THE BELLS SWING AND RING.
bells and flowers
It swings and dings in the morning air,Ringing, ringing!Tells of the birth of a baby fair,Ringing, ringing!Tells the glad news so that all may know;Those in the village asleep below,Those on the streets moving to and fro—Ringing, ringing!Aloft it swings in the schoolhouse tower,Dinging, dinging;With brazen tongue it proclaims the hour,Dinging, dinging:Calls to the work of storing the mindWith useful knowledge of every kind,Urging the laggards left far behind,Dinging, dinging.
It swings and dings in the morning air,Ringing, ringing!Tells of the birth of a baby fair,Ringing, ringing!Tells the glad news so that all may know;Those in the village asleep below,Those on the streets moving to and fro—Ringing, ringing!Aloft it swings in the schoolhouse tower,Dinging, dinging;With brazen tongue it proclaims the hour,Dinging, dinging:Calls to the work of storing the mindWith useful knowledge of every kind,Urging the laggards left far behind,Dinging, dinging.
It swings and dings in the morning air,Ringing, ringing!Tells of the birth of a baby fair,Ringing, ringing!Tells the glad news so that all may know;Those in the village asleep below,Those on the streets moving to and fro—Ringing, ringing!
It swings and dings in the morning air,
Ringing, ringing!
Tells of the birth of a baby fair,
Ringing, ringing!
Tells the glad news so that all may know;
Those in the village asleep below,
Those on the streets moving to and fro—
Ringing, ringing!
Aloft it swings in the schoolhouse tower,Dinging, dinging;With brazen tongue it proclaims the hour,Dinging, dinging:Calls to the work of storing the mindWith useful knowledge of every kind,Urging the laggards left far behind,Dinging, dinging.
Aloft it swings in the schoolhouse tower,
Dinging, dinging;
With brazen tongue it proclaims the hour,
Dinging, dinging:
Calls to the work of storing the mind
With useful knowledge of every kind,
Urging the laggards left far behind,
Dinging, dinging.
Gently it swings in the steeple high,Pealing, pealing;The steeple that points to the upper sky,Pealing, pealing:Calling to worship on hallowed day,Calling the faithful to come and pray,Even to those who are far away—Pealing, pealing.Again it calls in a joyful tone,Ringing, ringing!Hinting that man should not walk alone,Ringing, ringing!And so they throng with the bridal pair,And the glad bells sound on the clear sweet air,For the bells all ring for the belle so fair—Ringing, ringing!Ah, me! but that tongue will swing again,Tolling, tolling;Swing again with a solemn strain,Tolling, tolling:It will tell how some one beloved has died,How the cold dark earth has claimed his bride;And ’twill seem in its strains as though it sighed—Tolling, tolling.But the bells above may swing and ring,Swinging, ringing,In the temple towers of the Lord the King,Swinging, ringing;And the bells below, with the bells up there,May sound their joys for this Child and Heir,Who is called to heaven its joys to share—Swinging, ringing.G. R. A.
Gently it swings in the steeple high,Pealing, pealing;The steeple that points to the upper sky,Pealing, pealing:Calling to worship on hallowed day,Calling the faithful to come and pray,Even to those who are far away—Pealing, pealing.Again it calls in a joyful tone,Ringing, ringing!Hinting that man should not walk alone,Ringing, ringing!And so they throng with the bridal pair,And the glad bells sound on the clear sweet air,For the bells all ring for the belle so fair—Ringing, ringing!Ah, me! but that tongue will swing again,Tolling, tolling;Swing again with a solemn strain,Tolling, tolling:It will tell how some one beloved has died,How the cold dark earth has claimed his bride;And ’twill seem in its strains as though it sighed—Tolling, tolling.But the bells above may swing and ring,Swinging, ringing,In the temple towers of the Lord the King,Swinging, ringing;And the bells below, with the bells up there,May sound their joys for this Child and Heir,Who is called to heaven its joys to share—Swinging, ringing.G. R. A.
Gently it swings in the steeple high,Pealing, pealing;The steeple that points to the upper sky,Pealing, pealing:Calling to worship on hallowed day,Calling the faithful to come and pray,Even to those who are far away—Pealing, pealing.
Gently it swings in the steeple high,
Pealing, pealing;
The steeple that points to the upper sky,
Pealing, pealing:
Calling to worship on hallowed day,
Calling the faithful to come and pray,
Even to those who are far away—
Pealing, pealing.
Again it calls in a joyful tone,Ringing, ringing!Hinting that man should not walk alone,Ringing, ringing!And so they throng with the bridal pair,And the glad bells sound on the clear sweet air,For the bells all ring for the belle so fair—Ringing, ringing!
Again it calls in a joyful tone,
Ringing, ringing!
Hinting that man should not walk alone,
Ringing, ringing!
And so they throng with the bridal pair,
And the glad bells sound on the clear sweet air,
For the bells all ring for the belle so fair—
Ringing, ringing!
Ah, me! but that tongue will swing again,Tolling, tolling;Swing again with a solemn strain,Tolling, tolling:It will tell how some one beloved has died,How the cold dark earth has claimed his bride;And ’twill seem in its strains as though it sighed—Tolling, tolling.
Ah, me! but that tongue will swing again,
Tolling, tolling;
Swing again with a solemn strain,
Tolling, tolling:
It will tell how some one beloved has died,
How the cold dark earth has claimed his bride;
And ’twill seem in its strains as though it sighed—
Tolling, tolling.
But the bells above may swing and ring,Swinging, ringing,In the temple towers of the Lord the King,Swinging, ringing;And the bells below, with the bells up there,May sound their joys for this Child and Heir,Who is called to heaven its joys to share—Swinging, ringing.G. R. A.
But the bells above may swing and ring,
Swinging, ringing,
In the temple towers of the Lord the King,
Swinging, ringing;
And the bells below, with the bells up there,
May sound their joys for this Child and Heir,
Who is called to heaven its joys to share—
Swinging, ringing.
G. R. A.
Girl walking on roof ledge to man wating on ladderTHE BELL HAS A TONGUE THAT IS EASILY HEARD.
THE BELL HAS A TONGUE THAT IS EASILY HEARD.
double line
ASTALK of tall white liliesBloomed out in a garden fair;Their breath, so sweet and fragrant,Scented the ambient air.As Easter day came on apace,It seemed as if they triedTo grow still sweeter, for the mornWhen rose the Crucified.When dawned the holy Easter tide,And they were full in bloom,A sad-eyed woman gathered themAnd laid them on a tomb.And as she knelt in deepest woeBeside the flower-decked mound,And felt that all her hope was dead,The lilies’ fragrance stole around.It stole into her wounded breast;The sacred odors seemed to beA message for her bleeding heart—“The Crucified pities thee.”Caroline Stratton Valentine.
ASTALK of tall white liliesBloomed out in a garden fair;Their breath, so sweet and fragrant,Scented the ambient air.As Easter day came on apace,It seemed as if they triedTo grow still sweeter, for the mornWhen rose the Crucified.When dawned the holy Easter tide,And they were full in bloom,A sad-eyed woman gathered themAnd laid them on a tomb.And as she knelt in deepest woeBeside the flower-decked mound,And felt that all her hope was dead,The lilies’ fragrance stole around.It stole into her wounded breast;The sacred odors seemed to beA message for her bleeding heart—“The Crucified pities thee.”Caroline Stratton Valentine.
ASTALK of tall white liliesBloomed out in a garden fair;Their breath, so sweet and fragrant,Scented the ambient air.
ASTALK of tall white lilies
Bloomed out in a garden fair;
Their breath, so sweet and fragrant,
Scented the ambient air.
As Easter day came on apace,It seemed as if they triedTo grow still sweeter, for the mornWhen rose the Crucified.
As Easter day came on apace,
It seemed as if they tried
To grow still sweeter, for the morn
When rose the Crucified.
When dawned the holy Easter tide,And they were full in bloom,A sad-eyed woman gathered themAnd laid them on a tomb.
When dawned the holy Easter tide,
And they were full in bloom,
A sad-eyed woman gathered them
And laid them on a tomb.
And as she knelt in deepest woeBeside the flower-decked mound,And felt that all her hope was dead,The lilies’ fragrance stole around.
And as she knelt in deepest woe
Beside the flower-decked mound,
And felt that all her hope was dead,
The lilies’ fragrance stole around.
It stole into her wounded breast;The sacred odors seemed to beA message for her bleeding heart—“The Crucified pities thee.”Caroline Stratton Valentine.
It stole into her wounded breast;
The sacred odors seemed to be
A message for her bleeding heart—
“The Crucified pities thee.”
Caroline Stratton Valentine.
bell in tower surrounded by swallosTHE BELL HANGS IN THE TOWER.
THE BELL HANGS IN THE TOWER.
double line
E
EDWARD STEADMAN was at home for the Christmas holidays. Everybody was glad to see him, of course, particularly his mother; because in the first place mothers always are a little bit more glad over the home-coming of their boys than anybody else in the world can be, and secondly because she needed some help very much, and knew that he could give it. She explained matters to him that morning: “I want to get Grandma’s room all in order, Edward, and her new carpet down, and every thing, before Christmas, you know; and we shall have to work like bees. I’m so glad you came home this week, instead of stopping at your uncle’s first. To-day we can hang all her pictures, and put up the curtains and the wall-pockets, and do things of that kind; they will not make a speck of dust in putting down the carpet—it is new, you know. I want to get all those things done to-day, they are so puttering—take a great deal of time and judgment. I’m so glad to have you to depend upon; you are such a tall boy that you can reach where mother can’t; and Dick is so clumsy I hate to have him stumping about Grandma’s room. Your father was going to help me, though he did not know how to spare the time; he was as pleased as could be when I told him that you could do it all. ‘Sure enough!’ he said; ‘we have got a boy to depend upon once more; how good it seems!’”
The sentence closed with a fond smile, and such a look in the mother’s eyes as ought to have made a boy happy. Edward was happy; he whistled as he went down the stairs, and thought to himself that there were not many fellows who had such a mother as his, and that he would show her just how tall, and how handy and how wise he was.
She called after him as she heard the street door open.
“Where are you going, Edward? We ought to get right to work; it will be an all-day job, do the best we can, and the light is good in Grandma’s room now for hanging the pictures. Must you go to the post-office first? O, well! that is but a short distance; run along, and get back as soon as you can.”
“Halloo!” said Mr. Arkwright, the postmaster, who had known Edward ever since he was a little fellow in kilts and curls, “back again, are you? How you do shoot up, to be sure! I believe you are about a foot taller than you were in the fall. Here’s your mail; nothing but papers this time, but enough of them to snow you under!” And he pitched them through the little window so fast that they fell to the right and left.
Edward making deliveries“CERTAINLY, SIR,” SAID EDWARD.
“CERTAINLY, SIR,” SAID EDWARD.
“Catalogues, some of them,” said Edward, smiling; “I asked them to send me a number of the new ones; and the reports of our commencement and society exercises are in these papers.”
“Like enough,” said Mr. Arkwright; “had a grand time, I suppose? You carried off a first prize, I hear? Glad of it. I always knew it was in you. Do you happen to be going directly home? If you are, would you mind taking this letter and handing it in at Westlake’s as you pass? I see it is marked ‘Important,’ and it may save him some trouble to get it right away. He’s all alone in the office to-day; his boy is sick.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Edward, reaching for the letter, and dropping it into his jacket pocket. Then he walked away, looking steadily at one of the papers, which he had already opened.
“I do not see what in the world can have detained Edward!” said Mrs. Steadman, speaking as well as she could with her mouth full of tacks. She was mounted on a box which in its turn was mounted on a chair, and was trying to reach to fasten the curtain in Grandma’s room.
“I should think you would wait for him,” said her daughter Fannie anxiously. “You ought not to climb up like that, mother; father would not like it at all, and I’m afraid you will fall. You are not high enough yet to get it right.”
“I know it; and I can’t drive a nail away up here, either. I cannot understand why Edward doesn’t come; it seems as though something must have happened to him. I explained to him particularly what a hurry we were in, and how much there was in which he could help me.”
“What has happened to him is that he has found something to read, I suppose, and has seated himself somewhere to enjoy it.” Fannie spoke a little irritably; she was worried about her mother, and they had been waiting for Edward for more than two hours. The short December day was hurrying toward its noon, and nothing had been done of the many things in which he was to have been a central figure. Fannie was very fond of her brother, but she realized his besetments better than the others did, or at least she said more about them.
“O, no!” said the mother decidedly, taking a tack out of her mouth to enable her to speak plainly; “Edward wouldn’t do that, after all I said to him this morning. He knew how anxious we were to have everything ready for Grandma by Christmas. Something unusual has happened, I feel sure. I don’t know but Tommy would better run out and see if he can find him, only it seems rather absurd to be sending out in search of a big boy like Edward.”
“I should think so!” Fannie said, and they waited another half-hour. Then a sharp ring at the door-bell startled Mrs. Steadman so that she nearly lost her balance. Fannie screamed a little, and ran toward her.
“I didn’t fall,” she said, leaning against the window-casing for support; “but I think I shall have to get down. I don’t see what makes me so nervous. It seems all the time as though something was going to happen; I suppose it is because Edward doesn’t come. Did Jane go to the door?”
Yes, Jane had; and now they listened and heard Mr. Westlake’s, their neighbor’s, voice.
“Is Edward here?”
No, Jane said, somewhat shortly, he was not; and as to where he was, that was more than they knew. Jane had been called from her work three times that morning to help with something which Edward could have done, and she did not feel sweet-natured.
“Well, I wish you would ask your folks if they have any idea where I might find him,” Mr. Westlake said anxiously; “I have just come from the office—it was the first chance I had for going this morning—and Arkwright says he sent a letter to me marked ‘Important’—sent it by Edward nearly three hours ago, he should think. I have some business matters that are very important, and I thought this might be a summons to me to go away on the express, and there is but a half-hour or less before it goes.”
Before this long sentence was finished Mrs. Steadman was at the door; but she had no information to give, and could only tell the annoyed man that she was sorry, and that she could not imagine what had detained Edward.
“I can,” muttered Jane, as he turned hurriedly away; “his own sweet notion is detaining him; he’s enjoying himself somewhere, readin’ a book or paper, and letting others get along the best way they can.” But Jane was only talking to herself.
The Steadman dinner bell was sounding through the house when Edward, flushed and embarrassed, came bounding up the stairs two steps at a time, to assure his mother how sorry he was.
“I hadn’t the least idea how time was going,” he explained; “never was so astonished in my life as I was to hear the bell ring for noon! Why, you see,” in answer to her anxious questions, “I got a lot of papers at the office—all about our closing days, you know; of course I was anxious to see what they said about the examinations, and essays, and things, so I stepped into Dr. Mason’s office just to glance them over. The doctor was out, and I sat and read first one thing and then another, and talked a little with folks who kept coming in search of the doctor, until, to my utter astonishment, as I tell you, I heard the bell.”
“Then nothing detained you, Edward?”
“Why, no, ma’am; nothing but the papers, as I tell you. I had not the faintest idea”—
She interrupted him. “Have you seen Mr. Westlake?”
“Yes’m,” and now Edward’s face crimsoned; “I met him on the street and gave him his letter. I’m dreadfully sorry about that; almost as sorry as I am about keeping you waiting, mother.”
“He said it might want him to take the train; do you know if it did?”
“Yes’m, it did.”
“And he missed it?”
“Why, of course, mother dear; the train goes at eleven, you know. I’m awfully sorry. It is perfectly unaccountable what has become of this forenoon!”
Mrs. Steadman made no comment; she did not want to trust herself to do so just then. She turned away with a sigh so deep that it would have cut Edward’s heart, had he heard it.
And Jane nodded her gray head and muttered, “I told you so!”
Myra Spafford.
double line
A
ADELE CHESTER had never spent a Christmas in the country before; neither had she ever felt quite so desolate. Mother and father were in Europe, in search of health for the father, and Adele, who had been left in charge of Aunt Martha, had herself decreed that she would go nowhere for Christmas.
“I can’t be happy and frolic when papa is sick,” she said; “and as for the country, if Aunt Martha can live there all her life, I think I can endure one Christmas.” So she had staid; but it must be confessed that the world looked dreary to her that wintry morning, with nothing but snow to be seen from her window. She almost thought she would have been wiser to have joined the Philadelphia cousins. “At least there would have been a chance to spend my Christmas money,” she murmured gloomily, as she tapped on the frosty window pane with restless fingers. “I’m sure I don’t know what I can buy in this little tucked-up place.”
The “tucked-up place” was really a nice town with about five thousand people living in it, but to Adele, whose home was in New York City, it seemed absurd to call it a town. Aunt Martha’s farmhouse was only half a mile from some very good stores, where Adele had found a few things to suit her during the three months she had spent there, and on the whole she had managed to be quite happy. But she did not feel like being suited with anything this morning. Such a queer Christmas for her! She had had her presents, as usual—a new fur cap from Aunt Martha, a writing-desk well furnished from Uncle Peter, a lovely ring with a real diamond in it from mamma, and a new chain for her pretty watch from papa. What more could a reasonable girl want? Truth to tell, she wanted nothing but the dear home, and mamma’s kisses, and papa’s arms around her. The ring and chain were beautiful, but they did not seem like presents from them, when she knew they crossed the ocean weeks ago, and had been lying in Aunt Martha’s bureau drawer waiting for this morning. She valued the letter more which had arrived only the night before, and she drew it from her pocket and kissed it, letting a tear or two fall on the words, “My Darling Child,” as she read them once more. “Papa and I are so sorry to be away from you to-day,” the letter read; “we have tried to find something suitable to send on so long a journey, and planned to reach you on the very day, but have failed; papa has not been well enough to look about much for a few weeks, and I could not go alone. At last we decided to send you a fifty-dollar bank note and bid you go and spend it in the way which would make you happiest.”
“The idea!” said Adele, smiling through her tears, as she refolded the letter, “just as though I could find anything here to buy to make me happy! Mamma must have forgotten for the moment where I was. Yet I want a few things, some Christmas bonbons, at least, if they know the meaning of the word in this little place, and above all, I want a brisk walk in the snow. I shall take ten dollars of my fifty, and go out and spend it; I won’t waste another cent on this old town. I wonder what I can do with ten dollars to make me happy?” She laughed half scornfully. Ten dollars seemed so very little to this girl, who had always spent money as freely as water, and done as little thinking about it as the birds do over the spring cherries.
In a very few minutes she was wrapped in furs and out upon the snowy road. Aunt Martha offered her the sleigh and the driver, and her “leggings” and woollen mittens, but she would have none of them. She was a good walker, and had been used to miles in the city. She hid her nose in her muff, because the wind over this wide stretch of snow was very keen, and sped along “like a snowbird,” Aunt Martha said, watching her from the window. And then she sighed, this dear old auntie whom the country satisfied. She saw the shade on the face of her darling this morning, and was sorry for her, and wished so much that she could do something to brighten her Christmas day.
The little town was reached in due time, and the streets were gay with Christmas finery; the stores were open quite generally, to catch the belated Christmas buyers. In an hour or two they would close for the day; but the custom in this thriving manufacturing town was to give the tardy ones a Christmas morning chance. Adele went from one store to another, dissatisfied, disconsolate. Nothing suited her. The truth is, when a girl does not need an earthly thing, and is yet determined to spend some money, she is sometimes rather difficult to suit. She halted at last before a show window and looked at the bright fineries displayed there. So did little Janey Hooper, who had come out with ten cents to buy a soup bone for the day’s dinner. Adele, turning from the window, jostled against her, and looked down upon the mite. She seemed not more than eight, yet there was a wise, grown-up look in her eyes which held the homesick girl’s attention.
“Are you trying to make Christmas too? What do you see in the window you like?”
“Everything,” said the little girl simply.
“Do you? you are fortunate. Are you going to buy them all?”
“O, no! not a single one. I couldn’t.”
Adele, looking closely at her, was seized with a sudden impulse. “Suppose you could buy one thing, what would it be?” she asked.
The little girl’s eyes flashed. “Oh! I would buy that shawl—that soft gray one with pussy fringe—it looks just like mother.”
It was a dingy little shoulder shawl, of the kind which can be bought for two dollars. “Does your mother need a shawl?” asked Adele.
“O, yes’m! she needs it badly enough; but we are not going to get one, not this year; we can’t.”
There was decision and composure in the tone, like a woman who had settled the whole question, and put it beyond the range of argument. Her manner amused Adele.
“That was for your mother,” she said; “what would you choose for yourself?”
“Me?” said the child, surprised. “Oh! I don’t know. I might take that brown coat, maybe, or some mittens, or—I don’t know which I would take. What’s the use?”
She was turning away; but Adele’s gloved hand detained her. The little sack she wore was much too thin for so cold a morning.
“Wait a minute,” she said gently. “Tell me what your name is, won’t you, and where you live, and what you came out for this cold morning with so thin a sack?”
“I’m Janey Hooper; we live down there on Factory Lane. It wasn’t far to go, and my sack is worn out, that is why it is so thin; but it will do very well for this winter. I came out to buy the Christmas dinner.”
“Did you, indeed! Aren’t you very young to go to market?”
“O, no, ma’am! I’m turned nine, and the oldest of four, and father’s dead. Of course I have to do all I can. I know how to choose a lovely soup bone.”
“Do you? Are you going to have soup to-day?”
“Yes’m, a big kettle full; I’ve got ten cents to buy a bone with. I generally get a five-cent one; but we thought for Christmas we would have it fine. My brother is to be home to dinner; he is most twelve, and likes soup.”
There was a mist before Adele’s eyes that the frosty air did not make. She brushed it away and settled her plans.
“Come in here with me a minute,” she said; “I want your help about something.” The child followed her wonderingly, with eyes that grew every moment larger, as the thick brown coat which hung on a wire figure was taken down and deliberately tried by the smiling shop girl on her quaint little self.
“It fits to a T,” said the girl; “Janey has a pretty figure, and that just suits her.”
“It is warm, at least,” said Adele. “Did you say it was two and a half? What an absurd price! Keep it on, child; it is for you. This is Christmas, you know, and Santa Claus sent it to you. Now that shoulder shawl.”
A moment more, and it was in Janey’s astonished arms. Her eyes sparkled, but she made an earnest protest: “Oh! if you please, I don’t think I can; I am afraid mother would not”—
“Your mother cannot help herself,” interrupted Adele. “Don’t you know I told you it was Santa Claus? He does what he likes always. Come along, I’m going to market with you; I want to see you pick out a soup bone. Is it to go in that basket?”
She picked it out with grave care and with skill, Adele and the market man watching her the while. “Isn’t it a nice one, Bobby?” said the child, to a stout boy who had also stopped. Adele turned as the freckled boy nodded.
“Who is this? Is he a friend of yours? Well, Bobby, Santa Claus wants you to do an errand for him, will you? He will give you four of those red-cheeked apples if you will.”
The boy laughed good-naturedly, and said he didn’t know much about Santa Claus, but he would do whatever she wanted done.
“Very well,” said Adele merrily; “I want that market basket which hangs up there. Can you lend it to this boy for a little while?” The market man declared his entire willingness to do so, and kept Janey Hooper waiting for her bone while he filled that basket with everything which Adele’s eyes could discover, which might add to a Christmas dinner. There was a plump chicken, a roast of beef, a string of sausage, some potatoes, apples, onions, turnips, a great bunch of celery, and, in short, whatever the market man suggested, after the girl’s skill was exhausted.
“Is that too heavy for you?” said Adele.
“O, no, ma’am!” Bobby assured her.
“Very well; I want you to take it to this little girl’s mother’s house, and tell her Santa Claus sent it to go with the soup, and that it has given him a happy Christmas to do so. Will you remember?”
He nodded brightly, stuffing rosy-cheeked apples into his pocket the while, and they trudged away, Janey trying to murmur her bewildered protests, while Adele paid her bill.
“I’ve spent every cent of my ten dollars,” she told Aunt Martha an hour later. “I hadn’t even enough to buy you any Christmas bonbons; but I have obeyed mamma’s directions; I was to buy something to make me happy, and I haven’t felt so happy in weeks as I do this minute. When I get my things put away I’ll come down and tell you all about it.”
Aunt Martha watched her bound up the stairs, a glow on her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes which they had lacked when she went out; and whatever the purchase had been, she was grateful.
As for Janey Hooper and her mother, to say nothing of Bobby, who took dinner with them, you must imagine how they felt.
Pansy.
boy dragging very unhappy sheep out of water on its backMAKING THE SHEEP CLEAN.
MAKING THE SHEEP CLEAN.
double line
T
THERE were thirteen of them, all told. An “unlucky number,” one of them said, and laughed; they were girls who did not believe in “luck.” They laughed a great deal during these days, and were very happy. They had as lovely a secret on their minds as thirteen girls, all of them between the ages of eleven and thirteen, ever had. They were also very busy, and held many committee meetings, and discussed plans, and went in companies of twos and threes to transact business. “We were never so busy before at this time of year, were we?” they said to one another. “And we never had so much fun in our lives!” some one would be sure to say. To this sentiment they all agreed.
“This time of year” was a few days before Christmas. The preparations for Christmas, so far as these girls are concerned, began two weeks before. It started on Sunday afternoon in the Bible class. Miss Parker had been even more interesting than usual that day. She succeeded in so filling their hearts with the lesson, especially with one thought in it, that Cora Henderson said, half enviously:
“O, dear! I can’t help wishing that we had lived in those times. Of course it was dreadful; but then, after all, it gave one such splendid opportunities! Think of John having a chance to take Jesus’ mother home and do for her. And to know that Jesus wanted him to, and was pleased with it! I think it would have been just lovely; there are no such chances nowadays,” and Cora, aged thirteen, sighed.
Miss Parker smiled on her brightly. “Are you sure of that, my dear girl? Remember we are talking about a history which is different from any other in the world, because Jesus is ‘the same yesterday, to-day and forever.’”
“O, yes’m!” Cora said civilly; “I know it; but then, of course, things are different. His mother is not here on earth for us to take care of; I should love to do it, I know I should,” and Cora’s fair face glowed, and her eyes had a sweet and tender light in them.
Miss Parker looked at her fondly. “My dear child,” she said, “I think you would; but do you forget how He said, ‘Whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is my brother and sister and mother’?”
Cora looked a little bewildered, and Miss Parker explained.
“I think we all forget that according to that verse Jesus has many ‘mothers’ on earth, in the persons of his dear old saints, who are poor, and weak, and tired, and are only waiting to be called home. There are so many things we could do for their comfort, if we only remembered that they were the same to Jesus as his own dear mother.”
The girls looked at one another wonderingly. This was a new way of putting it. Cora did more than look. “What a lovely thought!” she said; “I should never have thought it out for myself, but it must be so, because what would that verse mean if it were not? O, Miss Parker! couldn’t we girls do it? Do you know of any old lady whom we could help a little—make a pretty Christmas for, perhaps? Girls, wouldn’t you all like to do it?”
So that was the beginning. Yes, Miss Parker knew an old lady; had had her in mind all the week; had wondered how she could set to work to interest her dear girls in her. She needed a great deal of help, and Miss Parker had very little of this world’s goods. She knew that some of her girls came from homes where there was plenty. “But I do not like to be always begging,” she told her mother. Then she had asked the Lord Jesus to show her some way of interesting the girls in poor Grandmother Blakslee. And here they were asking for the name of an old lady whom they could help! What a lovely answer it was to her prayer.
Grandmother praying with child“NOW LET US ASK A BLESSING.”
“NOW LET US ASK A BLESSING.”
Grandmother Blakslee’s story was a sad one, though only too common. Her two daughters and her one son had died long years before, leaving a little granddaughter, who had grown to girlhood and married a worthless drunkard, who deserted her, and at last she died, leaving to Grandmother Blakslee the care of her poor little baby boy. In many ways life had gone hard with Grandmother Blakslee; and now in her old age, when she was too feeble to work, the thing which she had dreaded most in the world, next to sin, had come to her door. She could no longer pay the rent for her one little bare room, and must send her little boy to the orphan asylum, and go herself to the poorhouse. It seemed a very pitiful thing to Grandmother Blakslee that she should have had to plan to leave the bare little room on Christmas morning, but that happened to be the day when it was convenient for the man who had promised to take her and her old arm-chair. Poor little Johnnie was to go with her for that one day, and the next morning he was to be taken in the market wagon to the asylum. Poor Grandmother Blakslee! her heart was very sad and sore, but she tried to keep her face quiet and peaceful for Johnnie’s sake. She had not been able to make the little fellow understand that he was to be separated from her; the most he realized was that they were to take a ride together and spend the day in a big house, and he was happy. On the little three-cornered table was set a dish with baked potatoes and warm rolls, and the teapot stood near it; a neighbor only a little less poor than themselves had remembered them. Grandmother tried to have only thankfulness in her heart; but could she forget that she had lived in that town more than sixty years, and been a member of the church all that time? Occasionally she could not help feeling it was strange that there could have been no other way but to go to the poorhouse. “It won’t be long now for me,” she told herself, “and I should like to have kept Johnnie while I staid, poor little boy! But it was not to be.” Then she smothered a sigh and said, “Come, Johnnie, let us ask a blessing, then we will have our last breakfast alone together.”
It was while Johnnie stood with clasped hands, saying after Grandmother the words of blessing, that a knock was heard at the little door. “Come in,” said Grandmother Blakslee the moment the words of prayer were spoken, and a strange head was thrust in at the door.
“I can wait, ma’am,” said the owner of it respectfully. “I’m to take you in my rig, and my orders were to wait until you were ready.”
“Did Mr. Patterson send you?” asked Grandma, her voice all in a tremble. “I thought he meant to come himself, and I thought he said about ten o’clock; but we’ll hurry, Johnnie and me; we won’t keep you long. Can you take the chair, too?”
“Yes’m; them’s my orders; and no hurry in life, ma’am, take your time,” and he closed the door.
Johnnie stuffed in the buns and potatoes, and pronounced them good; but poor Grandmother Blakslee only swallowed a few mouthfuls of tea which almost choked her. Life was very hard.
She was soon ready; it would not do to keep Mr. Patterson’s team waiting. But she stared at it when she came out. It was not the market wagon; instead it was a handsome two-horse sleigh, with gay robes’ on the seats, and gay bells on the handsome horses. “You needn’t be at all afraid, ma’am,” said the strange man, “these horses is gentle as kittens, if they do love to go,” and he lifted her in as though she had been a kitten, tucked Johnnie under the robes beside her, and before she could get her breath to speak they were off. Just a gay dash around the corner, down one familiar street, up another, and they halted before a tiny white house set back among tall trees which staid green even in winter.
“There is some mistake,” faltered Grandma Blakslee, more breathless than ever. “I wasn’t to be brought here; I was to go to the asylum out on the Corning Road, near two miles; I don’t know the folks that live here; I didn’t know it was rented.”
The strange man chuckled. “I guess there’s no mistake,” he said, “and you’ll like to make their acquaintance; anyhow, I must do my duty and leave you here; I’m under orders.”
Trembling and bewildered, poor Grandma, because she did not know what else to do, let herself be set down in front of the door, which the man opened hospitably, saying as he did so, “Step right in; the folks that live here will be glad to see you.” Then he shut the door and went away. They were left, Grandmother and Johnnie, in a little hall opening into a pretty room at the right. The door was wide open, and a bright fire burned in a shining stove. There was a bright carpet on the floor; there was a rose in blossom in one window, and some geraniums in the other. There was a large easy chair in front of the stove, with a table beside it on which was set out a lovely breakfast for two. On the stove the tea-kettle sang, and some genuine tea in a little brown teapot on the right-hand corner back, sent out its delicious aroma. In an alcove, behind some pretty curtains which were partly drawn, waited a plump white bed; and Grandma Blakslee stood in the midst of all this luxury and stared.
“Grandma,” said Johnnie, “have we got there? Is this the big house? Where are all the folks? Where is this, and whose breakfast is that? Are we to eat it, Grandma? It is nicer than ours. Why don’t you sit down in that pretty chair? Here is a little one for me, with wed cushions. Can’t we stay here every day, Grandma?”
Grandma, feeling unable to stand another minute, tottered forward and dropped into the softness of the easy chair, and spied, tucked under the edge of a plate, a sheet of folded paper. Then she fumbled for what Johnnie called the “speticles that could wead,” and read:
Welcome home, dear Grandma Blakslee. Merry Christmas to you and Johnnie.From Miss Parker’s Girls.
Welcome home, dear Grandma Blakslee. Merry Christmas to you and Johnnie.
From Miss Parker’s Girls.
No, they hadn’t “done it every bit themselves.” There had been several fathers and mothers who were glad to help, as soon as they thought about it. Cora Henderson’s father had said, “Why, Grandma Blakslee might live in the little empty cottage this winter and welcome;” he wondered they had not thought of it before. Anna Smith’s mother said she would be glad to get rid of that carpet rolled up in the attic; she had no use for it, and it was a pattern she had never liked. Ella Stuart’s mother said the old arm-chair and the old lounge would do nicely if they were re-covered, and she was sure she did not want them. And so the plan grew and grew, and the girls were O, so busy and happy! It was the best Christmas of their lives, they all declared, especially after they made their call on Grandma, and found her almost too happy.
“It is almost pitiful,” said Anna Smith, “to see a poor woman cry for joy over one little room and a few old duds!”
And Cora Henderson, with her eyes shining like stars, said, “Isn’t it lovely? I’m so glad that verse is in the Bible, and Miss Parker thought it all out!”
Pansy.
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I
I MUST explain that some time before this I had learned that the boys in the boarding-school who had no pocket money, could not go to the bath as often as I thought they ought. While I was considering this problem, an Armenian gentleman gave me something over two dollars to use as I saw fit. Thinking “cleanliness next to godliness,” though the Bible does not say it in just those words, I used to give Deekran a quarter or so now and then to use for himself and the other poor boys.
When they rose to go, I asked Sumpad if he could stop a moment, I wanted to have a little talk with him. How glad I was to find that he had a hope in Christ, and was trying to live for him. It was a great privilege to speak a few words of sympathy and encouragement.
How can I believe the terrible news that has just come to me here in free America? How can I think of him in his young, Christian manhood as dead in a horrible Turkish dungeon! Why, what had he done? He had written a few lines of boyish admiration for the heroes of his own race, the Armenians. And so he must die alone of typhus fever after a four months’ imprisonment, utterly cut off from all his friends. Poor young martyr! No one could get access to him; yes, there was one Friend whose entrance neither bolts nor bars could prevent—the King of heaven and earth; what need of any other? Death has now unlocked the prison door, and opened the gate of heaven; no more tears should be shed for him—happy young martyr.
But I have wandered far, both as to place and time, far from that peaceful, happy Sabbath.
It was now lunch time; then came Sabbath-school. The men and boys met in the chapel, but as it was not large enough to accommodate more, the women’s, girls’ and the infant class met elsewhere. Isgoohe, a member of the senior class in the high school, took charge of the second of these. After going over the lesson, she began to ask personal questions:
“Now, girls, what have you done for Jesus this week?”
A hand was raised.
“What is it, Marta?”
“I let Funduk have my comb for Jesus’ sake. It was such a nice one, I did not like to have her use it; but Miss Goulding told me I ought to be kind to Funduk.”
Then Armenoohe said that going home from school one day, a girl she did not know very well called out, “Armenoohe, run and get me another clog; mine’s broken.” (The clog is a wooden sole with a heel at each end, as it were, and a leather strap to slip the foot into. These heels are from one to three or four inches in height, and raise the foot well out of the mud or snow.) “At first,” said she, “I thought that it was no affair of mine, and that the girl was rather impudent to ask such a thing. Then I remembered what you told us, Isgoohe, about not pleasing ourselves; so I asked her which was her house, and got the clog and brought it to her, and she never even thanked me!” (It was not so very long since Armenoohe herself had learned to say “thank you.”)
Two or three others told their little efforts at denying self; then the bell rang for the afternoon service.
In the evening I invited any who wished to talk with me to come to my room. Soon afterward Rakel came. She was rather a pretty girl, with bright red hair; she was full of fun, and a dreadful tease. She dropped on to the hassock at my side in a bashful sort of a way.
“Was there something you wanted to say, Rakel?”
“Yes,” came the whispered answer; “I want to love my companions.”
I enlarged a little upon the duty and privilege of loving others, and then waited for her to speak; but she was silent so long, that I finally asked if there was anything else she wished to say.
“Yes; how can I love those who make me angry?”
Well, that was a problem, to be sure! But then, the dear Saviour can help us solve every problem, so we knelt and prayed, both of us, for his help in this particular matter.
She had been gone but a minute, when her cousin Sarra came, Bible in hand, to ask the meaning of the verse, “Whether therefore ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.” There were several other verses she wanted explained, and then by a little gentle questioning, I learned some more of the trouble between her and Rakel, who she said was always teasing her, using her books, and leaving them about carelessly. Then she hung her head and confessed that when she found her Bible on the divan, and Fido tearing out a leaf, she had at once blamed Rakel, and retaliated by getting her Bible and banging it on to the floor.
“Was that right, Sarra? Do you think that was one way to glorify God?”
“No,” she replied honestly, but her voice was low and husky. Then we talked of the way Christ bore with men and their cruelty and sins, and we asked him to make us gentle and patient, kind to others, even when they were unkind to us.
The retiring bell tinkled through the hall, and so ended the beautiful, blessed day.
Harriet G. Powers,in the Evangelist.
girl blowing bubbles in bowlGOOD FUN!
GOOD FUN!
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boys playing hockeyTHE BATTLE IS ON.
THE BATTLE IS ON.
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bopy carrying buckets while man watchesHE WAS COMING FROM THE OLD WELL.
HE WAS COMING FROM THE OLD WELL.