To business that we love, we rise betime,And go to it with delight.
To business that we love, we rise betime,And go to it with delight.
—Shakespeare.
Keep to Your Calling—Bishop Grostest, of Lincoln, told his brother, who asked him to make him a great man: "Brother," said he, "if your plough is broken, I'll pay the mending of it; or if an ox is dead, I'll pay for another; but a ploughman I found you, and a ploughman I'll leave you."
Who, knowing nothing, claim to know it all.What each intends, or will intend, they know.What in the queen's ear the king said, they know.What never was, or is—they know it, though!
Who, knowing nothing, claim to know it all.What each intends, or will intend, they know.What in the queen's ear the king said, they know.What never was, or is—they know it, though!
—Plautus.
The would-be buyer, alas! so often depreciates.
The road to "bye and bye" leads to the town of never.
—Spanish.
Do not insult calamity:It is a barb'rous grossness, to lay onThe weight of scorn, where heavy miseryToo much already weighs men's fortunes down.
Do not insult calamity:It is a barb'rous grossness, to lay onThe weight of scorn, where heavy miseryToo much already weighs men's fortunes down.
—Shakespeare.
I can't, does nothing.I'll try, effects miracles.I will, accomplishes everything.
I can't, does nothing.I'll try, effects miracles.I will, accomplishes everything.
—Unknown.
Among the ancient warriors it was a custom, when any one did a meritorious action, to say: "That will be a feather in his cap."
Whom the cap fits, let him wear it.
—Latin.
Capacity without education is deplorable.
—Saadi.
As to cards and dice, I think the safest and best way is never to learn to play them, and so be incapacitated for those dangerous temptations and encroaching wasters of time.
Cards were at first for benefits designed,Sent to amuse, not to enslave the mind.
Cards were at first for benefits designed,Sent to amuse, not to enslave the mind.
To carry care to bed is to sleep with a pack on your back.
—Haliburton.
Put off thy cares with thy clothes; so shall thy rest strengthen thy labour; and so shall thy labour sweeten thy rest.
To win a cat, and lose a cow. (Consequences of litigation).
—Persian.
Deliberate well on what you can do but once.
A life of caution is overpaid by the avoidance of one serious misfortune.
Say not always what you know, but always know what you say.
Never sign a paper you have not read, nor drink water you have not examined.
No two persons are ever more confidential and cordial than when they are censuring a third.
There are ceremonious bows that repel one like a cudgel.
—Bovee.
Excess of ceremony shows want of breeding—that civility is best which excludes all superfluous formality.
The only sure things are those that have already happened.
Dr. Chalmers of Scotland, arrived in London, on the 13th of May, 1817, and on the following day preached in Surrey Chapel, the anniversary sermon for the London Missionary Society. Although the service did not commence till eleven o'clock, at seven in the morning the chapel was crowded to excess, and many thousands went off for want of room. He rose and gave out his text from 1 Cor. xiv, 22-25. He had not proceeded many minutes till his voice gradually expanded in strength and compass, reaching every part of the house and commanding universalattention. His sermon occupied about an hour and a half in the delivery. A gentleman wrote to a friend: "I have just heard and witnessed the most astonishing display of human talent that perhaps ever commanded hearing; all my expectations were overwhelmed in the triumph of it."
At an afternoon service he preached in the Scotch Church, in Swallow Street. On approaching the church, Dr. Chalmers and a friend found so dense a mass within, and before the building, as to give no hope of effecting an entrance by the mere force of ordinary pressure. Lifting his cane and gently tapping the heads of those who were in advance, Dr. Chalmers' friend exclaimed, "Make way there, make way please, for Dr. Chalmers." The sturdy Londoners refused to move, believing it was a ruse. Forced to retire, Dr. Chalmers retreated from the outskirts of the crowd, crossed the street, stood for a few moments gazing on the growing tumult, and had almost resolved altogether to withdraw, as access by any of the ordinary entrances was impossible. At last a plank was projected from one of the windows very near the pulpit, till it rested on an iron palisade, and the Doctor and others gained entrance. The impression produced by the service which followed, when all had at last settled down into stillness, was deeper than that made by any of those which preceded it.
—From Memoirs of Thomas Chalmers, LL.D.By Rev. Wm. Hanna, LL.D.
What can be more foolish than to think that all this rare fabric of Heaven and earth could come by chance, when all the skill of art is not able to make an oyster!
Times change, and we change with them.
When you seek to change your condition, be sure that you can better it.
In a village churchyard in England, there is the following epitaph. It is there applied to a husband; but, by altering a single word, it can be made to apply to brother, sister, or comrade; and the one who fulfils all that is implied in the praise, is surely a most admirable character:
"He was—But words are wanting to say what;Think what a husband should be.He was that."
"He was—But words are wanting to say what;Think what a husband should be.He was that."
The sun has some spots on his surface, and the best and brightest characters are not without their faults and frailties.
The crown jewel of character is sincerity.
An appearance of delicacy is inseparable from sweetness and gentleness of character.
—Mrs. Sigourney.
He is not just who doth no wrong, but heWho will not when he may; not he who, luredBy some poor petty prize, abstains, but heWho with some mighty treasure in his graspMay sin securely, yet abhors the sin.Not he who closely skirts the pale of law,But he whose generous nature, void of guile—Would be,Not seem to be,The upright man.
He is not just who doth no wrong, but heWho will not when he may; not he who, luredBy some poor petty prize, abstains, but heWho with some mighty treasure in his graspMay sin securely, yet abhors the sin.Not he who closely skirts the pale of law,But he whose generous nature, void of guile—Would be,Not seem to be,The upright man.
—Philemon, a Greek.Translated by Millman.
As daylight can be seen through very small holes, so little things will illustrate a person's character.
Alexander Simpson, the elder brother of Sir James Simpson, watched over the boyhood of the latter with parental care. When the social usages of the town and the prevalent free mode of living presented strong temptations to the boy, Alexander would put his arm round his neck and tenderly warn him: "Others may do this, but it would break a' our hearts and blast a' your prospects were ye to do it." After one such warning, "Jamie was greatly troubled, and cried nearly a' the nicht (night) like to break his heart." He obeyed the warning, and became a celebrated physician in Edinburgh.
Small kindnesses, small courtesies, small considerations, habitually practiced in our social intercourse, give a greater charm to the character than the display of great talents and accomplishments.
—Kelty.
Character—After I have named the man, I need say no more.
—Pliny the Younger.
Oaths are not the cause why a man is believed, but the character of a man is the cause why the oath is believed.
—Aeschylus.
There is no man suddenly either excellently good, or extremely evil.
—Juvenalis.
He who aspires to public position, offers his character for a football.
No character is more glorious, none deserving of universal admiration and respect, than that of helping those who are in no condition of helping themselves.
Prosperity tries the human heart with the deepest probe, and brings forth the hidden character.
—Tacitus.
The history of a man is his character.
The firm foot is that which finds firm footing;The weak falters, although it be standing upon a rock.
The firm foot is that which finds firm footing;The weak falters, although it be standing upon a rock.
To be thoroughly good natured, and yet avoid being imposed upon, shows great strength of character.
The charitable give out at the door, and God puts in at the window.
—From the German.
When thy brother has lost all that he ever had, and lies languishing, and even gasping under the utmost extremities of poverty and distress, dost thou think to lick him whole again only with thy tongue?
—South.
That charity begins at home is true,Yet this is rightly understood by few.But, lest you should not easily discern,I counsel you, my friends, this lesson learn;The home of charity is a mind possess'dOf wishes to relieve whoe'er's distress'd;In town, or country, or on foreign shore,She's ne'er from home when pity's at the door.
That charity begins at home is true,Yet this is rightly understood by few.But, lest you should not easily discern,I counsel you, my friends, this lesson learn;The home of charity is a mind possess'dOf wishes to relieve whoe'er's distress'd;In town, or country, or on foreign shore,She's ne'er from home when pity's at the door.
Be not frightened at the hard words "imposition," "imposture;" give and ask no questions. "Cast thy bread upon the waters." Some have, unawares, entertained angels.
—Lamb.
As charity covers a multitude of sins before God, so does politeness before men.
—Lord Greville.
Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.
—Pope.
Where there is plenty, charity is a duty, not a courtesy.
—Feltham.
We step up, when we stoop down, to help the needy.
Did you ever see the horses taken to water? They rush into some beautiful stream, and drink of it to their heart's content; after which they turn their backs upon it, or stamp in it with their feet, until the water is polluted. This is the price they pay for their refreshing draught. But what, then does the noble river? It immediately floats away the mud, and continues after, as it was before, full and free of access for the same or other thirsty creatures. And so must you also do. If there be a fountain of genuine charity in your heart, it will constantly, and spontaneously overflow, whether those who drink of it are thankful or not. This life is the season for sowing and scattering; we shall reap hereafter.
Give freely to him that deserveth well, and asketh nothing.
I asked for alms!He flung a coin at meContemptuously.Not without sense of shameI stooped and picked it up.Does this fulfilThe Master's willTo give a cupOf water in His Name?I asked for bread!He handed out to meIndifferentlyA ticket for some food.It answered to my need.Was this the wayOn that great dayChrist stopped to feedThe hungry multitude?When we shall wait,After this mortal strife,Eternal life,And to His presence goAs suppliants indeed,Will it be thusHe will on usIn our great needHis priceless gift bestow?
I asked for alms!He flung a coin at meContemptuously.Not without sense of shameI stooped and picked it up.Does this fulfilThe Master's willTo give a cupOf water in His Name?
I asked for bread!He handed out to meIndifferentlyA ticket for some food.It answered to my need.Was this the wayOn that great dayChrist stopped to feedThe hungry multitude?
When we shall wait,After this mortal strife,Eternal life,And to His presence goAs suppliants indeed,Will it be thusHe will on usIn our great needHis priceless gift bestow?
—The Outlook.
It is charity not to excite a hope, when it must end in disappointment.
When you see a man in distress, acknowledge him at once your fellow man. Recollect that he is formed of the same materials, with the same feelings as yourself, and then relieve him as you yourself would wish to be relieved.
Leviticus, xxv, 35.—"And if thy brother be waxen poor, and fallen in decay with thee, then thou shalt relieve him; yea, though he be a stranger, or a sojourner; that he may live with thee."
Mr. H——, an ingenious artist, being driven out of all employment, and reduced to great distress, had no resource to which to apply except that of an elder brother, who was in good circumstances. To him, therefore, he applied, and begged some little hovel to live in, and some small provision for his support. The brother melted into tears, and said, "You, my dear brother! You live in a hovel! You are a man; you are an honor to the family. I am nothing. You shall take this house and the estate, and I will be your guest, if you please." The brothers lived together without its being distinguishable who was proprietor of the estate, till the death of the elder put the artist in possession of it.
They said, "The Master is comingTo honor the town to-day,And none can tell what house or homeHe may choose wherein to stay."Then straight I turned to toiling,To make my home more neat;I swept and polished and garnished,And decked it with blossoms sweet.But right in the midst of my dutiesA woman came to my door;She had come to tell me her sorrow,And my comfort and aid to implore.And I said, "I can not listen,Nor help you any to-day;I have greater things to attend to."So the pleader turned away.But soon there came another—A cripple, thin, pale and gray—And said, "O let me stop and restAwhile in your home I pray."I said, "I am grieved and sorry,But I can not keep you to-day;I look for a great and noble guest."And the cripple went away.And the day wore onward swiftly,And my task was nearly done,And a prayer was ever in my heartThat the Master to me might come.I thought I would spring to meet Him,And treat Him with utmost care,When a little child stood by meWith a face so sweet and fair—Sweet, but with marks of tear drops—And his clothes were tattered old;A finger was bruised and bleeding,And his little bare feet were cold.And I said, "I am sorry for you:You are sorely in need of care,But I can not stop to give it;You must hasten other where."And at the words a shadowSwept over his blue-veined brow."Some one will feed and clothe you, dear,But I am too busy now."At last, my toil was over and done,My house was swept and garnished,And I watched in the dusk alone;I waited till night had deepened,And the Master had not come;"He has entered some other door," I cried,"And gladdened some other home!"Then the Master stood before me,And His face was grave and fair;"Three times to-day I came to your door,And craved your pity and care.Three times you sent Me onward,Unhelped and uncomforted;And the blessing you might have had was lost,And your chance to serve has fled.""O Lord, dear Lord, forgive me;How could I know it was Thee?"My very soul was shamed and bowedIn the depths of humility.And He said, "The sin is pardoned,But the blessing is lost to thee,For failing to comfort the least of Mine,You have failed to comfort Me."
They said, "The Master is comingTo honor the town to-day,And none can tell what house or homeHe may choose wherein to stay."Then straight I turned to toiling,To make my home more neat;I swept and polished and garnished,And decked it with blossoms sweet.
But right in the midst of my dutiesA woman came to my door;She had come to tell me her sorrow,And my comfort and aid to implore.And I said, "I can not listen,Nor help you any to-day;I have greater things to attend to."So the pleader turned away.
But soon there came another—A cripple, thin, pale and gray—And said, "O let me stop and restAwhile in your home I pray."I said, "I am grieved and sorry,But I can not keep you to-day;I look for a great and noble guest."And the cripple went away.
And the day wore onward swiftly,And my task was nearly done,And a prayer was ever in my heartThat the Master to me might come.
I thought I would spring to meet Him,And treat Him with utmost care,When a little child stood by meWith a face so sweet and fair—Sweet, but with marks of tear drops—And his clothes were tattered old;A finger was bruised and bleeding,And his little bare feet were cold.
And I said, "I am sorry for you:You are sorely in need of care,But I can not stop to give it;You must hasten other where."And at the words a shadowSwept over his blue-veined brow."Some one will feed and clothe you, dear,But I am too busy now."
At last, my toil was over and done,My house was swept and garnished,And I watched in the dusk alone;I waited till night had deepened,And the Master had not come;"He has entered some other door," I cried,"And gladdened some other home!"
Then the Master stood before me,And His face was grave and fair;"Three times to-day I came to your door,And craved your pity and care.Three times you sent Me onward,Unhelped and uncomforted;And the blessing you might have had was lost,And your chance to serve has fled."
"O Lord, dear Lord, forgive me;How could I know it was Thee?"My very soul was shamed and bowedIn the depths of humility.And He said, "The sin is pardoned,But the blessing is lost to thee,For failing to comfort the least of Mine,You have failed to comfort Me."
John Paul, of Siena, was always very liberal to the poor. On his deathbed he exclaimed, "What I have kept, that have I lost, and what I have given away, that I have yet, what I have refused I now regret."
Another is reported to have said: "I have lost everything except what I have given away."
When God made the earth, it shook to and fro till He put mountains on it to keep it firm. Then the angels asked, "O God, is there anything in Thy creation stronger than these mountains?" And God replied, "Iron is stronger than the mountains, for it breaks them." "And is there anything in Thy creation stronger than iron?" "Yes, fire is stronger than iron, for it melts it." "Is there anything stronger than fire?" "Yes, water, for it quenches fire." "Is there anything stronger than water?" "Yes, wind, for it puts water in motion." "O, our Sustainer, is there anything in Thy creation stronger than wind?" "Yes, a good man giving alms; if he gives it with his right hand, and conceals it from his left, he overcomes all things."Every good act is charity; your smiling in your brother's face, your putting a wanderer in the right road, your giving water to the thirsty is charity; exhortation to another to do right is charity. A man's true wealth hereafter is the good he has done in this world to his fellowmen. When he dies, people will ask: "What property has he left behind him?" But the angels will ask: "What good deeds has he sent before him?"
Charity—It is another's fault if he be ungrateful; but it is mine if I do not give. To find one thankful man, I will oblige many that are not so.
—Seneca.
He gives double who gives unasked.
He that cheats me aince (once) shame fa him; but he that cheats me twice shame fa me.
—Scotch.
The cheekIs apter than the tongue, to tell an errand.
The cheekIs apter than the tongue, to tell an errand.
—Shakespeare.
If you have a word of cheer,Speak it, while I am alive to hear.
If you have a word of cheer,Speak it, while I am alive to hear.
Margaret Preston.
You find yourself refreshed by the presence of cheerful people. Why not make earnest effort to confer that pleasure on others?
—L. M. Child.
Cheerfulness smoothes the road of life.
—German.
Cheerfulness is full of significance: it suggests good health, a clear conscience, and a soul at peace with all human nature.
—Charles Kingsley.
Chide a friend in private, and praise him in public.
—Solon.
A writer once told how a little child preached a sermon to him.
"Is your father at home?" I asked a small child at our village doctor's doorstep.
"No," she said, "he's away."
"Where do you think I could find him?"
"Well," she said, with a considering air, "you've got to look for some place where people are sick or hurt, or something like that. I don't know where he is, but he's helping somewhere."
How happy are thy days! How sweet thy repose! How calm thy rest! Thou slumberest upon the earth more soundly than many a miser and worldling upon his bed of down. And the reason is—that thou hast a gracious God and an easy conscience. A stranger to all care, thou awakest only to resume thy play, or ask for food to satisfy thy hunger.
A full-blown rose besprinkled with the purest dew, is not so beautiful as a child blushing beneath her parents' displeasure, and shedding tears of sorrow for her fault.
A torn jacket is soon mended; but hard words bruise the heart of a child.
—Longfellow.
He who does not correct his own child, will later beat his own breast.
The future destiny of the child is always the work of the mother.
—Napoleon.
A child's eyes! Those clear wells of undefiled thought! What on earth can be more beautiful! Full of hope, love, and curiosity, they meet your own. In prayer, how earnest! In joy, how sparkling! In sympathy, how tender!
—Mrs. Norton.
These little shoes! How proud she was of these!Can you forget how, sitting on your knees,She used to prattle volubly, and raiseHer tiny feet to win your wondering praise?
These little shoes! How proud she was of these!Can you forget how, sitting on your knees,She used to prattle volubly, and raiseHer tiny feet to win your wondering praise?
—William Canton.
When thou dost eat from off this plate,I charge thee be thou temperate;Unto thine elders at the boardDo thou sweet reverence accord;And, though to dignity inclined,Unto the serving-folk be kind;Be ever mindful of the poor,Nor turn them hungry from the door;And unto God, for health and foodAnd all that in thy life is good,Give thou thy heart in gratitude.
When thou dost eat from off this plate,I charge thee be thou temperate;Unto thine elders at the boardDo thou sweet reverence accord;And, though to dignity inclined,Unto the serving-folk be kind;Be ever mindful of the poor,Nor turn them hungry from the door;And unto God, for health and foodAnd all that in thy life is good,Give thou thy heart in gratitude.
Words of praise are almost as necessary to warm a child into a genial life as acts of kindness and affection. Judicious praise is to children what the sun is to flowers.
—Bovee.
What the child says out of doors, he has learned indoors.
I hold it a religious dutyTo love and worship children's beauty;They've least the taint of earthly clod,They're freshest from the hand of God;With heavenly looks they make us sureThe heaven that made them must be pure;We love them not in earthly fashion,But with a beatific passion.I chanced to, yesterday, beholdA maiden child of beauty's mould;'Twas near, more sacred was the scene,The palace of our patriot Queen.The little charmer to my viewWas sculpture brought to life anew.Her eyes had a poetic glow,Her pouting mouth was Cupid's bow:And through her frock I could descryHer neck and shoulders' symmetry.'Twas obvious from her walk and gaitHer limbs were beautifully straight;I stopp'd th' enchantress and was told,Though tall, she was but four years' old.Her guide so grave an aspect woreI could not ask a question more;But follow'd her. The little oneThrew backward ever and anonHer lovely neck, as if to say,"I know you love me, Mister Grey;"For by its instincts childhood's eyeIs shrewd in physiognomy;They well distinguish fawning artFrom sterling fondness of the heart.And so she flirted, like a trueGood woman, till we bade adieu.'Twas then I with regret grew wild,Oh, beauteous, interesting child!Why ask'd I not thy home and name?My courage fail'd me—more's the shame.But where abides this jewel rare?Oh, ye that own her, tell me where!For sad it makes my heart and soreTo think I ne'er may meet her more.
I hold it a religious dutyTo love and worship children's beauty;They've least the taint of earthly clod,They're freshest from the hand of God;With heavenly looks they make us sureThe heaven that made them must be pure;We love them not in earthly fashion,But with a beatific passion.I chanced to, yesterday, beholdA maiden child of beauty's mould;'Twas near, more sacred was the scene,The palace of our patriot Queen.The little charmer to my viewWas sculpture brought to life anew.Her eyes had a poetic glow,Her pouting mouth was Cupid's bow:And through her frock I could descryHer neck and shoulders' symmetry.'Twas obvious from her walk and gaitHer limbs were beautifully straight;I stopp'd th' enchantress and was told,Though tall, she was but four years' old.Her guide so grave an aspect woreI could not ask a question more;But follow'd her. The little oneThrew backward ever and anonHer lovely neck, as if to say,"I know you love me, Mister Grey;"For by its instincts childhood's eyeIs shrewd in physiognomy;They well distinguish fawning artFrom sterling fondness of the heart.And so she flirted, like a trueGood woman, till we bade adieu.'Twas then I with regret grew wild,Oh, beauteous, interesting child!Why ask'd I not thy home and name?My courage fail'd me—more's the shame.But where abides this jewel rare?Oh, ye that own her, tell me where!For sad it makes my heart and soreTo think I ne'er may meet her more.
—Thomas Campbell.
One day a little girl looking out of the window saw a number of poor men from a nearby jail, working in the hot sun of a July day. They looked tired and hot, and she knew they must be thirsty. She remembered Christ's words, "I was thirsty and ye gave Me drink, was in prison, and ye came unto Me," and the thought came to her, "I can do both." With her mother's permission she took a little bucket of cold water, with a dipper, and gave to each man in turn, refilling the bucket several times. As she went from one to another in her white frock, her sweet smile gave even better cheer than the water. The thanks of the prisoners were very hearty. One asked her, "Little lady, what made you do this?"
After a moment's pause, she replied, "That is what Christ said to do, and—I was sorry myself." He lowered his head and said, "God bless you, little Christ-child."
A man soon learns how little he knows, when a child begins to ask questions.
The child's restless observation, instead of being ignored or checked, should be diligently ministered to, and made as accurate as possible.
—Herbert Spencer.
Speak gently to the little child!Its love be sure to gain;Teach it in accents soft and mild:It may not long remain.
Speak gently to the little child!Its love be sure to gain;Teach it in accents soft and mild:It may not long remain.
—Geo. W. Hangford.
I Samuel ii, 18—"Samuel ministered before the Lord, being a child; girded with a linen ephod."
The Rev. John Brown was born in 1722, in the county of Perth in Scotland. In a narrative of his experience, he remarks, "I reflect on it as a great mercy, that I was born in a family which took care of my Christian instruction, and in which I had the privilege of God's worship, morning and evening. About the eighth year of my age, I happened, in a crowd, to push into the church at Abernethy, on a Sacrament Sabbath. Before I was excluded, I heard a minister speak much in commendation of Christ; this, in a sweet and delightful manner, captivated my young affections, and has since made me think that children should never be kept out of church on such occasions."
To impose on a child to get by heart a long scroll of phrases without any ideas, is a practice fitter for a jackdaw than for anything that wears the shape of man.
—Dr. I. Watts.
The tear down childhood's cheek that flows,Is like the dewdrop on the rose.
The tear down childhood's cheek that flows,Is like the dewdrop on the rose.
—Scott.
The following is a true narrative of an experience in life:
It was nearing three o'clock of last Easter afternoon, when a woman, clad in deepest mourning, entered the gates of the beautiful "sleeping place" on Walnut Hill. Her attitude, as she sank upon a carefully tended mound, denoted deep dejection. She had not yet learned that the "tree of death is fruited with the love of God," neither the joy of the "afterward," but knew only the grope of a stricken soul.
In the distance, sat a child upon a grave, alone. Coming nearer, she recognized him as one who had never known a mother, and whose father had lately been taken, leaving him without kindred. The love between that father and child had been passing sweet.
The bereaved lady knew this, and that he had been thrown homeless upon the world. Yet, absorbed in her own grief, had given him little thought. Drawing near, she observed closely the rare beauty of the boy, scarcely five years of age, genius and nobility stamped on his brow, and exquisite tenderness on the mobile lips.
He looked up eagerly, asking fearlessly, "Is your name Mary? Are you the woman who talked with the angel when the stone was rolled away."
"Oh, no, dear," she replied. "Whom are you looking for?"
"For Jesus!" said the boy reverently.
"But he is not here. He is risen."
"Yes, I know, that's it, but I've been waiting here all day for Him to come and raise my papa up. He's late, and I thought maybe He sent you to tell me to wait a little, just as He sent Mary to tell His disciples, you know," said the boy, wistfully.
"Yes, dear, but"—hesitating to shatter the boy's beautiful faith.
"I am tired" (pathetically), "but it is never too late for Jesus," he added bravely, while a tear rolled down the velvet cheek. "He is sure to come, 'cause it is the Rising Day" (exultingly). "Don't you 'member?"
The woman stooped to kiss the child, and began to sob violently, dropping on the grave beside him.
"What makes you cry, lady? Is your papa here to be raised up?"
"No, no, darling, but my sweet daughter is."
"Don't cry, then," stroking the lady's hand. "Jesus never goes by Rising Day. He'll surely come and give you your little girl and me my papa! He'll come to-night. I saw the two men who came from[256:A]Emmaus go by early this morning, and they will be walking back soon in the evening, and Jesus will meet them and turn and walk with them, and they will all be talking gently about the dying and the rising, and the men will not know Him, but I shall, and He will stop here when I call, and raise my papa up."
"How will you know Him, dear boy?"
"By His smile and the Transfiguration picture that papa showed me in his study. But I'll know Him bestest in here," putting his hand on his breast, "by the love!" raising his lustrous eyes to hers.
"Will you know your papa? Are you sure?"
"My papa!" with wondering ecstatic voice. "My own papa! I shall know him by the love, and you your littlegirl. They will not look the same, 'cause Jesus didn't, but they knew Him by their love!"
"Yes?"
"And we'll know them by our love!" lingering fondly on the repetition with lustrous, far-seeing gaze.
The woman clasped the child to her breast with a passionate embrace, while rising to meet a supreme hour. (The child must not—shall not be disappointed and his beautiful faith shattered).
"Phillip!" she said, "listen. The angel sent me to tell you that Jesus had gone into heaven, and to take you to your papa. Come!"
Without a moment's hesitation he took his messenger's (?) hand and passed out of the gates, looking not backward by a glance. Expectation held him silent, while the woman's face was illumined by a great light. Entering the door of a pleasant house, she passed on through the hall into the dining-room, saying to the maid: "Bring some food for this dear child; he has fasted all day."
A pitcher of milk and a plate of bread and honey were set beside a plate of cold, broiled fish.
"Now I know this is the house," the boy exclaimed exultingly, "for they had the fish, the bread and the honey! It's all here, just the same, and he'll come to-night!"
Turning swiftly to the hall, the woman almost flew along the corridor to meet her husband's steps. Drawing him to one side, she told with rapture of her encounter and the sweet expectancy below.
"Now, Harold, Heaven has sent us a child, who shall be the angel to roll away the stone from our grave. His wonderful vision must not be darkened, neither his faith destroyed. Rise, my husband, to the most glorious hour of your life. 'I shall know him by the love,' he said. Let us see that he does."
Returning for the child and extending her hand with a smile, he eagerly asked, "Will you wash and comb me to meet my papa? It isn't too late yet, is it?"
The voice was half a sob, but full of hope. The ineffable trust pierced her heart while reassuring him with swift, tender tones.
"Come, Phillip, we will go to him," she cried tremblingly.
As she opened the door upon a winning, noble-faced man with tears on his cheek, smiling with outstretched arms upon the boy, he hesitated a moment, took one step forward and then leaped into the open arms, threw his noble head back, and gazed with lustrous, questioning eyes.
"You don't look like my papa, quite."
"No?" (anxiously).
"'Cause you are changed. But I know you by the love, and you know me, don't you?"
"By the love, dear boy," with shining eyes, but marble lips.
The child nestled down upon the breast, his chest heaving, while the man stroked the soft curls, soothing him with every word known to love's alphabet, till finally, crooning a cradle song, the exhausted child fell asleep. He had found a father by the love. His faith was saved, and by it, she who had groped blindly among the tombs had found her Easter.
—From the Christian Observer, March 30, 1904.By Mrs. Helen Strong Thompson.