"I never said I wasn't his friend, only as I was put in a false position. I think I am a great deal better Christian than some who stood up there tonight, but as long as I can't talk about repentance and faith and that sort of thing, I suppose I mustn't call myself one."
"I don't understand you yet," said Herbert, perplexed and sorry. "What do you mean by being a better Christian when you don't pretend to repent of sin or to have faith in Christ?"
"Why, I mean this: In the first place, I try to do just as well as I can always. I've studied that Sermon on the Mount, and I make it my guide. And I don't know as I have done anything to repent of; and as for faith, I don't know what you mean. I believe in Christ, of course, and follow Him, too. You see, Bert, I am not your sort, but if I do what I think is right, God can't require anything more."
"I feel that you are wrong," said his friend, "though I don't suppose I could convince you. But won't you read that guide over again, and see if you haven't neglected something, and then remember that God requires perfect obedience?"
"I don't believe that God requires impossibilities," returned Lewie.
"If he only requires what we are able to perform, why did Christ take up the work of our salvation?" asked Herbert, us they parted at the gate.
One could scarcely find a flaw in Lewie Amesbury's outward life. He walked straight through the temptations that beset the boys of Westville, es in other places, and in the midst of which so many fell. At home he was vexed and annoyed, misunderstood and reproached. Yet, keeping silence, he was patient and thoughtful of others' comfort. He was industrious and studious, respectful in the house of God, and a thoroughly gentlemanly boy, growing in manliness and rapidly advancing intellectually. He only needed the crowning gift, the one thing needful, to round his character out into perfect proportions. Lacking this, what but failure could he make of his life ultimately!
Yet he was not like the young man who went away sorrowful; he had never seemed troubled about the interests of eternity, always dismissing the subject with the utmost unconcern.
"And you are not coming with the rest to-morrow?" The speaker was Tom Nichols, who was spending a few days with his old friends, and he referred to the fact that a large number, the fruits of a recent revival, were about to unite with the church. He was addressing Lewie, who replied, somewhat coldly—
"No. I have attended some of the meetings, but I have had very little interest in the matter. My time and thoughts have been very much engrossed with other things."
"Weightier matters?" asked Tom meaningly.
"Everyday duties," replied Lewie. "I suppose you call those mighty; at least you will acknowledge that they ought to receive attention."
"Certainly, after the one all-important duty has been disposed of. You remember it says, 'Seek ye first the kingdom.'"
"And that is in your creed-chapter," said Herbert, who was present.
"Well, boys, I don't see these things as you do. My ideas of what is required of us are different from yours. Herbert, you and I have the same motto, but we read it differently and go our ways accordingly. This is mine. Good night."
DECISIONS.
"All to leave end follow Thee."
THERE were many changed households in Westville. Perhaps nowhere was the change more marked than in the homes of the Lorings and the Knapps.
"How much they need Christ," was Mabel's thought months ago; but now He is with them an ever-present Friend and Helper.
At the Lorings's, the proud and haughty father has become a humble learner at the feet of the Great Teacher, led there through sorrow and bereavement. Willy's short life had not been fruitless. He brought a blessing to the home he left so early, and where his were the only prayers ever offered. The family altar has been established, the lonely mother is comforted, and Louise rejoices in her Saviour's love.
At the Knapps's, there is peace and harmony. The children are obedient and respectful, the tried mother has found a rest, and the stern father, remembering God's patience and long-suffering as exercised toward him, has grown more gentle and forbearing toward his children.
Mr. Earle's request that Willy and Helen should remain at home with the little ones while their parents came to church gave Helen much trouble. What! Stay at home from those precious meetings! How could she get on without the help and instruction which she found there? Mr. Earle could not have thought how much she loved to be there, nor how much she needed to hear him talk. She carried a very sober face to school the next morning, and brought it home with her at night—at least she started with it. She stopped a few minutes at Mr. Trafton's, and while Alice went to get a book for her, she sat in Henry's room.
"You find the meetings very pleasant, do you not?" he said.
"Oh, yes, indeed. I wouldn't miss them for anything."
"Ah!" returned Henry, smiling, "I've missed a great many; but I have had some meetings here a great deal more precious than any I ever attended anywhere else."
"Why, do you ever have a meeting here?" asked Helen.
"Yes," he replied, still smiling. "When the rest are away, my Saviour meets me here, and teaches and comforts me. If one can go to church, of course he can't look for a blessing by staying at home; but if kept at home by sickness or duty to others, Christ will not forget, especially if the sacrifice be a willing one. Alice is calling you."
"What a patient boy Henry Trafton is," thought Helen; "and how perfectly happy he looked when he talked about the visits of his Saviour. I wonder—I will!"
"Mother," she said, on reaching home, "I'll stay at home tonight, and you can go to church."
"And if father will go with you, I'll stay, too," added Willy.
Mr. Earle had not forgotten to send a special reminder to Mr. Knapp's shop that afternoon, and God blessing the efforts put forth in his name, both parents were ere long rejoicing in sins forgiven, and Helen felt that she had gained by her sacrifice.
And where was the son and brother while these at home were coming within the fold? To show that he was not forgotten, I copy a part of a letter written about this time.
"WESTVILLE."MY DEAR ARTHUR:—I have in my possession a little note which you wrote to me two years ago. In it you say, 'I think I love Jesus. I am trying to follow the White Line.'"My dear boy, are you still following on? I have feared much for you. I know very little of your associations and habits; but, oh, I do know that temptation must come to every one, and that we all need to be faithful and on our guard. Sometimes the tempter creeps in under disguises, and we fail to recognise him until we have fallen. My dear Arthur, I want you for Christ, I want you to be a comfort to your parents, a help to your brothers and sisters, an example to your companions, a blessing to the world. Are you? Are you doing God's work? You remember what I used to tell you about honouring Christ everywhere, at home, in the street, in places of business, as well as in the sanctuary. If we love Him we shall delight to do Him honour."If you have drawn back, if you are not following Christ, let me entreat you to no longer tamper with your salvation. It would be a terrible thing to slide back a little too far, to be a little too late. Don't risk your soul in that way. I have wished that you were here while so many are coming to Christ; but He is just as near to you where you are, if you will only reach out and take hold of his outstretched hand. Will you?"I do not know just how to advise you because I know so little of your life at present. It may be that you do not always find your associates pleasant. It may be that they are not always safe companions. Shun their evil ways, seek opportunities to do them good, but beware of following their examples. It may be that your employers sometimes seem hard or unjust. Let me say that the world is full of just such little fretting things, and if we allow them to fret and annoy us, we shall never have a moment's peace. We are never going to find a place here that will be free from annoying circumstance. And it is just in this way that we prove that we are one with Christ. If we bear our trials, do our work, taking the good and ill together, as coming from our Father's hand, accepting with a spirit of obedience and consecration whatever comes to us, we shall find our hearts growing restful. Then shall our lives be peaceful and full of good works."Your friend,"MABEL MCNAIR."
To this letter Arthur made answer:—
"DEAR TEACHER:— . . . I do not dare to call myself a disciple, though I think I do love the Saviour. But I wander so often and so far. It seems that I have no strength to resist temptation, and yet if it were not for Christ's love drawing me back, I must have gone to ruin long ago. I wish I could cut loose from my sins, but it does seem sometimes as though Satan was determined to have possession. I have no time to grow in grace, for I am continually wandering and then repenting. I should like to make a public profession of my love for Jesus, but I dare not, I should so soon dishonour the name. I am not worthy to take the Christian name. I belong to a Bible class here, but it is not like the dear little class in Westville. I miss the Saturday evening talks."Do you think that Christ will accept me? Dare I come to his Supper? I should like to come home in the spring, and join the church with the rest, if I was only fit. I know you pray for all of us boys. I wish we were all following. Will you pray especially for me, that I may be strengthened to resist temptation?"Your loving pupil,"ARTHUR KNAPP."
A long letter was written in response to this, but I will quote only a sentence or two:—
"My dear boy, the only fitness required for the step you desire to take is a humble, childlike trust in Christ. If you feel your own weakness, remember in Him is strength; if you realise that you are sinful, remember that it was to save a lost and sinful race that He came; if you feel that you really love the Saviour, and that He is your only hope, you need not fear to come."
With great hesitation, with many doubts and fears, Arthur came. Mabel rejoiced, though her joy was dimmed by the thought of the two who would not come, and she prayed as she had often before—
"My whole dear class for Jesus!Oh, let not one be lost."
Tom and Herbert had many long talks during the visit of the former. Very soon after his conversion, Tom had asked, "Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?" And the answer had come to him as it comes to all who ask in sincerity. By his providence and by his spirit God had said, "Go, proclaim the gospel of my Son, Jesus Christ."
In the experience of the last few months, and, indeed, in his whole Christian life, Herbert began now to see a hand pointing him to the same course; and his talks with Tom, their comparison of experience and feelings, had strengthened his growing conviction that his early choice of a life-work had been a mistake.
Tom had gone. Mr. Bradford and Herbert were busy at the office, Herbert writing in the private office, his father talking with clients in the outer room. Presently a low, soft voice attracted the attention of the copyist.
"I am looking for work," said the lady to whom the voice belonged, and whom Mr. Bradford recognised as the daughter of a once wealthy, but lately insolvent manufacturer. "My penmanship has always been considered as something remarkable for an unprofessional; and my choice of work would be something which would call this one talent into use. I have called to ask you if you do not need a copyist."
Mr. Bradford began a reply to the effect that he was sorry, but for the present his son was acting in that capacity; but was interrupted by a call from the inner office.
"Father! Excuse the interruption, but will you step here? I am quite ready," he continued, in a low voice, "to resign in favour of Miss Dean. I—in short, I have decided to accept your offer of a college course."
"And give up a business life?"
"Yes; that is—I think I must be about my Master's business."
"Ah! The ministry?" questioned Mr. Bradford.
"Yes, sir. I think I ought. You do not object?"
"No," a little doubtfully. "I knew Mr. Earle had his eye upon you."
"Mr. Earle! He has never spoken a word to me about it. I was going to consult him this afternoon; but I should have spoken to you first, if Miss Dean had not called."
Mr. Bradford had been sincerely sorry; and now he was sincerely glad, because of the answer he had to give the waiting lady, and as Miss Dean herself was very glad to hear the favourable decision, there were several persons in that very desirable state of mind.
To tell the truth, Herbert had anticipated some little opposition upon his father's part. He had been bent upon a mercantile life, and had with some difficulty won his parents' consent, and he expected to be accused of fickleness. Then he fancied that he had foreseen several arguments which his father would use to prove that he should study law, in case he made a change, and he had prepared himself to answer these; but to his surprise, he had no use for his counter arguments. As Mr. Bradford hinted, he was not unprepared for this announcement, and he was not so worldly as to wish to keep Herbert from the path of duty.
"It seems strange," said Herbert, in the course of his talk with Mr. Earle, "that, if you had this in mind, you should never have spoken of it to me."
Mr. Earle smiled.
"I knew the matter was in safe hands. I might be mistaken, and I was sure that if the Lord really wanted you for this work, he would make it known to you in his own good time."
As I am writing of decisions, I will record one more. I have somewhere said that Nick Turner was an out-and-out loafer. He worked when obliged to, and the rest of the time, he smoked, drank, and gambled. His father was a well-to-do farmer, living half a mile from the village. Kindly old Mr. Turner and his sweet-faced wife were growing old and sad faster than their years warranted. Years do not bow one down to the earth like the carrying of a heavy heart; and what burden can weigh heavier upon a parent's heart than the living death of the first-born?
Nick's help upon the farm counted for very little; consequently his father was astonished at a remark he made one morning.
"Father, if Gibbs wants Jonas, you may as well let him go. I'll take his place for the summer. I would like to go West next year, if you will help me off; but for the present, you may depend upon me."
"Can I depend upon you?" asked the father gently, but meaningly.
"Yes, sir. I think so. You know that I am not just the boy I was a few weeks ago. At least I hope so."
"Yes; I know. I know, Nicholas, that you are not the same. Thank God for it. I only meant—Well, I am afraid you will get tired of work; and it will be bad for me to lose the chance of keeping a steady hand. But if you say you'll stick to it, I'll trust you. Thank God, I have my boy back again."
It was a simple affair that took Herbert Bradford out to the farmhouse one afternoon two months previous to this conversation. The apples from the Turner orchard were famous, and Mr. Bradford had sent Herbert out to engage a few bushels, to be brought in when convenient. Yes, they could spare a few, the old man said, and Nicholas might as well drive down then, and Herbert could ride with him. That was the young Christian's opportunity, and out of the few earnest words spoken during that drive grew the little talk that ended with, "Thank God, I have my boy back again!"
SOWINGS.
"And thy soul may see the valueOf its patient morns and eves,When the everlasting garnerShall be filled with precious sheaves."
IT was a bright summer day, just after dinner. Julia Bradford stood in the front doorway, waiting for her particular friend Alice Trafton. Her broad-brimmed sun-hat lay upon the stop, and she was putting lines in her young face in the desperate effort to make sense out of what seemed to her a senseless paragraph in her despised Cæsar.
"Dear me!" she thought, closing the book. "I can't do anything with it. I suppose Herbert would help me, but I won't ask him now while Mr. Amesbury is here. I don't like him much. I wonder why it is that Bertie is so fond of him? I suppose it is because they are such old friends, but they are so very unlike. Lewie is nice, that's certain, and that is just the trouble; he thinks that being nice and proper, kind and generous, and all that, is going to open heaven's door. What puzzles me is, what did Christ come for, if we can live so as to merit God's favour?
"Oh, I am glad I haven't got to depend upon my good deeds as a ladder to climb into heaven upon. It would be too short to reach the threshold, and what would I lean it against? But that is just what Mr. Amesbury is depending upon. I heard him say so yesterday. Why don't somebody try to reason him out of such a dreadful mistake? I suppose that would not be easy. Why don't Alice come? What a silky, shiny hat that is, and that duster hasn't a wrinkle in it. The fellow always looks as though he were done up fresh every morning. But, nice as he is, I can't quite like him. There's something lacking."
Here she returned to her Latin puzzle for a few moments, then leaned out to look for Alice, and suddenly, as if a new idea presented itself, she threw down the book and sprang up the staircase. Returning a moment later, she took the shiny hat from the rack and slipped a folded paper under the lining, with an inaudible, "If it please Thee, O God, in thine own time, let this see the light and do its work."
Replacing the hat, she picked up her own, and went down the walk to join her tardy friend.
Herbert and Lewie were at home for their summer vacation, and as Lewie did not find his home more congenial, but rather less so, as the years went by, he had fallen into the habit of spending much of his time at the Bradfords's, and this is how it happened that the speckless hat and unwrinkled duster were hanging upon the hall rack upon that particular summer day.
"Am I late?" asked Alice, as she came hurrying down the street. "You see father had a letter that we were all interested in, and I stayed to talk it over. Uncle Philip has written to invite Henry to make his home with his family in New York this next winter, and I am to go to take care of him. He is to paint in the studio of some great artist, and I am to take organ lessons. Isn't it splendid?
"Uncle Philip," she continued, "took the pictures father sent him to the artist, and he said they showed a remarkable talent. You know Henry only took one quarter's lessons of Ledlie. Oh, I am so glad! Of course I am glad that I am going, but it is for Henry that I care the most; he has waited so long and patiently for the opportunity, and now that it has come, he is just as quiet as ever, but I can't keep still. Say, Julia, don't you think it is lovely?"
"I should have said so several minutes ago, if you had given me a chance," returned Julia, laughing. "I am very glad indeed. When do you go?"
"The first of October, and this is the third week in August. Only six weeks to get ready!"
"It is fortunate that it is no longer. Westville couldn't hold you a great while."
"Oh, I shall quiet down presently, and settle to planning and contriving, turning things wrong side out and upside down, sponging, piecing and stretching, in the effort to get up a presentable wardrobe with the least possible expense."
"You talk as if your father was a poor man," said Julia, with another laugh.
"Well, I suppose he could give me all I want, but I like to be economical. Mother says she got in the way of it in the first years after father gave up letting horses upon Sunday. You know business fell off, and Henry's sickness cost so much that I suppose they felt very poor, but father says he has never been sorry that he took that stand. I have heard him say that it was his first step toward becoming a Christian."
"I think it was real noble in your father to take such a stand," said Julia, with enthusiasm. "Such things always make me feel jubilant; and this reminds me, Bertie had a letter from Nick Turner this morning. You remember, he went West a year ago. He says—"
But while Julia tells the story in her way, we will read for ourselves what he says:—
"MY DEAR FRIEND:—Seeing you were so kind as to write to me, and as you requested an answers, I will try to do as you wish, though I am not much of a writer. I write home to the old folks pretty often and manage to make them understand what I mean, but it is just as it is in talking. With some folks the words slip out easy like, and sound all smooth and regular, while other, blunder along, getting in the wrong words, or the right ones in the wrong places, and I happen to be one of the blunderers with the pen. I can do some things a sight better than I can write letters."How did I happen to come out here? Well, you see there are a good many reasons. The Westville folks never could forget that I had been Nick Turner the loafer, and it wasn't pleasant for a fellow to hear it whispered, 'He was one of the worst characters in the town. I'm afraid he won't hold out.' 'I hope he is really sincere, but he has been so dissipated that his old habits may prove too strong.' Now, that's what I did hear whispered, and I thought I would come off out here where I could have a fair chance. If I'd a been needed at home, I'd a stuck it through, but if Em's husband took hold of things there, I was only in the way, so I just swung off, and I'm awful glad I did. This is a grand country to draw breath in, and I've got just the snuggest slice off the prairie that ever a man looked at. This is going to be a grand farming country."You ask if I have the means of grace here. Well, I have my Bible, and a Saviour to pray to, if that's what you mean; but if you mean ministers and churches and Christian people, we haven't them here. There is work for a missionary. I hope you'll get through your Greek and Hebrew, and all that, as soon as possible, and come out here and talk to these fellows just as you did to me that night I took the apples home for you. There wasn't a bit of Greek in that talk, but for all that, it hit just right, and I thank God to-day for sending you to me."Another question you ask, What am I doing for Jesus? I can tell you what I am trying to do. I board with a man who owns the next bit of prairie to mine, and it isn't much like home, I can tell you. I missed mother's bread and butter the first meal I ate here, but I missed father's blessing the most, and the next time when we got to the table, I said, 'See here, mister, if you'd just as lief, I'd like to say a bit of prayer over the victuals. I've been used to it at home, and it don't seem right not to do it.'"'Pray away,' was what he said, and I opened my mouth, and I think God put the words into my heart, for they were never my own rough words. Since then I always say them at every meal, and I think the folks are getting to like it, for if I am behind time, they always wait. Then I try to speak a word for Christ when it comes right, and the boys—here are ten or twelve in the neighbourhood—all hang on to me just as they did in Westville, when I was such a bad sinner that I led them the wrong way. Well, every Sunday we get together. There is a little cabin on my land, and we generally go there, and I try to tell them about the Saviour, and about God's laws, and all the good things that I know."All this isn't much to do, but you see I ain't a scholar. I can't explain things very well, but I can read to them what the Bible says, and tell them what Christ has done for me, and then I can pray; one needn't be a Greek scholar to pray. Thank God, anybody that has wants can pray, and God can understand if one don't get the words all in straight. Last Sunday the man I board with, and another member, came in. I felt a little kinder queer, for Mr. Blake has been to the Assembly, but I said to Nick Turner, 'Now, don't be ashamed of Christ, and upset all the work you've been trying to do by running away,' and he answered back, 'I ain't ashamed of Christ; it is my blundering way of reading and talking that I'm ashamed of;' but I said again, 'You are mistaken; you talk to these same men by the hour about farming, and never think of your blunders; you know you are speaking truth,—do it as well as you can, and leave the rest with God.'"When we broke up, Mr. Blake said to me, 'I want to thank you; you have made me ashamed of myself. I used to be a church member at the East, but I guess I left my religion there, or lost it here; anyway, I never thought of doing as you are doing.'"I have written all this to let you see how much you are needed here, but I suppose you can't come for several years, if you thought it was the place for you; but can't you send us somebody? There is a grand chance for somebody to work for Christ."
Ah! And wasn't that somebody doing his work well? Who shall say that Nick Turner was not chosen of God to preach his gospel to these people? At least he was preparing the way for the coming missionary.
"How happy Herbert must be to think that he was the means of Nick's conversion to Christ. Oh! If I could save one soul, I'd be willing to sacrifice a great deal—at least I think I would." It was truthful Alice who said this.
"I think of this very often," returned Julia. "I do not know that I have ever done anything like that, I mean anything that has really helped any one. I have tried to lead my schoolmates to Jesus, but my efforts do not seem to be blessed."
"I don't suppose that you always know for certain; maybe when we get to heaven, we shall find out that God has accepted our work, and maybe some souls will thank us then for the right word."
"Perhaps so," said Helen a little sadly. She was thinking of her little effort just put forth. Would it bear fruit?
Just here I may as well record a bit of a talk that occurred a few days before Henry and Alice went to New York. Mrs. Trafton had a slight illness, and Dr. Myers was called in. Aunt Harriet, who had remained with her brother ever since she came to nurse Henry when he was first injured, was full of rejoicings over her nephew's prospects, and detailed the plans for Dr. Myers's benefit, prophesying that he would become famous. The doctor listened with a queer smile.
"I am very glad indeed," he said. "And now, Miss Trafton, do you see how this has come about? You remember, perhaps, that once you could not discover the loving Hand that destroys to build up; you could not understand how what seemed a great calamity might prove a blessing."
"No, I couldn't, and I am not sure of it yet. Don't you suppose that Henry would have made just as good an artist if he had two sound legs and a strong back?"
"No, I don't," replied the doctor. "He might have painted pictures as a recreation, but his work in all probability would have been found in connection with that livery stable, and you know that the business at that time was not conducted upon Christian principles, and perhaps but for this, which we call a calamity, that might never have been changed. Henry might have sustained his Christian character through it all, but it would have been a hard and dangerous path. But suppose, what is not at all likely, that he had been allowed to follow his inclinations and had become an artist, he could never have done the work he will now. The growth of heart and mind which has come through suffering, and could come in no other way, will tell upon his work; his pictures will have a character purer and nobler than he could have given them had not his own soul been purified by these years of discipline."
WHAT THEY SAID ABOUT IT.
"Young soldiers of the cross, beware!A watchful foe besets thy way."
THE carrier had just thrown the Westville "News" in at Deacon Griffin's front door. The good old man had rubbed his spectacles with his red and white spotted silk handkerchief, drawn his arm chair a little nearer the window, unfolded the limp sheet, and read a few moments, before he exclaimed—
"Can it be possible? Will the Lord suffer it?"
"What is it?" asked the soft-voiced woman who was darning the deacon's stockings in the other arm chair before the other window.
"Just hear this!
"'The Charles Dickens Society will hold their Annual Reunion at Waden's Hall, on Wednesday evening, January 6. Their friends are invited to attend. A company of amateurs will perform several popular plays. Musicians will be in attendance, and the hall will be cleared for dancing at an early hour. An elegant collation will also be provided. Proceeds to be applied to the Library Fund."'Single Tickets, 1 dollar. Lady and Gentleman, 1 dollar, 50 cents."'GEORGE BARNES, DUNCAN MCNAIR,"'JOHN PETERS, FRANK LESTER,"'ELMER GREEN, IRA BAKER."'Committee.'
"There! Can you make anything out of that but conformity to the world, unless it is worse? It seems to me like going right over to the enemy's ranks. What are we coming to? Here are two of our young brothers, to whom we must soon commit the gospel standard, giving their names and their labour to this unholy thing!"
"O, father, don't say that," said the soft-voiced woman. "Maybe it isn't so bad as you think, or as it looks at first. Sometimes things seem worse than they really are. And you know there have been a good many things, first and last, which you have condemned as worldly, which have turned out to be real spiritual helps. You remember how sorry you were that we gave Mabel Wynn a chair for the church parlour, because you thought it was going to introduce worldliness into the church, and you know we could hardly get along now without that room. Then remember the time we had the convention—"
"Yes, I remember. I opposed that, and I was wrong. It proved a great blessing, and I confessed my mistake. But, wife, you can't make this out to be an affair that a Christian should be mixed up with. It is a matter of worldly amusements of the most pernicious sort. Theatricals and dancing!"
"But young folks—don't be too hard on them. You danced yourself when you were young."
"So I did, so I did, and nearly lost my soul by it. It makes me shudder to think of our young people getting as near the brink of the precipice as I did. No, no, mother, these things are not for Christ's followers. 'If any man love the world the love of the Father is not in him.' One must have wandered a long way before he reached the point where he could engage in such an enterprise. Perhaps," he added, with a sigh, "we older Christians have not been watchful enough over these our young brothers. We have let the world get a hold upon them, which a little more vigilance upon our part might have prevented."
"Duncan," said Judge McNair, as his son came into the office that afternoon, "haven't you made a great mistake?"
"Where, and how? What do you mean?"
"Just this. Four years ago this winter you promised to live only for Christ. You covenanted with God and with his people, accepting God's terms, and promising to walk worthily of the Christian name; accepting the fellowship of the Church, agreeing to avoid whatever might be a stumbling block for others, or in any way bring reproach upon Christ's name and people. This at least is the spirit of your vows. Strange that you should have publicly renounced them."
"Why, father, what do you mean?"
"Why, there in that paper you range yourself with the world," replied Judge McNair.
"I thought you approved of the object of our society. I consulted you before I joined it."
"I do approve of it—at least I supposed that I did; but it seems that you have objects of which I was not aware. I approve of the library scheme, but I would sooner have given fifty dollars for the fund than have had you engaged in an affair of this sort."
"But, father," expostulated Duncan, "aren't you a little too strict? Don't you think that such rigid notions are apt to repel outsiders?"
"Duncan, if we who profess to be following Christ are in no wise different from those who are walking in the ways of sin, how shall we recommend our faith? If, through fear of repelling, we fail to attract, what have we gained? There is a great deal of that sort of talk nowadays, but I think it is all wrong. We are expressly enjoined to 'come out from the world,' to 'love not the world,' to 'be not conformed to the world.' If these words mean anything, they mean that you and I, and all who are the disciples of Christ, have no part in that which must come under the head of worldly dissipation. Duncan, I am very sorry about this matter; it will be a stumbling block to many."
"But I shall not join the dancers, and my duties as one of the committee relate to the literary part of the entertainment."
"The theatricals! Yes. Ah, my boy, it's all alike. You indorse the whole, and it is not the dancing or the theatricals in themselves. It is this element of worldliness that pervades the entire plan of the entertainment. The spirit of conformity to the world has crept into the Church at large in just this way, undermining and destroying spirituality."
"There is another thing," continued Judge McNair. "It is to be upon Wednesday evening. Five or six years ago, I knew a boy who thought it a very inconsistent thing when the church decided to omit a prayer-meeting on account of a scientific lecture at the hall. Where is your consistency now?"
"But would you cut us off from recreations?" asked Duncan, ignoring the judge's last remark.
"Not at all," was replied; "but I would discriminate between recreations and amusements. The propriety of one who professes to do all to the glory of God engaging in anything, simply as amusement, may be doubted. There is a wide range from which a Christian may choose his recreations; and when used as a needed rest, relief or exercise of body or mind, are right and proper; but when we carry them so far that they become dissipations, we may conclude that we have gone beyond our limit."
Just at that moment Mr. Earle looked in. He only asked—
"Duncan, did you ask God what you'd better do about it?"
Ah! Duncan had not been living very near to God lately. Here was the trouble; this was how he had become entangled in this affair, which had in it not a single element of spirituality. Talk about carrying one's religion with them through the week-days as well as the Sundays! One may carry his Christian faith and practice into his palatial store, or into his dingy, dark grocery-store, keep it with him in shop or stall, but do people ever carry it with them into scenes of frivolity and dissipation? What place has the Christian faith in the ball-room?
The family at the Golden mansion were at dinner. Clarence Golden, Duncan McNair's old crony, was at home for the holidays. It was he who said—
"Well, I suppose all you good people are going to the hall tonight? I suppose it is the best thing a fellow can do up here in this stupid town. Amateur acting! That will be something to see, I imagine. You'll go, I presume?" addressing the question to his sister-in-law, whom we have known as Louise Loring.
"I think not."
"Why not? Will it be any more stupid than staying at home?"
"I shall not stay at home."
"Where—oh, yes, I remember, it is Wednesday evening. That's your evening out," he said, laughing. "Well, there'll be time to go after. I presume the entertainment will last through the night. I'll wait for you. Or do you expect your husband will be home in time?"
"I do not expect him, and I should not go in any case. I never attend entertainments of that sort."
"Oh, but, Louise, this must be all right; at least two of your saintly sort are among the managers."
"I am sorry for that, Clarence, but it does not change my opinion."
As the rest of the family left the table, these two lingered, and Clarence said—
"Well, Louise, I'll tell you frankly I had begun to think there was something in this religion of yours, and to wish I had a little of it about me; but this upsets it all. I cannot feel any great confidence in a faith that makes so little difference in its disciples. I used to think I saw a great change in Duncan, and ever since that winter when he was converted, I have had a sort of wish that I had gone over to that side then. But nowadays, he seems very like the rest of us sinners."
Mrs. Golden's heart was very sad. She liked her young brother-in-law, and earnestly desired to see him numbered with Christ's friends, and it seemed very discouraging that he should be turned back by the inconsistency of one who professed to love the Saviour. The sadness was in her voice as she spoke.
"Clarence, do you think the error lies in the faith itself, or in the mistaken lives of those who profess it?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. It appears to me that there should be in it a power that would prevent such mistakes and inconsistencies."
"You are right. I can assure you that there is a strength and wisdom that comes through faith in Christ, which will be given to us in measure according to our love and obedience. I cannot explain how your friend Duncan has made what I feel, with you, is a great mistake; but, Clarence, this world, the things seen and of to-day, are very alluring."
As the young man rose to go, she added—"The Christian faith is worth having, Clarence, if you only would look away from human frailties and take Christ into your heart and life!"
He shook his head.
"There are enough half-way Christians already; and I don't suppose that I should be any more in earnest than the rest of them."
He went half-way down the hall thinking of Louise's sad face. Turning back, he said—
"See here, sister, I'd just as lief go to church with you tonight, if you want me."
"I do want you," she said, with a meaning smile.
A copy of the Westville "News" found its way into the little room where Herbert and Lewie were spending the last year of their college course. Lewie having undertaken to read the news items for Herbert's benefit as well as his own, lighted upon the announcement which was causing such a commotion at home. A long discussion followed, but I will only repeat the conclusion.
"Well, you see, Herbert, that Duncan's religion is not so very different from mine, after all. He professes something more, but his practice does not agree. I think I'll wait until I see more consistency upon the part of others, before I get dissatisfied with my own way of thinking."
And yet Duncan feared that stricter living would repel others!
So many had expressed their sorrow and disapprobation that Duncan wondered at Dr. Myers's silence. Though he met him every day, he did not refer to the matter; and much as the young man desired to hear his views, he dared not ask a question. He was just leaving the office on Tuesday evening when he met the doctor.
"Ah! Here you are!" said the gentleman. "I'm glad to find you. It saves me a walk up to the house. You remember Dr. Grovesner, to whom I introduced you once in Now York?"
"Yes, indeed I do! I should not be likely to forget one who impressed me in the way he did. Wasn't he a grand man?
"I tell you," he added, laughing, "he is one of the few men I could reverence."
"Well, I remembered your enthusiasm, and this is what I came for. Dr. Grovesner has been making a tour in the West, and I have just received a telegram which says he will stop here to-morrow, from noon until the leaving of the night express. Now, will you meet him at tea to-morrow? He is the man who has done more for me than anybody else in the world, and I would like to have you get the benefit of his society, even for a short time."
What would Duncan McNair not have given to have been free to accept that invitation? He heartily wished the reunion had been in South Africa or some remote region, else that he had a less important part in the carrying out of the programme. It would never do to desert now, he thought. Every minute would be occupied; there was no chance to slip in at the doctor's, and if there were, what pleasure would it be with his mind in such a whirl of excitement? He understood his friend too well to suspect that it was a scheme contrived in order to punish him. He must make some reply, and he stammered out—
"I'd like to meet your friend, but—I—you know there's doings at the hall. I shall have to be there."
"I know, but I thought perhaps you could get off. Are you so very much needed there?"
"I suppose there is no one who could take my place now. I wish I could, but I can't. You'll have to excuse me. Thank you very much for thinking of me."
"I'm sorry, very sorry, Duncan. Good night."
In the doctor's tones there was more than a passing regret that he could not have his young friend's company to tea, and Duncan heard all they expressed.
Duncan McNair was not the sort of person to keep a journal. Generally, he kept his inmost thoughts to himself, except when he talked to the pavement or the window curtains, or some other inanimate thing without the power of revealing secrets. If he had made a true record of his spiritual life at that time, and we had been privileged with a peep at the pages, we might have found records like these:—
"Spent this day without prayer."Haven't had time for a single verse."Went to prayer-meeting tonight for the sake of appearance; found it dull; wonder what the reason is?"A prayerless day. I spend a great many such."It is a fact that if I am following Christ at all, it is afar off. How did I ever get so nearly out of sight of the Leader? I hardly ever read or pray in my closet nowadays."Worldly duties and pleasures give me no time for spiritual growth."
How soon a prayerless Christian finds he has lost his hold upon Jesus! I have written a prayerless Christian! The words sound very strangely. If you call yourself a Christian, and yet are living without prayer, would it not be well to stop and inquire what right you have to the name? And this was the question that was presently brought home to Duncan's conscience. Just now he was too busy, too much engrossed with pleasure seeking, to give place to the duty of self-examination.
The next morning after the reunion, he met Mr. Earle.
"Good morning."
"Good morning, sir."
"Well, Duncan, did it pay?"
"I can't tell, sir," replied Duncan lightly. "We haven't reckoned up the accounts yet."
"Just so! Perhaps you'll find it a little troublesome getting in all the loss and gain, eh?"
Duncan was disturbed and annoyed. "What a fuss people do make about a small matter," he said, talking to the pavement now, for Mr. Earle had not lingered for any further conversation.
And when the next Sabbath evening, the pastor took for his text the old and awfully solemn words—
"What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?"
He recalled Mr. Earle's suggestion of a difficult reckoning; and, listening to the fearful truths presented, the conviction came over him that, after all, it was hardly worth the while to risk the loss of the Saviour's friendship for miserable and unsatisfying worldly pleasures.
Duncan McNair might have appropriated the words of the Psalmist,—
"As for me, my feet were almost gone; my steps had well nigh slipped."
But the loving Saviour with pitying eye was watching for the wanderer's return; not only watching, but calling.
It might have been a week later that Duncan was one morning hurrying down Elm Street upon a rather unusual errand. Mrs. McNair had the headache, and, being unable to fulfil a promise previously made, had chosen Duncan as her deputy.
Having no reasonable excuse to offer, he accepted the appointment graciously, but as he walked rapidly down the street, as if to have the business over with, he thought, "This is a queer thing to ask me to do. I sha'n't know a word to say. I wonder if a fellow ought to look very sober and solemn? Wonder if the boy is very sick?"
Halting at the door of a small house, he rapped. A sad-faced woman came to the door, to whom he said—
"Mother, Mrs. McNair, is sick this morning, and I came to inquire after the sick boy, and to bring this—" handing a small parcel.
"Thank you. Walk in."
As Duncan entered and sat down, he heard a feeble voice in the next room say, "Has she come?"
"No, Davy," the sad-faced woman replied. "She is sick, but she sent you this jelly and some oranges."
"They are very nice; she is very good, but I wanted to see her," was the reply of the sick boy. "Won't she come at all?"
"Please, sir," said the mother to Duncan, "will you walk in and see my poor boy? He is disappointed at not seeing the lady. Maybe you could say a word to comfort him."
"Are you her son?" asked the invalid.
"Yes," replied Duncan, smiling.
"Then maybe you know Jesus?"
"Yes," a little doubtfully this time.
"The lady your mother has told me about Him, and she always prays to Him, and I thought maybe you had learned how. I pray a little when I am alone, but I don't know how very well, and I am so weak it tires me to think of the words. I guess He hears me, though; but when she prays, it seems as if Jesus came and stood right by us, and that's the reason I wanted her. Call you pray?"
"Not like her," answered Duncan.
"I'm sorry," said the boy, so sadly that his visitor grew sad and sorrowful likewise.
"I should think you'd learn," continued Davy. "I have learned a little myself, but I want some one that knows Him better than I do to ask Jesus to receive me when I go."
"But my mother will probably be able to come and see you in a day or two."
"I don't think I shall be here. The doctor says I may die suddenly. It will be all right, I suppose. I can trust Him. But—don't you think you could speak to Him?"
Duncan's thoughts were in a perfect tumult. What could he do? Whatever possessed him to come here? He might have known better. Could he resist the pleading voice and eyes of the sufferer? But should he dare to pray now and here, when he had not prayed in his closet for weeks! Only last Thursday evening, at the young people's meeting, he had declined to lead in prayer, saying to the leader, "I can't tonight;" and saying to himself, "I'm a miserable hypocrite: I call myself a Christian, and yet I don't dare to pray."
But Davy waited, watching him with those great eager eyes.
He must say something, but he could not pray.
"Don't you want me to sing for you?" he asked.
"Oh, yea, I'd like that, it you can't pray."
So Duncan sang a sweet little hymn, and when it was ended, acting upon a new idea, he slid down upon his knees beside the dying child, and said—
"Jesus, friend of sinners, I would speak to Thee for this sick boy. Wilt Thou come and stand very near to him, and support him as he goes from this life into the next? He loves and trusts Thee. Do not let his faith falter; do not withdraw thyself from him until he goes to be where he shall ever dwell in Thy presence."
The words were few, but the longing heart was satisfied, and the feeble voice just whispered,—
"He heard—he came."
Duncan hurried away, the tumult in his soul in no degree stilled. He had fought many hard battles with that fiery temper and headstrong will of his, but never had he passed through such a struggle as that day witnessed. In the evening, he went again to the young people's meeting. Without waiting to be asked this time, he said, "Last Thursday evening, I refused to pray. The truth is, I dared not pray as a Christian, and I was not prepared to humble myself and confess my sin. Tonight I am ready to acknowledge that I have wandered far from the white line which I have so long professed to follow, but I am glad to say that I think I have found the true path again. I will tell you how I got astray. Worldly pleasures enticed me, and I set aside the apostolic command, 'Be not conformed to the world.' Let us pray."
But Clarence Golden was not there to hear the confession of error, and years after, the thought of Duncan would bring a curl to his lip, and the bitter reflection, "I was nearer to being a Christian that winter than ever before or since, and if Duncan had been true, I might have been saved three years of doubt and scepticism."
WHERE WE LEAVE "THOSE BOYS."
"Men are only boys grown tall."
LEWIE AMESBURY was packing up. His college days were over. Herbert had already gone, expecting to return to enter the theological school. But as Lewie's leave-taking was supposed to be final, his preparations for departure took more time. Two or three fellow students were in the room helping, saying "good-bye," talking over their late triumphs, or lounging listlessly about.
From the dark corner of the closet, Lewie had just brought out a medley of garments, dusty, worn, and old-fashioned. Fairly aching for a frolic, Fred Torrey seized upon the veritable hat that once hung upon the rack in Mr. Bradford's hall, speckless and glossy.
"Hurrah!" he exclaimed, as he fished out the shabby old thing. "Here's an old acquaintance! Say, Amesbury, how did you feel when you first put that hat on?"
"Try it on and see for yourself," was the curt reply.
"Oh, it would fit Baker here better," and Torrey attempted to put the battered old hat upon Baker's head; but that young gentleman suggested "spiders," and tossed it from him, whereupon a very undignified scuffle ensued, and the "old acquaintance," banged and bruised, was kicked back and forth until Fred Torrey conceived the brilliant idea of turning it inside out. Suddenly, he exclaimed—
"Well, now, this is rich! Say, Amesbury, when did you turn tract distributor? Must have lent your hat to Bradford sometimes. Pretty piece of literature for you to carry about!"
"What is it?" asked two or three voices.
"Just be quiet, will you? I can't deliver my sermon in such a din."
Then he proceeded to read out the solemn appeal. The little messenger which Julia Bradford had so long ago sent to speak words of warning, which she found in her heart but could not bring to her lips, had at last come forth from its hiding place.
Lewie had not been engaged in the frolic, and he now turned from the box of books which he was packing, saying—
"Come, Torrey, we've had enough of that. What have you got, and where did you get it?"
"Oh, yes! What and where! It is some of your own treasures. I supposed you'd be willing to share your good things. Never mind, I can get a supply from the Tract Society, I suppose."
To which piece of nonsense Lewie made no reply, but reached out his hand for the yellow and worn paper, which Torrey relinquished, saying—
"Come on, Baker, if we make those calls, and get off by the five o'clock train, we've got to hurry."
Lewie was left alone with the dingy tract in his hand. As soon as his visitors were out of hearing, he walked over to the door, turned the key, and leaving his books half packed, sat down to read the message that he could not turn away from. The language was simple and commonplace, but the truths were awfully solemn. He had heard them all before—heard them from the pulpit, read them in the Bible, partly assenting and partly denying, but never led by them into a real experience of the power of Christ's love. But now and here was God's time and way to answer the prayers of teacher and friends; and when Lewie Amesbury, the self-satisfied moralist, read,—
"Remember that there is no salvation in any other, no other name given under heaven whereby we must be saved; only by casting yourself upon him, renouncing self-righteousness and self-dependency, can you hope for salvation—"
How mean and miserable his past life looked to him! And he had presumed to set aside Christ's atonement as quite unnecessary in his case, building his hopes for eternity upon his own good works! "No salvation in any other." He had not entirely denied Christ, but he had not made him a Saviour. In his own thoughts, he had endeavoured to follow Christ's precepts. Now there seemed a great lack in his life. What should fill it? This was the question that absorbed his thoughts for many days; but the answer came as it comes to those who really seek.
Three months afterward, Fred Torrey was hurrying down Broadway when a voice arrested him.
"See here, Tor, if it isn't a life, or a million that is at stake, suppose you stop and speak to an old crony?"
"Ah, Baker, glad to see you. I have no special need of haste, though I have several things to do this afternoon. I'm off to-morrow."
"For Europe? Does Amesbury go with you?" asked Baker.
"Amesbury? Haven't you heard? He has gone back with Bradford to study for the ministry."
"Amesbury study for the ministry!" repeated Baker. "You are quizzing."
"Not at all. It is the solemn truth, queer as it seems."
"Well, a sudden turn around I should say."
"I have a note from him," said Torrey: "Let me see—no, I haven't it about me. He says that the purposes of his life have changed, that he just begins to see the real meaning of Christ's life and death, and more in that strain. He is evidently in earnest. If I had time, I'd look into the matter. There must be something in a religion that wins over a fellow like Amesbury."
"I know reckless sort of sinners like you and me are apt to go from one extreme to another, but steady, cautious fellows of his stamp are hard to turn. I wonder what did it?"
"I'm sure I don't know—though I can't help thinking that that dirty, dingy tract that I resurrected had something to do with it."
"I shouldn't wonder," said Baker thoughtfully; then the conversation drifted to other topics.
The years passed away, four more of them. Mrs. Judge McNair, just seated in her mother's room, was saying,—
"No, I won't take off my hat. I mustn't stop long. Father said you were not well last evening, so I thought I must run up a few moments, if I did not get everything done."
"Oh, you expect your boys!"
"Why, mother," laughed the younger lady, "do you forget that they are grown-up, really men doing their work among men?"
"Well, I suppose so. But how large a party do you intend to have?"
"Only about twenty—Mr. and Mrs. Earle, Dr. Myers and Lou, Mr. Golden and Louise, and a few more."
"When are Herbert and Jenny to go?"
"In about a week," replied Mabel. "Mr. Turner is very urgent. It is wonderful what a work that man has done. They have a little church quite finished, and a part of the salary pledged; and six or seven years ago there was no such thing known as the Sabbath. One or two who had been church members at the East, but who had been living away from Christ, awakened by his example, and took hold of the work with him. It is remarkable how God raises up his workers."
"But don't you feel that it is a great pity that Jenny and Herbert should bury themselves way off there?"
"I don't think it is a pity at all," returned Mrs. McNair, with earnestness. "It seems a grand field for labour. I am glad they are called to it. It seems that Nicholas has had his thoughts turned toward Herbert as their future minister almost ever since he went out there; but Herbert was quite decided about remaining at the East, until lately the indications of Providence have seemed so pointed that he could not refuse to go. The Lord seems to guide him by baffling his own plans, and shutting him up to one path."
"Ah! Mabel, you are just as queer as ever!"
"Queer, is she? Well, I wish we were all as queer!" The last speaker was Mr. Wynn, who had just entered. "I'd be glad to find the satisfaction in religion that you do, Mabel."
"Ah! Father, I am sure that if you looked there for satisfaction as earnestly as you do to the world, you would find it."
"Perhaps so. Well, I am going to retire from business next year; then I shall have time to pay more attention to religious matters."
Mabel did not reply, only smiled sadly, as she thought how persistently her father separated the things that ought to go together.
Presently Mrs. Wynn exclaimed,—
"Why, Mabel, what a company of ministers you'll have! Tom Nichols and Herbert and young Amesbury, besides Mr. Earle."
"Well, child," said Mr. Wynn, "you did pretty well to train up two preachers from that class."
"Two! Why, father, they are nearly all preachers. All but one, and I expect that he will be. There's Arthur Knapp away in Colorado, and if his life is at all what his letters indicate (and he is no hypocrite), he is preaching Christ most effectively. I insist that every Christian man and woman ought by their daily living to hold up Christ as the one perfect pattern and the only Saviour. Then there's Henry Trafton, his pictures are lessons of truth and purity. The one the judge bought last winter is as good as a sermon to me whenever I look at it, which is pretty often. And Duncan is growing more like his father every year."
"It is a fact, those boys have turned out well. I thought one while that Perry Morse would go to ruin sure, but his father tells me he is doing well. As for that matter, I believe they were rather a hard set. How did you manage them, Mabel?"
"In the first place, they were not a 'hard set' at all. They were just like any other half dozen boys, and I never managed at all. I had faith in them and faith in God's promises. I tried to teach them what it was to follow Christ, and to show them how much easier and better to follow closely than afar off."
"But," continued Mrs. McNair, rising, "I really must not stop. Mother, do you think you will be able to come over this evening?"
"Oh, yes," Mr. Wynn answered for her. "We will look in at your 'ministers' meeting.'"
Upon her way home, Mabel took a letter from the office. Here it is:
"MY DEAR FRIEND:—I have very pleasant things to write. In those dark days just before I left Westville, I never expected to see such good times as these. God has dealt very mercifully with me. In my time of disgrace and despair, he raised up kind friends for me, and in those years since, he has followed me with loving-kindness, and yet I have not been mindful of him. If I have led a different life since I came here, it was not from love to Christ. If I have outwardly kept pretty near the white line, it was because it seemed the better way in a worldly point of view. But for several months I have been dissatisfied with my life and its motives. I seemed to need something higher."At last the long, weary struggle over, I yield to Christ a loving service, and accept the joy and peace which fills my need. Yesterday I joined with his own people in the holy communion. I mean to be earnest and true. I trust that I shall still be one for whom you pray."You will doubtless be interested in hearing of some of the new business arrangements. Your good brother-in-law has taken me into partnership. He reckons my youth and business capacity as an offset to his money capital. He proposes to retire from active life (so far as the store is concerned) and leave the business in my care. You will see how he trusts me. Once I should have been very vain of such a trust, now I look to Christ for grace to sustain it. I should like to be in Westville while Herbert and Lewie are there, but I think I cannot leave at present. May God go with them and bless them in their work."As ever, your old pupil,"PERRY MORSE."
"At last! Oh, I knew God would not fail me. He never has!"
With this thought, Mrs. McNair slipped her letter back into its envelope, smoothed her hair and went down to dinner.
And so they were all following at last. As they were far from perfection as boys, so they are far from being perfect men. It takes years of Christian living and learning before we reach that higher plane where grace so abounds that sin has no foothold. But for fine specimens of noble Christian manhood, you need not go outside the little circle of "Those Boys," who have found that their chosen motto, while it is narrow as regards being of the world, is yet broad in all Christian aims.
THE END.
PRINTED BY J. S. VIRTUE AND CO., LIMITED, CITY ROAD, LONDON.
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THE PANSY BOOKS.
ROUTLEDGE'S EDITIONS.
1. FOUR GIRLS AT CHAUTAUQUA.2. LITTLE FISHERS AND THEIR NETS.3. THREE PEOPLE.4. ECHOING AND RE-ECHOING.5. CHRISTIE'S CHRISTMAS.6. DIVERS WOMEN.7. SPUN FROM FACT.8. THE CHAUTAUQUA GIRLS AT HOME.9. THE POCKET MEASURE.10. JULIA RIED.11. WISE AND OTHERWISE.12. THE KING'S DAUGHTER.13. LINKS IN REBECCA'S LIFE.14. INTERRUPTED.15. THE MASTER HAND.16. AN ENDLESS CHAIN.17. ESTER RIED.18. ESTER RIED YET SPEAKING.19. THE MAN OF THE HOUSE.20. RUTH ERSKINE'S CROSSES.21. HOUSEHOLD PUZZLES.22. MABEL WYNN.23. MODERN PROPHETS.24. THE RANDOLPHS.25. MRS. SOLOMON SMITH LOOKING ON.26. FROM DIFFERENT STANDPOINTS.27. A NEW GRAFT ON THE FAMILY TREE.28. PROFILES.29. SIDNEY MARTIN'S CHRISTMAS.30. TIP LEWIS AND HIS LAMP.31. EIGHTY-SEVEN.