Oct.
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IT was a bright cool morning that we were riding down Delaware Avenue in a street car which had very few passengers. It gave me a chance to study human nature. I began the study with a very handsomely dressed boy. Jacket and collar and necktie and hair all showed that very careful people had planned for him, and that they had plenty of money to spend on him. They came into the car just after I was seated, the boy and his mother. She was tall and pale, and in deep mourning; I wondered if her husband were dead, and if this boy were the only one she had to think about or care for her. If so she was to be pitied, poor woman! for it soon became evident that the young man thought about and cared for himself. His first exhibition was to fling his heavy overcoat on his mother’s lap as he said: “Here, mamma, hold that, and give me the tickets for the conductor.”
“I haven’t tickets, dear,” she said; “I shall have to buy some.”
“O, well! all right, give me your pocket-book and let me buy them.”
“No, dear, there is a good deal of money in my pocket-book, and some valuable papers.”
“What of that?” he said, in a tone loud enough for all the passengers to hear; “I ain’t going to lose them; don’t I know how to take care of things? Give me the purse.” It was passed over without more words.
“Take a quarter from the silver money,” the mother advised a moment later.
“O, no, mamma! I want to give him a bill, to see if he makes the right change. Here’s a five; that will do; no, let me see.” He jerked his arm suddenly away from the mother’s hand, which reached after the pocket-book, and several pieces of silver flew out and rolled around on the floor.
“There!” he said, in a reproachful tone, “see what you have made me do; now you have lost some of your money.”
“Pick it up, Harold, that’s a good boy.”
He stooped and picked up a twenty-five cent piece, then said:
“Never mind the rest. It has rolled round under the seat somewhere, and it is all dust; I can’t get down on my knees and hunt; never mind, let it go. Say, mamma, give me that box of candy.”
“Not now; I would rather you did not eat any more candy, Harold, until we get home.”
“Why not? I don’t want to wait; I haven’t eaten much. Come, it’s my candy, and I want it. You bought it for me, and I think you are mean not to let me have it.”
“Hush, Harold! do not talk so loud. Hold your overcoat, dear; it is too heavy for mamma.”
“Oh! I can’t, it is too hot. I did not need that great big overcoat anyhow, and I told you so. I’m not going to hold it. Drop it on the floor if you don’t want to keep it. But give me that box of candy. O, mamma! there’s a procession coming down the street—soldiers, and everything. I’m going out on the platform to see them.”
He made a dash forward, and the pale, anxious mother reached after him, trying to arrest his steps, dropping as she did so not only the overcoat, but the pocket-book again. The pennies and the ten-cent pieces rolled around freely, while Harold, looking behind him, gave a mocking laugh, and was out on the platform.
They had not been in the car over five minutes. And yet I was quite as well acquainted with Harold as I had any desire to be.
At the North Street corner the pale little mother left the car with the heavy overcoat over one arm, and the pocket-book, with what change she had been able to find, in her hand, while Harold, tugging at her sleeve, was heard to say, “Mamma, I want that candy this minute!”
At Reed Street came three passengers, a boy about the size of the one who had left us, and two little girls, one perhaps seven, and the other not over four. The boy was freckled-faced, and by no means so handsome as Harold. His clothes were very neat, but of the coarse, common sort worn by children of the moderately poor. The little girls beside him were as neat as wax—faces and hands and hair in perfect order; but their sacks and hats were of last year’s fashion—perhaps older still than that—and I fancy Harold would have laughed outright at the little old overcoat which hung over the boy’s arm.
boy shockedA SHOCKING EXPERIENCE.
A SHOCKING EXPERIENCE.
They took their seats quietly, and made no disturbance of any sort. But there were so few in the car, and we were passing at that time through such a quiet street, that I could hear distinctly the words they spoke to one another.
“Better put on your sack, Janie,” said the boy, with a thoughtful air, looking at the older sister, “the wind blows in pretty strong here.” Janie immediately arose and began tugging at her sack. The boy, with the manners of a gentleman accustomed to the work, took hold of it at the shoulders and skillfully steered the little arms into place, pulling it down behind, and bestowing meanwhile side glances upon the little sister.
“Sit still, Bessie, that’s a good girl. No, don’t stand, dear; mamma wouldn’t like you to stand, the cars shake so.”
Down sat Bessie again, trying to put herself squarely on the seat. Failing in this her protector turned next to her, lifted her plump little form into place, then straightened her hat and returned a confiding smile which she gave him. Meantime the car was filling up, and in a few minutes every seat was taken. There came next a middle-aged woman, black of face, and very shabby as to toilet, with a market basket on her arm. Quick as thought the little gentleman arose, and touching her arm motioned her to his seat. Then Janie reached forward for his overcoat. “Let me hold your overcoat, Charlie,” she said, “because you haven’t any seat.”
“O, no!” said Charlie, smiling back at her, “I can carry it as well as not. Bessie dear, don’t climb up that way, you will fall.”
Down sat Bessie, who had mounted on her fat little knees to look out of the window.
“Now, Janie,” said the little man at last, when they were near the Dean Street crossing, “we are to get out at this corner. I will take Bessie’s hand and go ahead, and you keep close to me. We will stand still on the sidewalk until the car passes, then I will take you both across.”
Away they went, and I watched them making their way carefully across the crowded street, the brother’s arm thrown protectingly around Bessie, and his eyes on the watch for any possible danger to either of his charges. I had made his acquaintance in five minutes, too, and knew more about him than he would have imagined possible.
Myra Spafford.
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THE “Regret” which we give you this month comes from a very high source. Almost every scholar of ancient languages will recognize the name. It is a very pleasant thought that these great men out of their busy lives have stopped to give us a glimpse of their past, in order to help the young people of to-day, who will be the men and women of to-morrow, to avoid the mistakes which they did not. We hope and believe that the Pansies will receive great benefit from these glimpses from the youth of great people.
“I regret that I have not better acquired the art of pleasantly acknowledging the kindnesses shown me, and of showing my appreciation of people whom I really do appreciate. My influence with many would be greatly increased if I could but make them understand how warmly my heart goes out to them.”Willis J. Beecher.Dr. W. J. Beecher,Professor of Hebrew in Auburn Theological Seminary.
“I regret that I have not better acquired the art of pleasantly acknowledging the kindnesses shown me, and of showing my appreciation of people whom I really do appreciate. My influence with many would be greatly increased if I could but make them understand how warmly my heart goes out to them.”
Willis J. Beecher.
Dr. W. J. Beecher,Professor of Hebrew in Auburn Theological Seminary.
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(Lukeix. 23; xiv. 27.)
AND didst thou hear the Master sayHe that would my disciple be,Let him deny himself each day,Take up his cross, and follow me?Oh! wondrous love, that did deviseFor us this “straight and narrow way,”Beyond which, in the distance, liesThe realms of pure and perfect day.
AND didst thou hear the Master sayHe that would my disciple be,Let him deny himself each day,Take up his cross, and follow me?Oh! wondrous love, that did deviseFor us this “straight and narrow way,”Beyond which, in the distance, liesThe realms of pure and perfect day.
AND didst thou hear the Master say
He that would my disciple be,
Let him deny himself each day,
Take up his cross, and follow me?
Oh! wondrous love, that did devise
For us this “straight and narrow way,”
Beyond which, in the distance, lies
The realms of pure and perfect day.
bears lying on ground and climbing a treeTHE UPS AND DOWNS OF LIFE.
bears lying on ground and climbing a treeTHE UPS AND DOWNS OF LIFE.
THE UPS AND DOWNS OF LIFE.
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girl in horseshoe
HIS name is Willie Addis, and he lives in Plainfield, N. J. A few weeks ago his mother turned down the wicks of her kerosene stove, and leaned over it to blow out the flame, when the stove exploded, and in an instant she was in flames. With one bound Willie was in the kitchen, seizing the large woolen mat from the floor as he ran, and in less time than it takes me to tell it, he had wrapped the mat about his mother and extinguished the flames! The kitchen furniture was burned, but that was about all, and the dear mother was saved by her quick-witted ten-year-old son, who had heard somewhere that woolen wrapped closely about a burning object so as to exclude the air, will put out the fire. It is not every boy of his age who knows that fact; and there are many who, knowing it, would not have had presence of mind enough to have applied their knowledge promptly. Willie did, and he has his mother. Certainly I think he must be a happy boy, and I am sure she is a glad, proud mother.
How is one to help hoping and praying that he may never be other than a joy to her in the years to come?
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I AM very fond of the little ones, and like to have them around me, and as the puppies are in the majority it will be their turn to have a short story this time.
If you do not have to go home too soon perhaps I will have time to tell you more than one; we will see. Oh! the children are to stay to tea, are they? All right. Now, attention!
All those who would like to hear a story about a chicken—“a real truly story,” as the children say—wag your tails.
Those opposed, bark. Carried. The vote for the chicken story is about unanimous.
I suppose some of you have very poor opinions of chickens and hens; you think because they have but two legs, and are so easily frightened, they don’t amount to much; but the master and mistress think quite differently when they eat the nice fresh eggs which the hens furnish. Why, some of those proud young crowers have hearts as well as we. I remember so well a little old white blind hen which my master once had, and how kindly she was treated. (She could see just a little with one eye, but we called her blind.)
The young man who worked upon the place took a fancy to “Old Whitey,” as they called her, and when master wanted to send her to market this fellow pretended he couldn’t find her, so she was kept till very old.
The gallant young crowers which roosted in the same shed with her would never fight this old “grandmother,” but were just as kind to her as they knew how to be. Sometimes when one of them had found a nice lot of worms under something he had scratched over, “Whitey” would come along hungry, and he would leave the nice mess for her, and look further for himself.
Was not that gallant and kind? Would all of you do as well as that? Be as unselfish?
But this is not the chicken I was to tell you about. He was a poor orphan, his mother having died when he was but a little yellow ball upon two little pins of legs.
two shepherds and some sheepAN ORIENTAL SHEPHERD.
AN ORIENTAL SHEPHERD.
I had not much to do with this pet, only as I visited his home occasionally, and saw and played with him a little.
It was my cousin Tip who had most to do with this bright feathered fellow, and to whom he was indebted for most of his education.
Tip was a great favorite; in fact, his mistress was fond of all sorts of pets; had a name for each of her cows, and for every one of her hens, so she had a name for this chicken.
Tip used to go about wherever he pleased, and so did the chicken. My cousin was in the habit of taking almost anything he could find, and dragging it to the spot where he wished to lie, then make a bed of it and go to sleep.
His little friend the chicken for awhile watched him with envious eyes—for I regret to say Cousin Tip was too selfish to provide a bed for any one besides himself.
But this chicken evidently thought “what had been done could be done,” so he asserted his independence, and gathered up what he could carry or drag; put the articles—stockings, handkerchiefs or rags—in a heap near Tip’s bed, and would then tread them down as he had seen Tip do, and squat upon them for a make-believe nap. Now wasn’t that a pretty bright chicken, and was not Tip a pretty successful teacher for one so young?
No, that lesson wouldn’t be much for a bright little dog to learn; but we do not expect much intelligence in a hen or rooster.
I suppose they cannot understand what people say to them as we do. And some people do not seem to think we understand what they tell us to do or not to do, even when they tell us we have done well.
I remember so well when I was young, though almost as large as I am now, how I astonished a lady by acting as though I understood what she said to me.
It was in the country, where the houses were quite a distance apart. I had been caring for this woman’s little girl for more than a week, and had kept her out of lots of mischief, and prevented her from getting many an ugly fall, though I had never been asked to do it.
One day little Cynthia (that was her name) wanted to go over to see her grandmother, who lived in the next house, nearly a quarter of a mile away. The mother told her there was no one to go with her. She said she could go alone, and coaxed so hard that the mother said she might go. So Cynthia put her little hat on, and her mother kissed her good-by, and she started. Then her mother turned to me and said: “Major, you go with her and take good care of my darling; don’t you let anything hurt her.”
How proud I was! I went right by her side all the way, and never left her for one moment until she was safe at home.
Then the lady called me a “good, faithful fellow,” and I was very happy. But when the men came in at night and she told them what I had done, I felt ashamed to hear her say, “He acted just as though he knew what I told him.”
The idea! Why shouldn’t I understand, I would like to know? They talk about things which I do not understand, but when they give me such a plain direction as that I guess I can hear it, and know what they mean, too.
There goes the whistle, and you must scamper. Good-by!
G. R. A.
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A TRUSTWORTHY writer in one of our exchanges says that last summer near his room a humming-bird built her tiny nest and reared her family. One day when there was a heavy shower coming up, just as the first drops fell the mother came fluttering home, seized a large leaf which grew on the tree near her nest, drew it over the nest in a way to completely cover it, then went back to whatever work she had been about when the coming storm disturbed her. The amused watchers from the window wondered why the leaf did not blow away, and finally reached out and examined it; they found it hooked to a tiny stick which was just inside the nest, as if it had been built in for that purpose! The storm lasted but a few minutes, and after it was over home came the mother, unhooked the green curtain she had so carefully put up, and found her babies perfectly dry.
birdsWHICH WILL GET IT?
birdsWHICH WILL GET IT?
WHICH WILL GET IT?
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NOT something to make, this time, but to buy. It is a lovely new book bound in blue and silver, and the title is “Christian Endeavor Saints.”
It is written by Dr. F. E. Clark, the father of all the Christian Endeavor societies. If your mamma is not a member of that society it will make no difference, she will like the book very much; it has a great many short bright articles in it, not too long for a busy mother to read when she sits down for a minute or two of rest. The first part of the book has short letters addressed to different saints.
One, for instance, to “St. Neighborly,” another to “St. Hopeful,” another to “St. Speakwell,” and so on.
Then there are many “Golden Rule Recipes” for the cure of all sorts of troubles, as well as what is perhaps better, for the prevention of many.
Let me give you one which is called:
“At the very beginning of the day take a large amount of good nature, and double the quantity of determination to make the best of things, a heaping measure of bodily vigor, and mix well in the mortar of gratitude with the pestle of the remembrance of past mercies. A season of prayer and praise is always necessary to the proper mixture of these ingredients. Then add to this a considerable, but not too large, portion of well-regulated tongue, a slice of charity that thinketh no evil and is not easily provoked, a portion of hopefulness for the future, and a large measure of faith in God and fellowmen. Season this with the salt of shrewdness and thrift, and sweeten with plenty of the sugar of love for all God’s creatures. Put in a large handful of plums of parental or filial affection, and a number of pieces of neighborly friendliness; and somewhere in the day conceal one special service for the Lord’s poor. Slide this good deed into the mixture quietly, without saying anything about it. Do not use any of the sour milk of disappointed hopes, or brooding cares, for this will spoil the whole; and while there should be a pinch of the pepper of fun, and considerable sweet oil of joviality, do not use any of the mustard of backbiting, or the table sauce of slander.“Let the mixture boil gently, but do not let it boil over, for the delicate flavor of the ingredients is injured by too much heat.“This recipe has been tried in a hundred thousand households, and has never been known to fail.”
“At the very beginning of the day take a large amount of good nature, and double the quantity of determination to make the best of things, a heaping measure of bodily vigor, and mix well in the mortar of gratitude with the pestle of the remembrance of past mercies. A season of prayer and praise is always necessary to the proper mixture of these ingredients. Then add to this a considerable, but not too large, portion of well-regulated tongue, a slice of charity that thinketh no evil and is not easily provoked, a portion of hopefulness for the future, and a large measure of faith in God and fellowmen. Season this with the salt of shrewdness and thrift, and sweeten with plenty of the sugar of love for all God’s creatures. Put in a large handful of plums of parental or filial affection, and a number of pieces of neighborly friendliness; and somewhere in the day conceal one special service for the Lord’s poor. Slide this good deed into the mixture quietly, without saying anything about it. Do not use any of the sour milk of disappointed hopes, or brooding cares, for this will spoil the whole; and while there should be a pinch of the pepper of fun, and considerable sweet oil of joviality, do not use any of the mustard of backbiting, or the table sauce of slander.
“Let the mixture boil gently, but do not let it boil over, for the delicate flavor of the ingredients is injured by too much heat.
“This recipe has been tried in a hundred thousand households, and has never been known to fail.”
There are many more recipes quite as unique and as helpful as this.
Then follows a series of “Golden Rule Sermons” on all sorts of important topics, such as “Getting Muddled with the Unimportant,” on “Living as we Sing,” on “Poor Excuses,” and the like. Finally there are letters addressed to “Grandmother Lois,” “Mrs. Neataswax,” “Miss Youngheart,” “Mrs. Vitriol,” and a host of other people whom we have met.
From one, addressed to “The Birds that can Sing, and won’t Sing,” I want to quote a little:
My dear Birds:“I watched you last Wednesday evening in the mid-week prayer meeting, and none of you moved your lips, even when we sang ‘Rock of Ages’ and ‘Jesus, Lover of my Soul.’ The singing was weak and languid and thin, when your voices might have put body and life and strength into it. I know that you can sing if you have a mind to, for do I not hear you every Sunday in the church choir?... Did I not hear you sing, too, at Miss Flora McFlimsey’s birthday party the other evening? Yes, indeed; you gathered around the piano, and the way you warbled forth the glees and college songs did my heart good. But there you were at the church prayer meeting, members of the church, members of the Society of Christian Endeavor; you had promised more than once to do your duty faithfully, and yet you kept still, simply because the singing wasn’t very artistic, or because somebody behind you ‘screeched so,’ as you inelegantly expressed it, or because the old deacon on the front seat dragged, and ‘put you all out.’ Now, my dear birds, pardon the plain words of an old man, and your pastor at that. The prayer meeting singing is just as important a part of worship, and just as acceptable in God’s sight, as your choir or solo singing with all its frills and furbelows. The ‘screecher’ and the old deacon are both doing the best they can; and if you did the best you could their voices would not be so prominent, and the music would be far better. Then, too, do you not think it indicates a little touch of conceit to sing only when your voices will show off to advantage, and let the poor prayer meeting suffer for lack of them? I am sure, my dear birds, that you never thought of the matter in that light, for after all you mean to be conscientious as well as tuneful birds; and I am quite confident that when, next Wednesday evening, I give out ‘Rock of Ages,’ you will ‘raise it’ on your clear strong voices, and give the prayer meeting such a start and uplift as it has not had for many a day.”
My dear Birds:
“I watched you last Wednesday evening in the mid-week prayer meeting, and none of you moved your lips, even when we sang ‘Rock of Ages’ and ‘Jesus, Lover of my Soul.’ The singing was weak and languid and thin, when your voices might have put body and life and strength into it. I know that you can sing if you have a mind to, for do I not hear you every Sunday in the church choir?... Did I not hear you sing, too, at Miss Flora McFlimsey’s birthday party the other evening? Yes, indeed; you gathered around the piano, and the way you warbled forth the glees and college songs did my heart good. But there you were at the church prayer meeting, members of the church, members of the Society of Christian Endeavor; you had promised more than once to do your duty faithfully, and yet you kept still, simply because the singing wasn’t very artistic, or because somebody behind you ‘screeched so,’ as you inelegantly expressed it, or because the old deacon on the front seat dragged, and ‘put you all out.’ Now, my dear birds, pardon the plain words of an old man, and your pastor at that. The prayer meeting singing is just as important a part of worship, and just as acceptable in God’s sight, as your choir or solo singing with all its frills and furbelows. The ‘screecher’ and the old deacon are both doing the best they can; and if you did the best you could their voices would not be so prominent, and the music would be far better. Then, too, do you not think it indicates a little touch of conceit to sing only when your voices will show off to advantage, and let the poor prayer meeting suffer for lack of them? I am sure, my dear birds, that you never thought of the matter in that light, for after all you mean to be conscientious as well as tuneful birds; and I am quite confident that when, next Wednesday evening, I give out ‘Rock of Ages,’ you will ‘raise it’ on your clear strong voices, and give the prayer meeting such a start and uplift as it has not had for many a day.”
I did not mean to quote it all, but it was so good I could not find a place to stop. I think you will enjoy it, and so will mamma, or your older sister, or indeed any one who loves to read bright, pure, helpful thoughts.
The book has about two hundred and fifty pages. I really do not know how much it costs, but your bookseller can easily find out for you.
Pansy.
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NOW does this mean that all children are good Christians, and are surely in the Kingdom of Heaven? But you know many who are not good. They are profane; they break the Sabbath, and all the other holy commands of God. Some are so very bad that their parents send them to reformatories, which are a sort of prison.
Some years ago a boy by the name of Jesse Pomeroy, when he was quite young, began to torture children when he could get them into his power. As he grew a little older and stronger he would get children away from home and lead them out into some desolate place, and bind them to a tree and do dreadful things to them.
It is thought that this wicked boy caused the death of several children.
There are more Jesse Pomeroys. Jesus did not mean that all children are perfectly good. Indeed every one—children, too—must be born again—that is, converted—to get into the Kingdom of Heaven.
What, then, did Jesus mean in this verse? Why, simply that all must “humble” themselves; must repent and trust in him to be saved. Every true child is ready to do this, much more so than grown-up folks.
Grown-up people do not like to confess that they are sinners. They—most of them—refuse to humble themselves, as most very young folks do.
Now have you really humbled yourself?
L.
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’Tiseasy to be gentle whenDeath’s silence shames our clamor,And easy to discern the bestThrough memory’s mystic glamour;But wise it were for thee and me,Ere love is past forgiving,To take the tender lesson home—Be patient with the living.—Selected.
’Tiseasy to be gentle whenDeath’s silence shames our clamor,And easy to discern the bestThrough memory’s mystic glamour;But wise it were for thee and me,Ere love is past forgiving,To take the tender lesson home—Be patient with the living.—Selected.
’Tiseasy to be gentle when
Death’s silence shames our clamor,
And easy to discern the best
Through memory’s mystic glamour;
But wise it were for thee and me,
Ere love is past forgiving,
To take the tender lesson home—
Be patient with the living.
—Selected.
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THE biggest thing in St. Louis is the bridge by which you get to it. It has three arches, each over five hundred feet long, and it makes a road over fifty feet wide. My uncle says it is a big thing, and he knows, for he is a bridge builder. There is a tunnel under it, and a railroad track. I rode into St. Louis once through this tunnel; it is a mile long. It is lighted with electricity, and they say it has ventilating shafts; but they don’t give you much air to breathe, that I know. Father had to fan mother every minute, and we were afraid she would faint. I think I should have found it hard work to breathe myself, if I hadn’t been so dreadfully worried about mother that I forgot all about it. But for all that it is a splendid thing—the tunnel is, I mean. The piers of the bridge are built on a rock, and they go down more than a hundred feet below the surface. This bridge cost over six millions of dollars. I could tell you more things, for I staid in St. Louis a whole week, but mother says my letter is long enough.
Willard J. Mooney.
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Allthe Pansies tell how the city they are writing about got its name. I cannot find out about St. Louis, but I know the first settlement there was made by Pierre Laclede Liguest. I was wondering if they did not put pieces of his queer name together, and make a word which in time came to be St. Louis? Anyhow, I am glad they did not name the place for him, it would have been so hard to pronounce. That is only about a hundred and thirty years ago. St. Louis did not grow very fast; for a long time nobody thought it was going to be a city, and fifty years ago there were only about sixteen thousand inhabitants; but it has grown fast enough since. There are more than five hundred thousand people there now, and large, beautiful buildings, and everything which helps to make a city handsome. It is hot there, though; at least my auntie thinks so. She used to have to wait three hours in a St. Louis depot for a train every time she came home for her summer vacation, and went back in September, and she says the warmest she has ever been in her life was during those hours; and she never in five years struck a cool day! So she says she cannot help thinking that St. Louis is always warm. But probably if she had been there in January, instead of June or September, she would have thought differently. Women are apt to think that things stay always just as they happened to find them.
Robert Campbell.
buildingTHE COURT HOUSE.
THE COURT HOUSE.
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Theprettiest place to go to in St. Louis is “Shaw’s Garden.” It has other names, “The Missouri Botanical Gardens,” and “Tower Grove Park,” which is a piece of the gardens, but when I was there everybody said “Shaw’s Garden.” The land was presented by Mr. Henry Shaw, an Englishman, and he used to keep the lovely great park in order at his own expense; I don’t know whether he does now or not. There are more than two hundred and fifty acres just in Tower Grove Park. I have never been to Central Park, that some of the Pansies told about, but I do not see how it could be prettier than Tower Grove Park. There is a statue of Shakespeare, and another of Humboldt in the park, and they cost over a million of dollars. I don’t see why; I didn’t admire them very much; but that is what the gentleman said who went with us. There are a great many other parks in St. Louis—about twenty, I think—but none are so beautiful as this; and the Botanical Gardens are said to have the finest collection of plants of any city in the United States. My brother Roger says that cities always say such things about themselves, and that he doesn’t suppose it is finer than can be found in New York and Chicago, but that is what they told us.
Nellie Shermann.
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I reada description of the St. Louis Court House which was very interesting. It is built in the form of a Greek cross, and has a splendid dome whose lantern can be seen as much as twenty miles away. It cost a good deal over a million dollars—the building did, not the lantern. Aunt Kate told me to put that sentence in: I don’t see why; of course you would know that a lantern did not cost all that! I like handsome buildings; I am going to be an architect.
I study all the different forms of buildings; I like the Greek cross style very well, but I don’t know how it would look for a private house. Aunt Kate says all that has nothing to do with St. Louis, but I don’t care. You don’t mind my telling what interests me, do you?
Arthur Blakeman.
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Thereis a building in St. Louis called “Four Courts,” named after the “Four Courts” of Dublin. But I think it was queer to name it Four Courts, and then have only three courts held in it. It is a stone building, and cost a good deal of money. Stone buildings always do; I suppose that is because they last so long; things that last always cost a great deal. I have hunted and hunted to find something interesting about St. Louis that everybody else would not be likely to tell, and the only thing I could find was this about the Four Courts. I don’t know as that is interesting, but it is the best I could do.
Mary Blakeman.
another buildingTHE DENISON HOUSE.
THE DENISON HOUSE.
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Theyhave a splendid Public-school Library in St. Louis. My father said when he was there ten years ago there were over fifty thousand volumes in it—books to help teachers and scholars. My father says he thinks other cities might copy after them in this. Colleges have libraries on purpose for their students, why should not public schools?
Will Vandenberg.
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another buildingTHE CUSTOM HOUSE.
THE CUSTOM HOUSE.
Theyhave a splendid Custom House and Post-Office in St. Louis. Father says the building cost half a million. He was there when it was being built, and he says there is something grand-looking about it. And father says they have splendid schools there; not only public schools, but lots of private ones. The Washington University is there, and so, of course, is the St. Louis University; and they have the finest kindergartens there, I think, to be found outside of Germany. My uncle says I might as well leave that sentence out, for the kindergartens in the United States are better than those in Germany. But I am not going to leave it out; I don’t like crossed-out lines in a letter, and I haven’t time to copy this. Besides, lots of people think that things in other countries are nicer than our own, of course.
Charles J. Prescott, Jr.
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Ritawas riding on a road that went winding up hill and down dale, when she remarked, “Well, I never did saw such a curly road.”
Ritawas riding on a road that went winding up hill and down dale, when she remarked, “Well, I never did saw such a curly road.”
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E
ELISE was spending the afternoon with Miss Dora Turner. Miss Turner was several years older than Elise, but she had come to the country to live among strangers, and Elise had known her in her city home, and was lonely like herself, so they became intimate friends. Elise told all her sorrows and perplexities, as well as her joys, to this young lady. She was in Miss Turner’s room now, waiting for her to rearrange her hair and make some additions to her toilet, then they were going for a walk.
“I don’t know where we can go, I am sure,” said Elise; “we have used up all the pretty walks near by. I wish it was early enough to go for a long tramp; I would like to do something different this afternoon. I feel tired of all the things I ever did.”
“Poor little old lady!” said Miss Turner, laughing, “there will have to be a new world made for you, Elise.” Then, as she turned, she caught the flash of the diamond at Elise’s throat, and said: “How lovely your pin is! It seems too lovely and too costly for a young girl.”
“It was mamma’s,” said Elise gravely, “and papa promised mamma he would give it to me on my fourteenth birthday. Didn’t I tell you?”
“Why, no, indeed. That explains it. I wondered that your father should send you a diamond pin at your age; but it is beautiful for you to have your mother’s pin to wear. Why didn’t you tell me, Elise?”
“Because,” said Elise, “there was a part to it that I did not understand, and I suppose I did not want to speak of it. Mamma sent me a message with it; at least papa said that the words inside were her message; she had them engraved on it before she died, so it seems like mamma’s last words to me, and indeed it is; but I do not understand it, nor know how to do it, nor anything. I don’t suppose you could show me?”
The question was asked with a half-laugh, and not at all as though Elise supposed that she could get any help from this quarter.
Miss Turner’s fair face flushed. “I don’t suppose I could,” she answered gravely; “I don’t know much about such things, Elise.”
What she meant by “such things” perhaps would have been difficult for her to explain. But the thought in her mind was, that “last messages” from dying mothers would not be such as she could explain. Elise’s mother had been dead for many years; at least they seemed many to Elise, though she could remember her beautiful mother distinctly; and when she thought it all over, as she often did in the twilight, could seem to feel her mother’s kiss upon her lips, and the pressure of her mother’s hand on the yellow curls which used to be hers in those days. She was not yet six years old when her mother went away, but there were times when it seemed to her that she had seen her only yesterday. And at other times the years which stretched between seemed very, very long. Her father was in India in the Government employ; had been there for five years. And Elise, who received long letters from him, and elegant presents, and talked a great deal about him, yet felt sometimes that she really knew him less than she did her beautiful pale mother, who used to love her so, and kiss her so tenderly. Elise lived with an aunt who was very fond of her, and did everything to supply her mother’s place, and her uncle called her his adopted daughter; yet sometimes she cried when she was tucked up in bed for the night, because she longed so to have a mamma and papa and a home of her own, like other girls. It was perhaps because Miss Turner had no mother that she had felt drawn toward her in the first place.
“What is the message?” her friend asked. “May I see it, Elise? I am half-surprised that you do not understand it; you are such a thoughtful young person, and seem older than you are; I have a feeling that you can understand what most others do.”
Elise made no reply save to unclasp the pin and pass it to her friend. Miss Turner moved toward the window, where the light would fall upon it. It was a lovely arch of gold, a tiny diamond flashing in its center, and on the reverse side was engraved, in small but distinct letters, the words: “Keep His covenant.” “Why, Elise!” she said, “how beautiful this is. I should think you would like it very much.”
“I do,” said Elise, “of course; only it gives me a strange feeling, as though mamma had sent me word to do something that I could not do; and I have always thought that I would like to do things to please mamma, if I only knew just what she wanted done.”
“Well, but, dear,” said Miss Turner hesitatingly, “surely you can find out what this means, in a general way.”
Elise smiled sadly. “I remember mamma very well,” she said, “and she always wanted me to do exactly as she said.”
“Well,” said Miss Turner again, after an embarrassed pause, “this is exact enough; she means you to live a good life, you know.”
“I don’t know what it means,” said Elise, moving restlessly. “As for being good, I am not, and I don’t know how to be; I cannot keep my temper a single day. You know I never get through a day without having a tiff of some sort with Cousin Annie; and there are ever so many people who vex me and worry me so that I cannot feel right toward them. That is not being good. Besides, the words seem to me to mean something more than that—something different. I would like to know exactly what they mean, but there is nobody that I can ask. Papa does not understand such things, and uncle and auntie do not. I don’t seem to have any friends who could help in that way.”
Miss Turner gave back the pin, looking very thoughtful indeed. She ought to know more about those things than Elise did, she told herself; her father was not a Christian, and her mother had died when her little girl was six years old, whereas Miss Turner had lived always in a home where the father and mother were earnest Christians, and she knew at this very moment that the greatest desire of their hearts was to see her doing this very thing—“keeping His covenant.” Yet she knew as little about it practically as Elise Burton did; so little, that although she was at least six years older than Elise, she did not know in the least how to help her this afternoon. It was very humiliating. She could help her with her music, and with her French lessons, and her drawing, and to have this most important of all lessons beyond her, seemed strange and wrong. She was still for several minutes, then she said, speaking very gently:
“Elise dear, I can imagine how you feel with this message from your mother; I wish I knew how to help you. But there is a way to learn what it means. There is a verse in the Bible somewhere that explains its meaning.”
Elise looked up quickly. “Where?” she asked. “The Bible is such a big book, and I do not know much about it. I did try last Sunday to find something about covenants that would help me. I went away back to Noah and the rainbow, but I did not get any good out of it for me.”
Miss Dora went to her table and took up an elegantly bound reference Bible, full of help which she did not understand, and turning in a half-bewildered, half-embarrassed manner to the Concordance, ran her eye down the list of words marked “covenant.” Elise watched her curiously. She had no Concordance in her Bible, and did not know how to use one. At last Miss Dora turned to a verse.
“This explains a little of it,” she said, and read aloud: “This shall be the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel in those days, saith the Lord; I will put my law in their inward parts, and write it in their hearts, and will be their God and they shall be my people.” As she read a curious light came into her eyes.
“It is very strange,” she said; “that is the verse that they are going to talk about this afternoon at the covenant meeting.”
“What is a covenant meeting?” asked Elise eagerly.
“It is the young people’s quarterly meeting at the church where I am attending. Every three months their Christian Endeavor Society have a gathering which they call a covenant meeting. I don’t know much about it; I have not been; but they talk together about such things; the pastor comes and talks to them. They say the meetings are interesting. What if we should walk in that direction, Elise, and go in a little while? Mr. Westfield invited me to come, but I did not have an idea that I should do so. I do not attend such meetings much, you know. But if you would like to go, Elise, and find out about your pin, I will go with you.”
“Well,” said Elise, starting up with more energy than she had shown before for several days, “I will. I want to know about ‘His covenant.’ I do, truly. Mamma asked me to, you know; and perhaps if I understood it it would tell me just exactly what she wanted me to do all the time, and I should be so glad to do it.”
“We will go and find out,” said Miss Turner gravely.
Thus the little seed dropped by the loving mother’s hand took root and blossomed in two lives, though the hand which sowed the seed had been dust for many years.
Pansy.
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old looking childWHEN GRANDFATHER WAS YOUNG.
WHEN GRANDFATHER WAS YOUNG.