me about the little boy. He—"
"Oh, yes," interrupted her husband, "he met me in the hall and poured out the whole story. The child's nerves were all wrought up, too. He should not be allowed to worry over such things. He wants me to give up buying him the fur-trimmed overcoat and get a coat and shoes for Goodman's children, as they were praying so hard for them, but I have enough to do without clothing other people's children. If Goodman would quit his cranky notions and use his talents for people who could understand him, instead of preaching to those ragamuffins he might now be receiving a magnificent salary and clothing himself and family decently."
"But Paul," said Mrs. Ellis, "Surely you would not have Mr. Goodman sacrifice his convictions simply for money and praise, when you yourself, are convinced that his doctrines are sound? Besides he must be doing a good work down among the poor classes of the city as it appears the rich don't want him."
"Then let the poor give enough to keep him."
"They do give far beyond their means but the Lord calls on such as us to give. I know it has been an unusually hard year but the Lord has blessed us and He will hold us to an account. I feel very sad as the anniversary of our darlings' departure draws near and I dread to think of any little ones suffering while we could so easily help them."
"I don't see how you can feel that we have been so blessed. When the house is so quiet and I think of those white graves in the cemetery I confess I feel very bitter."
"Paul, my dear husband, don't feel that way. Just think of our three treasures in heaven, an added claim to that glorious realm, away from this cold and suffering. Remember also that we have one left, to live for, to train. And, Paul, let us train him for the Master and in such a way that we may never have the feeling that it were better if he, too, had departed when he was pure and innocent. Let us encourage benevolence and gentleness and if he wishes to go without the fur-trimmed coat, why not do as he asks?" Mrs. Ellis kissed her husband and quietly left the room.
Long and late, Paul Ellis sat there and many things, ghosts of the past, rose before him. As the midnight chimes rang out he knelt and prayed. "Oh, Lord, forgive me. I have gone astray and turned to my own way. I have been prejudiced. It was my influence which turned the tide against Robert Goodman. Thou knowest. Now, if Thou wilt only forgive and help me I will walk in the light as Thou sendest it, even consenting to be called a 'holiness crank.'"
[Illustration: ]
A few days afterward Robert Goodman received a large package from an unknown friend containing a warm overcoat and three pairs of shoes. His father also received a present. It came through the mail and was an honest confession of a wrong done him, also a check for one hundred dollars. One year later this church gave a unanimous call to Brother Goodman and the revival which broke out that winter was unprecedented in the annals of that church. Verily, "A little child shall lead them."
—Luella Watson Kinder, inChristian Witness
"If I could only have your faith, gladly would I—but I was born a skeptic. I cannot look upon God and the future asyoudo."
So said John Harvey as he walked with a friend under a dripping umbrella. John Harvey was a skeptic of thirty years standing and apparently hardened in his unbelief. Everybody had given him up as hopeless. Reasoning ever so calmly made no impression on the rocky soil of his heart. Alas! it was sad, very sad!
But one friend had never given him up. When spoken to about him— "I will talk with and pray for that man until I die," he said; "and I will have faith that he may yet come out of darkness into the marvelous light."
And thus whenever he met him (John Harvey was always ready for a "talk,") Mr. Hawkins pressed home the truth. In answer, on that stormy night, he said: "God can change a skeptic, John. He has more power over your heart than you, and I mean still to pray for you."
"Oh, I have no objections, none in the world—seeing is believing, you know. I'm ready for any miracle; but I tell you it would take nothing short of a miracle to convince me. Let's change the subject. I'm hungry and it's too far to go up town to supper on this stormy night. Here's a restaurant: let us stop here."
How warm and pleasant it looked in the long, brilliant dining saloon!
The two merchants had eaten, and were just on the point of rising when a strain of soft music came through the open door—a child's sweet voice.
"'Pon my word, that is pretty," said John Harvey; "what purity in those tones!"
"Out of here, you little baggage!" cried a hoarse voice, and one of the waiters pointed angrily to the door.
"Let her come in," said John Harvey.
"We don't allow them in this place, sir," said the waiter, "but she can go into the reading-room."
"Well, let her go somewhere. I want to hear her," responded the gentleman.
All this time the two had seen the shadow of something hovering backwards and forwards on the edge of the door; now they followed a slight little figure, wrapped in a patched cloak, patched hood, and leaving the mark of wet feet as she walked. Curious to see her face—she was very small—John Harvey lured her to the farthest part of the great room where there were but few gentlemen, and then motioned her to sing. The little one looked timidly up. Her cheek was of olive darkness, but a flush rested there, and out of the thinnest face, under the arch of broad temples, deepened by masses of the blackest hair looked two eyes whose softness and tender pleading would have touched the hardest heart.
"That little thing is sick, I believe," said John Harvey, compassionately."What do you sing, child?" he added.
"I sing Italian or a little English."
John Harvey looked at her shoes. "Why," he exclaimed, and his lips quivered, "her feet are wet to her ankles; she will catch her death of cold."
By this time the child had begun to sing, pushing back her hood, and folding before her her little thin fingers. Her voice was wonderful; and simple and common as were both air and words, the pathos of the tones drew together several of the merchants in the reading-room. The little song commenced thus:
"There is a happy land,Far, far away."
Never could the voice, the manner, of that child be forgotten. There almost seemed a halo around her head; and when she had finished, her great speaking eyes turned toward John Harvey.
"Look here, child; where did you learn that song?" he asked.
"At the Sunday School, Sir."
"And you don't suppose there is a happy land?"
"I know there is; I'm going to sing there," she said, so quickly, so decidedly that the men looked at each other.
"Going to sing there?"
"Yes, sir. Mother said so. She used to sing to me until she was very sick. Then she said she wasn't going to sing any more on earth, but up in heaven."
"Well—and what then?"
"And then she died, sir," said the child; tears brimming down the dark cheek now ominously flushed scarlet.
John Harvey was silent for a few moments.
Presently he said: "Well, if she died, my little girl, you may live, you know."
"Oh, no, sir! no, sir! I'd rather go there; and be with mother. Sometimes I have a dreadful pain in my side and cough as she did. There won't be any pain up there, sir; it's a beautiful world!"
"How do you know?" faltered on the lips of the skeptic.
"My mother told me so, sir."
Words how impressive! manner how child-like, and yet so wise!
John Harvey had had a praying mother. His chest labored for a moment— the sobs that struggled for utterance could be heard even in their depths—and still those large, soft, lustrous eyes, like magnets impelled his glance toward them.
"Child you must have a pair of shoes." John Harvey's voice was husky.
Hands were thrust in pockets, purses pulled out, and the astonished child held in her little palm more money than she had ever seen before.
"Her father is a poor, consumptive organ-grinder," whispered one. "I suppose he's too sick to be out tonight."
Along the soggy street went the child, under the protection of John Harvey, but not with shoes that drank the water at every step. Warmth and comfort were hers now. Down in the deep den-like lanes of the city walked the man, a little cold hand in his. At an open door they stopped; up broken, creaking stairs they climbed. Another doorway was opened, and a wheezing voice called out of the dim arch, "Carletta!"
"O Father! Father! see what I have brought you! Look at me! Look at me" and down went the silver, and venting her joy, the poor child fell; crying and laughing together, into the old man's arms.
Was he a man?
A face dark and hollow, all overgrown with hair black as night and uncombed—a pair of wild eyes—a body bent nearly double—hands like claws.
"Did he give you all this, my child?"
"They all did, Father; now you shall have soup and oranges."
"Thank you, sir—I'm sick, you see—all gone, sir!—had to send the poor child out, or we'd starve. God bless you, sir! I wish I was well enough to play you a tune," and he looked wistfully towards the corner where stood the old organ, baize-covered, the baize in tatters.
One month after that the two men met again as if by agreement, and walked slowly down town. Treading innumerable passages they came to the gloomy building where lived Carletta's father.
No—notlived there, for as they paused a moment out came two or three men bearing a pine coffin. In the coffin slept the old organ-grinder.
"It was very sudden, sir," said a woman, who recognized his benefactor. "Yesterday the little girl was took sick and it seemed as if he drooped right away. He died at six last night."
The two men went silently up stairs. The room was empty of everything save a bed, a chair and a nurse provided by John Harvey. The child lay there, not white, but pale as marble, with a strange polish on her brow.
"Well my little one, are you better?"
"Oh no, sir; Father is gone up there and I am going."
Upthere! John Harvey turned unconsciously towards his friend.
"Did you ever hear of Jesus?" asked John Harvey's friend.
"Oh yes."
"Do you know who he was?"
"Good Jesus," murmured the child.
"Hawkins, this breaks me down," said John Harvey and he placed his handkerchief to his eyes.
"Don't cry, don't cry; I can't cry, I'm so glad," said the child exultingly.
"What are you glad for, my dear?" asked John Harvey's friend.
"To get away from here," she said deliberately. "I used to be so cold in the winter, for we didn't have fire sometimes; but mother used to hug me close and sing about heaven. Mother told me to never mind and kissed me and said if I was His, the Savior would love me and one of these days would give me a better home, and so I gave myself to Him, for I wanted a better home. And, oh, I shall sing there and be so happy!"
With a little sigh she closed her eyes.
"Harvey, are faith and hope nothing?" asked Mr. Hawkins.
"Don't speak to me, Hawkins; to be as that little child I would give allI have."
"And to be like her you need give nothing—only your stubborn will, your skeptical doubts, and the heart that will never know rest till at the feet of Christ."
There was no answer. Presently the hands moved, the arms were raised, the eyes opened—yet, glazed though they were they turned still upward.
[Illustration]
"See!" she cried; "Oh, there is mother! and angels! and they are all singing." Her voice faltered, but the celestial brightness lingered yet on her face.
"There is no doubting the soul-triumph there," whispered Mr. Hawkins.
"It is wonderful," replied John Harvey, looking on both with awe and tenderness. "Is she gone?"
He sprang from his chair as if he would detain her; but the chest and forehead were marble now, the eyes had lost the fire of life; she must have died as she lay looking at them.
"She was always a sweet little thing," said the nurse softly.
John Harvey stood as if spell-bound. There was a touch on his arm; he started.
"John," said his friend, with an affectionate look, "shall we pray?"
[Illustration]
For a minute there was no answer—then came tears; the whole frame of the subdued skeptic shook as he said—it was almost a cry: "Yes, pray, pray!"
And from the side of the dead child went up agonizing pleadings to the throne of God. And that prayer was answered—the miracle was wrought— the lion became a lamb—the doubter a believer—the skeptic a Christian!
—A Tract.
[Illustration: "The children saw their fate. They then knelt down and commenced to pray."]
When the Lawrence Mills were on fire a number of years ago—I don't mean on fire, but when the mill fell in—the great mill fell in, and after it had fallen in, the ruins caught fire, there was only one room left entire, and in it were three Mission Sunday School children imprisoned. The neighbors and all hands got their shovels and picks and crowbars and were working to set the children free. It came on night and they had not yet reached the children. When they were near them, by some mischance the lantern broke, and the ruins caught fire. They tried to put it out, but could not succeed. They could talk with the children, and even pass to them some refreshments, and encourage them to keep up. But, alas, the flames drew nearer and nearer to the prison. Superhuman were the efforts made to rescue the children; the men bravely fought back the flames; but the fire gained fresh strength, and returned to claim its victims. Then piercing shrieks arose when the spectators saw that the efforts of the firemen were hopeless. The children saw their fate. They then knelt down and commenced to sing the little hymn we have all been taught in our Sunday School days. Oh! how sweet: "Let others seek a home below, which flames devour and waves overflow." The flames had now reached them; the stifling smoke began to pour into their little room, and they began to sink, one by one, upon the floor. A few moments more and the fire circled around them, and their souls were taken into the bosom of Christ. Yes, let others seek a home below if they will, but seek ye the Kingdom of God with all your hearts.
—Moody's Anecdotes
"I came home one night very late," says Brother Matthew Hale Smith (in his "Marvels of Prayer"), "and had gone to bed to seek needed rest. The friend with whom I boarded awoke me out of my first refreshing sleep, and informed me that a little girl wanted to see me. I turned over in bed and said:
"'I am very tired, tell her to come in the morning and I will see her.'
"My friend soon returned and said:
"'I think you had better get up. The girl is a poor little suffering thing. She is thinly clad, is without bonnet or shoes. She has seated herself on the doorstep and says she must see you and will wait till you get up.'
"I dressed myself and opening the outside door I saw one of the most forlorn-looking little girls I ever beheld. Want, sorrow, suffering, neglect, seemed to struggle for the mastery. She looked up to my face and said:
"'Are you the man that preached last night and said that Christ could save to the uttermost?'
"'Yes.'
"'Well, I was there, and I want you to come right down to my house and try to save my poor father.'
"'What's the matter with your father?'
"'He's a very good father when he don't drink. He's out of work and he drinks awfully. He's almost killed my poor mother; but if Jesus can save to the uttermost, He can save him. And I want you to come right to our house now.'
"I took my hat and followed my little guide who trotted on before, halting as she turned the corners to see that I was coming. Oh, what a miserable den her home was! A low, dark, underground room, the floor all slush and mud—not a chair, table, or bed to be seen. A bitter cold night and not a spark of fire on the hob and the room not only cold but dark. In the corner on a little dirty straw lay a woman. Her head was bound up, and she was moaning as if in agony. As we darkened the doorway a feeble voice said: 'Oh, my child! my child! why have you brought a stranger into this horrible place?' Her story was a sad one, but soon told. Her husband, out of work, maddened with drink and made desperate, had stabbed her because she did not provide him with a supper that was not in the house. He was then upstairs and she was expecting every moment that he would come down and complete the bloody work he had begun. While the conversation was going on the fiend made his appearance. A fiend he looked. He brandished the knife, still wet with the blood of his wife.
"The missionary, like the man among the tombs, had himself belonged to the desperate classes. He was converted at the mouth of a coal pit. He knew the disease and the remedy—knew how to handle a man on the borders of delirium tremens.
"Subdued by the tender tones, the mad man calmed down, and took a seat on a box. But the talk was interrupted by the little girl, who approached the missionary, and said: 'Don't talk to father; it won't do any good. If talking would have saved him, he would have been saved long ago. Mother has talked to him so much and so good. You must ask Jesus, who saves to the uttermost, to save my poor father.'
"Rebuked by the faith of the little girl, the missionary and the miserable sinner knelt down together. He prayed as he never prayed before; he entreated and interceded, in tones so tender and fervent that it melted the desperate man, who cried for mercy. And mercy came. He bowed in penitence before the Lord and lay down that night on his pallet of straw a pardoned soul.
"Relief came to that dwelling. The wife was lifted from her dirty couch, and her home was made comfortable. On Sunday, the reformed man took the hand of his little girl and entered the infant class to learn something about the Savior 'who saves to the uttermost.' He entered upon a new life. His reform was thorough. He found good employment, for when sober he was an excellent workman; and next to his Savior, he blesses God for the faith of his little girl, who believed in a Savior able to save to the uttermost all that come unto God by him."
[Illustration: She had not talked long until nearly every child in the room was in tears.]
Several years ago, when residing at G——, we became acquainted with Sister W—— who was especially fond of children. Her own were grown, and desiring to make a home for some homeless child, she went to the county farm, where there were several, in search of one. Among the children there she found a beautiful, little, bright-eyed girl, about nine years old, named Ida. Her heart went out to her at once and she expressed to the lady in charge her desire to take Ida, and her willingness to care for her as she would if she were her own child.
But the matron said "Oh, you have no idea what a terrible child she is!We can do nothing with her, she is stubborn and has an awful temper andit is impossible to control her. We are intending to send her to theGirl's Reform School."
Sister W—— who was an earnest Christian, was surprised but not discouraged. She could not bear the thought of such a little child being sent to such a place and so she said to the matron: "Well, I'd like to take her with me and see if I cannot help her to be good."
"Well," said the matron, "you can try her if you want to, but you will be glad to bring her back again."
Acting upon this permission, Sister W—— talked with Ida and easily gained her consent to go with her. Not many days had passed before she found that there was considerable reason for what the matron had said. Ida was hard to control and at times became terribly angry without cause; but Sister W—— prayed for her and dealt patiently and tenderly with her and told her how Jesus loved her, and would help her to be good if she would only give him her heart. Her prayers and loving labor were not in vain and it was not very long until little Ida was converted. The change was so great that all who were with her could plainly see that Jesus had indeed given her a new heart.
Soon after this we had charge of a children's meeting held in a mission hall in G——. Among the children gathered there were many of the worst boys in town. Little Ida was present. We knew how much Jesus had done for her and felt led of the Spirit to ask her to lead the meeting. She looked up at us much surprised but her little heart was full of the love of God and she consented to do the best she could. Words cannot describe what followed. In tears, Ida told, in her own touching way, how Jesus had saved her—just what a naughty girl she had been before she was converted but how Jesus had "taken the angry all away" and given her a new heart so that she loved everybody and loved to do what was right. Then she pled with them to give their hearts to God, and told them how Jesus died on the cross for them, and how He loved them and wanted to save them.
She had not talked long until nearly every child in the room was in tears, and how shall we describe that touching scene? We had an altar service. Ida knelt with those who were seeking and prayed for them and told them how to find Jesus; and right there many were converted and gave bright, clear testimonies that their sins were forgiven and Jesus had given them new hearts. Thus did God that day honor a little girl's testimony and exhortation and fulfill His own work, "A little child shall lead them."
Very often do we call to mind that scene, and we find it one of the sweetest of the memories of years of evangelistic work.
—Editor.
Not long ago I stood by the death-bed of a little girl. From her birth she had been afraid of death. Every fiber of her body and soul recoiled from the thought of it, "Don't let me die," she said; "don't let me die. Hold me fast Oh, I can't go!"
"Jennie" I said, "You have two little brothers in the other world, and there are thousands of tenderhearted people over there, who will love you and take care of you."
But she cried out again despairingly: "Don't let me go; they are strangers over there." She was a little country girl, strong limbed, fleet of foot, tanned in the face; she was raised on the frontier, the fields were her home. In vain we tried to reconcile her to the death that was inevitable. "Hold me fast," she cried; "don't let me go." But even as she was pleading, her little hands relaxed their clinging hold from my waist, and lifted themselves eagerly aloft; lifted themselves with such straining effort, that they lifted the wasted little body from its reclining position among the pillows. Her face was turned upward, but it was her eyes that told the story. They were filled with the light of Divine recognition. They saw something plainly that we could not see; and they grew brighter and brighter, and her little hand quivered in eagerness to go, where strange portals had opened upon her astonished vision. But even in that supreme moment she did not forget to leave a word of comfort for those who would gladly have died in her place: "Mama," she was saying, "Mama, they are not strangers. I'm not afraid." And every instant the light burned more gloriously in her blue eyes till at last it seemed as if her soul leaped forth upon its radiant waves; and in that moment her trembling form relapsed among its pillows and she was gone.
—Chicago Woman's World
A little girl in a wretched tenement in New York stood by her mother's death-bed, and heard her last words: "Jessie, find Jesus."
When her mother was buried, her father took to drink, and Jessie was left to such care as a poor neighbor could give her. One day she wandered off unnoticed, with a little basket in her hand, and tugged through one street after another, not knowing where she went. She had started out to find Jesus. At last she stopped from utter weariness, in front of a saloon. A young man staggered out of the door, and almost stumbled over her. He uttered passionately the name of Him whom she was seeking. "Where is He?" she inquired eagerly. He looked at her in amazement.
"What did you say?" he asked.
"Will you please tell me where Jesus Christ is? for ImustfindHim"—this time with great earnestness.
The young man looked at her curiously for a minute without speaking, and then his face sobered; and he said in a broken, husky voice, hopelessly: "I don't know, child; I don't know where he is."
[Illustration]
At length the little girl's wanderings brought her to the park. A woman evidently a Jewess, was leaning against the railing, looking disconsolately at the green grass and the trees.
Jessie went up to her timidly. "Perhaps she can tell me where He is," was the child's thought. In a low, hesitating voice, she asked the woman: "Do you know Jesus Christ?"
The Jewess turned fiercely to face her questioner and in a tone of suppressed passion, exclaimed: "Jesus Christ is dead!" Poor Jessie trudged on, but soon a rude boy jostled against her, and snatching her basket from her hand, threw it into the street.
[Illustration]
Crying, she ran to pick it up. The horses of a passing street car trampled her under their feet—and she knew no more till she found herself stretched on a hospital bed.
When the doctors came that night, they knew she could not live until morning. In the middle of the night, after she had been lying very still for a long time, apparently asleep, she suddenly opened her eyes and the nurse, bending over her, heard her whisper, while her face lighted up with a smile that had some of heaven's own gladness in it: "Oh, Jesus, I have found you at last!"
Then the tiny lips were hushed, but the questioning spirit had received an answer.
—Selected.
A friend of mine, seeking for objects of charity, got into the room of a tenement house. It was vacant. He saw a ladder pushed through the ceiling. Thinking that perhaps some poor creature had crept up there, he climbed the ladder, drew himself up through the hole and found himself under the rafters. There was no light but that which came through a bull's-eye in the place of a tile. Soon he saw a heap of chips and shavings, and on them a boy about ten years old.
"Boy, what are you doing there?"
"Hush! don't tell anybody—please, sir."
"What are you doing here?"
"Don't tell anybody, sir; I'm hiding."
"What are you hiding from?"
"Don't tell anybody, if you please, sir."
"Where's your mother?"
"Mother is dead."
"Where's your father?"
"Hush! don't tell him! don't tell him! but look here!" He turned himself on his face and through the rags of his jacket and shirt my friend saw the boy's flesh was bruised and the skin broken.
[Illustration]
"Why, boy, who beat you like that?"
"Father did, sir."
"What did your father beat you like that for?"
"Father got drunk sir, and beat me 'cos I wouldn't steal."
"Did you ever steal?"
"Yes, sir, I was a street thief once."
"And why don't you steal any more?"
"Please, sir, I went to the mission school, and they told me there of God and of Heaven and of Jesus and they taught me, 'Thou shalt not steal,' and I'll never steal again, if father kills me for it. But, please sir, don't tell him."
"My boy, you mast not stay here; you will die. Now you wait patiently here for a little time; I'm going away to see a lady. We will get a better place for you than this."
"Thank you sir, but please, sir, would you like to hear me sing a little hymn?"
Bruised, battered, forlorn; friendless, motherless; hiding away from an infuriated father he had a little hymn to sing.
"Yes, I will hear you sing your little hymn." He raised himself on his elbow and then sang:
"Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,Look upon a little child;Suffer me to come to Thee.Fain would I to Thee be brought,Gracious Lord, forbid it not;In the Kingdom of Thy graceGive a little child a place."
"That's the little hymn, sir; Goodbye."
The gentleman went away, came back again in less than two hours and climbed the ladder. There were the chips and there was the little toy with one hand by his side and the other tucked in his bosom underneath the little ragged shirt—dead.
-John B. Gough.