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Oneof the most interesting places I visited in Philadelphia was Mr. Wanamaker’s store. I did not know a store could be so large. It takes a hundred miles of steam pipes to heat it.
statueFRANKLIN STATUE.
FRANKLIN STATUE.
My uncle has a fruit farm of ten acres, and I used to think when I walked around it that ten acres was pretty big; but there are over fourteen acres of floor to walk around in Mr. Wanamaker’s store! The different departments are fixed up beautifully. They have lovely parlors and dining-rooms and bedrooms all rigged up with beautiful furniture, to show people how to furnish their rooms, and every few days they change and give you another style. But the most interesting part of the store, to me, was the way the money is sent to the cashiers. There are eighty-one pay-stations in the store; then there is a central cash desk where twenty-five cashiers are busy all day long receiving the money that is brought to them through the tubes. The clerk at a pay-station takes the money you give him, and starts it in one of the pneumatic tubes, and away it shoots to the central desk on the second floor; a cashier there looks at it, sees what change is needed, and shoots it back. I don’t understand it very well, but I mean to. I am going to study the principles of pneumatic tubing, and Chris and I are going to have one to reach from my window to his. We are only about fifty feet apart. In Wanamaker’s they have seven miles of tubing to carry their money around. We took dinner at the Wanamaker Dairy, right in the store; it was jam full, and it will seat eight hundred people at once. Chris and I are going into partnership when we get to be men, and are going to have a store just exactly like it.
Henry W. Gilmore.
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I wentto Philadelphia last winter and attended Mr. Conwell’s church on Broad Street. It is very big—the biggest in the world, I guess—or maybe I mean in this country. It will hold thousands of people. Mother says she thinks Dr. Talmage’s church is bigger, but I don’t see how it could be. The people can’t all get in; they have to have tickets and be let in by a door-keeper. The singing sounds just grand. There is a very large choir, and the organ rolls and rolls. I liked Mr. Conwell almost better than any minister I ever heard, except my own, of course. Then I went to Sunday-school; hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of children! I never saw so many together before. Of course I saw other things in Philadelphia, but what I liked the best was that church. It seemed so funny to see folks crowding into church on Sunday morning, and to have a big overflow meeting for those who couldn’t get in. Where I live they have to coax the people to come to church, and there’s lots of room always.
Fanny Pierce.
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OnceI went to “Old Swede’s” Church in Philadelphia. It is very old. There used to be a log church on the place where it stands; sometimes it was used for a fort. That was in 1677, but about three years afterwards the brick church was built, and that is the one I went to. In the churchyard are many very old graves, and some new ones. Some of the names on the grave-stones are so old I could not make them out. It seemed very strange to be in a church which was built almost two hundred years ago. Then we went to the queer little old house on Letitia Street where William Penn used to live. Great big buildings have grown up around it, and they make it look very odd. Then we went to the old London Coffee House; I had studied about that in my history, and I was disgusted to find it turned into a cigar store. It is a very queer old building. I saw the house where the first American flag was made; that is on Arch Street.
Helen Stuart Campbell.
dark drawing of HallVIEW OF INDEPENDENCE HALL, PHILADELPHIA. (See “About Philadelphia.”)
VIEW OF INDEPENDENCE HALL, PHILADELPHIA. (See “About Philadelphia.”)
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Mysister Helen has written all about old places and never mentioned Carpenter’s Hall! She says that is because she knew I would. I went there with father and Helen. I think it is one of the grandest places in Philadelphia. It is the “Cradle of American Independence.” That was where the first prayer in Congress was made the morning after Boston was bombarded. Before that some of the people had objected to having Congress opened with prayer, but after that morning nobody ever objected again. The inscription on the wall says it was here that “Henry, Hancock and Adams inspired the Delegates of the Colonies with Nerve and Sinew for the toils of war.”
Then of course we went to Independence Hall, where the second Continental Congress gathered, and saw the old cracked bell which rung on the first Fourth of July. Helen says there was a Fourth of July every year before that time; but I mean the first one which was worth having.
Robert Stuart Campbell.
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I thinkthe prettiest place in all Philadelphia is Fairmount Park. If I lived there I should want to stay in the park all summer. The drive out is just as lovely as it can be. We crossed the Girard Avenue bridge, which is a thousand feet long. You can walk or ride across, just as you please. There is a sidewalk on each side of the carriage drive sixteen feet wide, and beautifully paved. The railing around this bridge is trimmed with flowers, vines and birds, made in bronze. We saw the old house which was built by William Penn’s son. And we went to the Zoölogical Gardens and saw the bear-pits and everything; then there is a part called the “Children’s Playground,” which is lovely.
James Hurst.
bellTHE LIBERTY BELL.
THE LIBERTY BELL.
[The above are some of the gleanings from the many letters received. Wish we had room for more. We are greatly pleased with your efforts to help on this department ofThe Pansy. The main difficulty is, that many letters come too late to be of use. Notice the list of cities published in the DecemberPansy, and make a start three months ahead, then you will be sure to be on time.—Editors.]
[The above are some of the gleanings from the many letters received. Wish we had room for more. We are greatly pleased with your efforts to help on this department ofThe Pansy. The main difficulty is, that many letters come too late to be of use. Notice the list of cities published in the DecemberPansy, and make a start three months ahead, then you will be sure to be on time.—Editors.]
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“WHAT did you say?” This last sentence was addressed to a customer who had been standing for some seconds. “Green braid? No, we haven’t any to match that.”
“Are you sure?” questioned the young girl anxiously. “Haven’t you a little darker, then? that will do.”
“No, we haven’t!” sharp-voiced and spiteful.
“Saucy thing!” she added, as the girl turned away; “I told her I hadn’t; what business had she to ask again?”
“O, Nellie! I don’t think you are sure. I think I found some in your upper row of boxes yesterday which would answer for the sample.”
“Nonsense! as if you could tell without looking. I know I haven’t; I tumbled the whole lot over yesterday for a fussy woman, and I remember every shade in it. It is of no consequence, anyhow; a seven-cent braid!
“O, Jean! look here; let me see your photographs. Are they good?”
She had darted away to the counter below.
Marion stood for a moment irresolute, then moved toward the girl. “Let me see it, please; I think I can match it.”
The woman to whom she had sold a spool of thread turned at the sound of her voice and smiled on the girl. “Give it to her, Jennie, she will match it; she knows how,” she said. Marion answered the smile; her heart was warm over the simple words of commendation. She sought among the upper row of boxes for the one which her memory associated with yesterday’s shades, and found it. The girl made her seven-cent purchase and went away pleased, just as Nellie came back from her photographs.
“Such a stupid day!” she yawned toward its close. “Not a person of importance has even passed our counter. I’ve sold about a dollar’s worth of goods to-day. How much have you done?”
“Hardly that,” said Marion, smiling. “It has all been spools of cotton and darning needles. It has rained, you know, all day.”
The next morning’s sun shone brightly, and the large store was thronged early in the day with shoppers. Both Marion and Nellie were busy, the latter not much pleasanter than she had been the day before; it all seemed such trivial work to her.
“Are you sure you are not mistaken in the name?” one of the chiefs was saying, in a perplexed tone, to a lady who stood near Marion’s counter. “We have but one clerk of that name, and she is the youngest in the store.”
“This one is quite young, and she sells spool cotton,” said the lady, catching Marion’s eye and smiling a recognition. She had laid aside the long gossamer, and was carefully dressed. “I have a fancy to be waited on by her.”
“Marion,” said the chief, turning to her, “this lady wants to look at the light trimming silks; do you know anything about them?”
“Yes, sir,” said Marion promptly; “I know the shades and prices.”
“I thought so,” the lady said, and Marion moved down the archway at her side.
“I have a fancy that you can match silks,” the lady said; “at least I think you will patiently try. A girl who could do her best on a rainy day for a spool of cotton, can be depended upon for silk, I believe.”
From the silk department they went to the glove counter, and from there to the millinery, in each of which departments the young girl with wide-open eyes and deft fingers and careful taste gave satisfaction. “You ought to be in this room,” said the head milliner, smiling on her as she saw her select the right shade of velvet. “Where do you belong?” She laughed when told, and said that the spool-cotton department was fortunate.
“That Marion Wilkes,” said the chief on Saturday evening, “what about her?” The clerk told briefly what he knew about her.
“Promote her,” said the chief briefly. “Keep watch of her; if she succeeds in other departments as well, keep pushing her. She has been worth several hundred dollars to us this week. Miss Lamson told me she had expected to buy her niece’s outfit over at Breck’s, but was attracted here by that little girl selling her a spool of cotton on a rainy day. And Jennie Packard brought her mother here for the winter supplies for their family, because that girl matched a dress braid; in fact, I have heard half a dozen stories of the kind about her. She is valuable; we cannot spare her for spool cotton.”
It was four years ago that this true story happened. Last Saturday, as I stood near the spool counter in the fashionable store, I heard a voice ask: “And what has become of Marion Wilkes? She used to be here next to you, didn’t she, Nellie?”
“Why, yes, she was the spool-cotton girl; but she didn’t stay here long; she got to be a favorite with the proprietors somehow. I never understood it. She was a sly little thing; they promoted her all the while; you never saw anything like it. She gets the largest salary of any saleswoman in the store now, and I heard last week that they were going to put her at the head of the art department. That’s just the way with some people, always in luck. Here I have been at this tape and braid counter for years, and expect to be until my eyes are too dim to pick out the stupid things. I told you I had no tape of that width; what is the use in asking again?” This last sentence was addressed to a little girl who was waiting to be served.
Pansy.
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“ISN’T he lovely?” asked Miss Henderson, as we three stood in front of Charlie’s portrait, which had just come from the artist’s hand. “He has such great expressive eyes, so soft, and yet so full of intelligence. The artist has caught the very expression. I think I never saw a more beautiful boy.”
“I think I never saw a greater nuisance,” said Miss Maylie, speaking with a good deal of energy and with a slight frown on her face, as though some unpleasant memory was stirred by the sight of the lovely face in the frame. We both turned and looked at her in surprise.
“Nuisance!” repeated Miss Henderson. “Why, what can you mean? I have heard that his character is as lovely as his face. He is one of the most generous little fellows, always dividing his goodies with the children.”
“Oh! I don’t doubt it,” said Miss Maylie; “but there are other traits in children to be sought after besides that of dividing their goodies.” Then she laughed, as if half-ashamed of the warmth of her manner, and said: “I’ve been a recent victim to one of his habits, and feel somewhat deeply, perhaps. I had an important engagement with his mother yesterday—a business matter for which I had asked an interview—and told her I was pressed for time, and had but a half-hour. I suppose we had been together about two minutes when the door opened without the ceremony of a knock, and Charlie appeared to ask if he might go over to Uncle Harry’s. He was told that he could not, it looked too much like rain; and he argued the matter, assuring his mother that the wind had changed and was blowing from the west; that the cook said it was not going to rain any more; that he would put on his rubbers and bundle up, and I don’t know what else. He was listened to patiently by his mother, and impatiently by me, for my precious half-hour was slipping away. He shut the door at last with a frown on his face which, if it had been painted, would have made this picture much less beautiful, but I am afraid more natural.
“It was certainly not five minutes before he was back, and this time it was, ‘Mamma, may I call Jerry to bring in the kittens?’
“‘O, no, dear! not this afternoon; you are dressed for dinner, you know.’
“‘That won’t make any difference; I won’t soil my clothes. The kittens haven’t been out in the mud. Do, mamma, let me.’
“‘No, Charlie; I do not want them in the parlor, you know.’
“‘Then I’ll go to the kitchen and play with them; Jane won’t care.’
“‘Yes, Jane cares very much; the kittens annoy her. Charlie will have to get along without them this afternoon.’
“Another slam to the door, with the scowl deepened. But we were by no means to be left in peace. I was just in the midst of the most intricate part of my business explanation, when Charlie arrived again. Now he was hungry; could not wait another minute, and wanted some bread and butter and syrup, and a piece of cake and a glass of milk. It was carefully explained to him that dinner would be served within the hour, and that syrup was not good for him, the doctor said—to which he replied that he did not care what the old doctor said—and that cake would be given him at the table when it was passed to the others. To each of these explanations he returned an answer which had to be answered, and when all was settled, he began over again to coax for something to eat! The fourth time he came he wanted the gas lighted in the library, and the fifth he wanted a certain great book which he could not lift placed conveniently for him to look at the pictures. When at last even his mother felt the strain on her patience and told him he must run away and not interrupt her again, he burst into a loud howl, and slammed the door after him so that my nerves all shivered at the jar.
“I must say it would be difficult for me to admire his face to-day; my annoyances are too recent. Seven times during a single half-hour to be interrupted by a little boy, when you are trying to transact important business with his mother, has spoiled his face for me. If he had wanted one single thing which it was important to have at that moment, it would have made a difference.”
“They all seemed important to him, I suppose,” said gentle Miss Henderson, who always tried to apologize for everybody.
“Yes, they did,” said Miss Maylie; “that is just the trouble; he evidently considered himself a very important person, and thought that his mother should leave her business and her caller and attend to him. I should call him a spoiled child.”
Myra Spafford.
pale portraitCHARLIE’S PORTRAIT.
CHARLIE’S PORTRAIT.
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Little girEVA.
EVA.
THIS is my little maid, Eva ——, though that is not her Chinese name. She will be a woman one of these bright days, and who knows but she may become a real princess or empress of great China?
“What of that?”
Much every way, if she now loves the Lord Jesus, and grows up a noble Christian woman. Can’t you see how she could help the Gospel among her people if she had the great power of an empress? I hope you remember how the good Queen of Madagascar led her nation to give up idolatry and choose the Bible. And now they are doing things so cruel to their neighbors who have become Christians we wish our little Eva were the grand good empress to stop these wicked Chinese doings.
L.
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Thinkwell over your important steps in life; having made up your mind never look behind.
Thinkwell over your important steps in life; having made up your mind never look behind.
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SOME nations think certain animals sacred; that is, they are so much better than other animals that they must not be harmed; of course they must not be killed. If they can they treat them almost as if they were human beings, dressing them up nicely, even richly. Just think of one of our bull-dogs dressed and fed and housed almost as well as a king!
“Why do certain tribes of Africa almost worship the Lion of Lhiamba?”
Perhaps because he is so strong and wise and terrible. He seems like a very god to them, they fear him so.
“Now maybe,” they say to themselves, “if we respect this great, fierce beast, never lifting a hand to harm him, maybe he will not harm us.”
“Does he ever harm them?”
Always, if they cross his path when he is hungry.
“Are there any other sacred animals?”
Yes; the bull, the white elephant, the monkey, even the serpent, and how many more it is hard to say.
Maybe you can guess which is sacred to the Egyptians, Chinese, etc.
We should not needlessly harm any animal. Shooting birds for mere fun is wrong. Animals have a hard time in this world. Let us not make it harder. But we must worship God only.
They are mere creatures, passing away after a short stay here; God lives forever. “Thou shalt have no other gods before me.”
L.
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Eachone of us is bound to make the little circle in which he lives better and happier; each of us is bound to see that out of that small circle the widest good may flow; each of us may have fixed in his mind the thought that out of a single household may flow influences that shall stimulate the whole commonwealth and the whole civilized world.—Selected.
Eachone of us is bound to make the little circle in which he lives better and happier; each of us is bound to see that out of that small circle the widest good may flow; each of us may have fixed in his mind the thought that out of a single household may flow influences that shall stimulate the whole commonwealth and the whole civilized world.—Selected.
Lion's faceTHE LION OF LHIAMBA.
THE LION OF LHIAMBA.
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NOBODY knew or even dreamed how large a thought was puzzling the brains of little Sadie Wilmot. It had begun at family worship that morning. Or no; perhaps it began back of that, at the meeting of “Cheerful Givers,” on Thursday. Mr. Wilmot said it was an absurd idea for such little dots as Sadie to be going to missionary meeting, but grandmamma quoted to him: “As the twig is bent, the tree is inclined,” and herself dressed Sadie for the gathering. Then Miss Harlowe, the leader, had told a story about a little heathen boy who prayed to an ugly little wooden image, with a hideous face; she showed a model of the little heathen’s god, and Sadie was shocked and distressed. She thought about the heathen a good deal that day. Now, this Saturday morning grandfather, at family worship, had read a Psalm. Sadie had not been listening very closely; in fact, it was hard for her to listen to Bible reading, some way, unless it had a story in it. This was not in the least like a story, and Sadie’s thoughts were, if the truth must be told, upon her dollie’s new hat and how she should make it, when she heard these words: “Ask of me, and I will give thee the heathen for thine inheritance.” It was that word “heathen” which caught her ear. Who was talking? To whom were the heathen to be given? Had some naughty king given them away to a bad man, and was that why they prayed to ugly wooden dollies? Sadie’s thoughts were in a turmoil; she could hardly wait until the prayer was over, before she was at grandpapa’s knee questioning.
“Why, child,” said grandpapa, with a puzzled air, for he was not used to explaining the Bible to little people, “it means what it says; the heathen are to be given to Jesus.”
“Given to Jesus!” said Sadie, amazed, “then why do they pray to ugly wooden dollies?”
“Because He hasn’t got them yet; they don’t know they belong to him.”
“Why doesn’t somebody tell them?”
“They do. People are at work telling them. Did you never hear about the missionaries, child? I thought you belonged to a Mission Band?”
Of course she did, and had heard about missionaries, and assured her grandfather that she gave five cents a month to support them. He did not say that that was a larger sum than he gave regularly for the same purpose; for some reason he did not care to do so; he only said:
“Very well, then, you understand all about it. The Bible says the heathen will be given to Jesus, and the missionaries have gone over there to tell them about it, and show them how to serve the Lord.”
“Has every single one of them heard it?” questioned Sadie, in great earnestness.
“Well, no,” said grandfather; “I believe they haven’t yet.”
“Why don’t they do it faster? Why don’t lots more missionaries go, and take Bibles, and hurry? Because maybe some of them will die before they hear it.”
Sadie was in intense earnest, but her father laughed, and said: “That’s the question, father. Puts some of you Christians in a tight place, doesn’t it?”
Sadie could not imagine what he meant; her grandfather sat at ease in his big leather-covered chair, and was not in a tight place at all. But she was disappointed at his telling her to run away and not ask any more questions for five minutes. If she only had a mamma, Sadie thought, she would ask her all the questions she pleased, for her friend Trudie Brown said that mammas never got tired of answering. But Sadie’s mamma went to heaven when she was a wee baby.
She went away to think it over, as she had to do with so many of her puzzles, only to have it added to presently by words from her grandmother.
“I declare!” said that good woman, coming in from the back yard, where she had been talking to Tony, the errand-boy, “that boy is a perfect heathen.”
Sadie nearly dropped her dollie with a china head on the floor, in her dismay. “Is he truly, Grandma?” she asked.
“Yes, he is,” said grandmamma, with emphasis; “I don’t believe there is a greater heathen in the depths of Africa than Tony. I have been trying to explain the simplest matter to him, and he does not understand me as well as a child of three ought to.”
“How should he?” asked grandfather, to whom this sentence was chiefly addressed; “he has never had any chance to learn. The whole settlement over there where he came from live like heathen, and know no better.”
Then came one of Sadie’s startling questions: “Grandfather, is he one of those who were given to Jesus?”
SadieTHINKING IT OVER.
THINKING IT OVER.
“What?” asked grandfather, in astonishment. He had already forgotten the morning’s questions.
“Why, isn’t he one that you read about, out of the Bible, that was given to Jesus?”
“Oh!” said grandfather, “I suppose so; why, yes, child, certainly. Jesus came to save him, as well as other heathen.”
“Does he know it?”
“What a child you are!” said grandmother; but as this was no answer Sadie waited, looking at her grandfather.
“I doubt if he does,” he said at last, “or would understand if he was told.”
“Why, then he ought to be told over and over, ever so many times, as you said you had to do with Bruce before he understood that he was to stand on his hind feet and ask for a bone, oughtn’t he?”
Both grandfather and grandmother began to laugh, though Sadie had no knowledge of what there was to laugh about; she was often treated in this way, and did not understand it. She turned away with a dignified air, a trifle hurt that her logic should produce only laughter; but there was decision as well as dignity in the tone in which she said: “I mean to tell him.”
That was the beginning of effort for Tony Black, as he was called for convenience, though his full name was Antony Blackwell.
Faithfully did Sadie pour information on him and ply him with questions until, from staring and being stupidly amused, and then half-vexed with her, he at last became interested, and listened and asked questions himself, and began to think. “Sadie’s heathen,” he was familiarly called by certain amused friends, who were told the story.
He was called so long after the name had ceased to fit him; for this is a true story of something which happened years ago. The years went by, and Tony Black became so utterly changed that people forgot that they had ever called him heathen, or even Tony. “Young Blackwell” was the name by which he began to be known; then, after a time, “Mr. Blackwell.” And one evening, when there was a great meeting in one of the largest churches of a certain city, he was introduced as “The Rev. Mr. Blackwell, who is under appointment to go to Africa as a missionary.” Who do you think went with him? Sadie herself! He told on the platform something of his story; of the time when he was called “Sadie’s heathen,” and of his joy and pride in having the name altered, until now, by her friends, he was called “Sadie’s minister.” But by mere acquaintances they were spoken of as Rev. and Mrs. Antony Blackwell.
Myra Spafford.
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THIS is a scene in Africa. Those queer creatures scampering up the tree, are monkeys, to be sure; the other big lizards are crocodiles, you see. The way of it was that one of the crocodiles was sleeping—or pretending to sleep—on the bank of the river, when along came a careless little monkey, and his eyes were not where they should have been, or they did not look sharply at this thing that seemed to be but a log; when, before he knew what he was about, this “log” opened his big mouth, and with a sudden flap of his tail, in went the thoughtless monkey. That was the end of that young monkey. That’s about the way the saloons swallow folks. Don’t go near them!
“But tell the rest. What did the mother monkey say?”
She was mad as—“a setting hen.” She shouted at the top of her voice, and a great army of monkeys came galloping to her to know what was the matter. Now one monkey knows just how to tell the others what’s the matter; so they all set up such a hue and cry as you never heard. They scolded and insulted the crocodile, and twitched their faces and shook their fists at him, and jabbered such a bedlam that all the crocodiles ran together to see what was to pay. Upon the bank out of the water they climbed, and with open mouths and loud hisses, hurried after the scampering monkeys; but those spry creatures bounded up that big high tree, and from the lofty limbs looked down and scolded with all their might and main, and again shook their fists and snapped their long finger-nails to show how they would tear every hair out of the crock’s hide if they could get a chance—if there were any hair.
It would have been better if they all, monks and crocks, had come kindly together and asked one another’s pardon and settled their differences, and signed a pledge never to eat or scold one another any more. Read this:
“We had a grand temperance rally here last night. The children marched around the neighborhood, before the meeting, with banner and song. The church was beautifully decorated with vines, branches of palm-trees, maidenhair ferns, calla lilies, white orchid blossoms, etc. The place was filled.... There were songs, dialogues, temperance catechism, temperance stories and speeches. Over twenty came forward and took the blue ribbon. One had been a ‘hard case.’ Among the natives pledging is almost equal to coming to Christ. . . . Every day began with a sunrise prayer meeting. A chorus of young people, the girls dressed in white, occupied the platform. They enjoy music.”
“We had a grand temperance rally here last night. The children marched around the neighborhood, before the meeting, with banner and song. The church was beautifully decorated with vines, branches of palm-trees, maidenhair ferns, calla lilies, white orchid blossoms, etc. The place was filled.... There were songs, dialogues, temperance catechism, temperance stories and speeches. Over twenty came forward and took the blue ribbon. One had been a ‘hard case.’ Among the natives pledging is almost equal to coming to Christ. . . . Every day began with a sunrise prayer meeting. A chorus of young people, the girls dressed in white, occupied the platform. They enjoy music.”
Tree with monkeys climbing up it and group of crocodiles on groundSCAMPERING UP THE TREE.
SCAMPERING UP THE TREE.
So writes Rev. Mr. Dorward of Umzumbe, Africa. You see there is a difference between the young folks of Africa and the monks and crocks. What is the difference? And which of the two meetings do you prefer?
L.
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YOU would think people would be proud of a neighbor who does well. They are often jealous of him. When he becomes very great they often are all the more jealous, and say hard things about him, and he must sometimes actually get away to get peace and respect. When Columbus told his neighbors he was sure he could get to the East Indies by sailing westward they laughed him to scorn. He asked his own nation for ships and men to sail away on a voyage of discovery. He got nothing but opposition. He was compelled to go away to Spain for honor and ships.
Jesus’ neighbors ought to have been proud of him; but they drove him away. They tried even to kill him, so jealous were they of him. But he got honor elsewhere. So it usually is. Do you honor him or drive him away?
L.
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I READ not long ago of a little fellow who was employed in a Boston office as errand boy. Four young men had the office together, and liked to spend their leisure moments in teasing the boy, who was very small for his years.
One day, after they had been chatting together, and using many oaths, with which they were in the habit of mixing their conversation, one of them turned to the boy and said: “Dick, what do you expect to do for a living, anyhow? You can’t be a business man; there is no sort of business that you can do; you are too small. The fact is you’ll be a dwarf, and I don’t see how you are to get your living.”
Said Dick, “I can do something now which you four gentlemen can’t do.”
“You can, eh? What in the world is that?”
“I can keep from swearing,” said the boy, in a firm, clear voice.
One of the young men laughed, another whistled, and all turned and walked away, leaving Dick master of the situation.
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LONG nights she wept!Sad days and weary weeks went by,And life resumed its routine mournfully;The tasks that once were easy to performDid seem vast mountains to the strength so worn;And if the sun did shine, or if it not,In shadow’s dwelt her heart; no ray, no spotOf light or hope did penetrate the gloom—This life seemed sadder far than death or tomb.And still she wept!’Till to her tear-washed eyes there came,Like “bow of promise” after summer rain,A vision beauteous from that “other land”—Sleep and a “maiden” walking hand in hand.They passed among those homes of “silent dead,”They found “her darling’s grave,” the “name” they read,Then, bending on her soulful, tender eyes,The “maiden” whispered: “Did our dear Lord rise?Then wherefore fall these teardrops from thine eyes?If ‘Christ is risen indeed,’ then shall not we,His ‘friends,’ his ‘heirs,’ live through eternity?“Why should the Christians fear, who thus believe?Why will they not the ‘Comforter’ receive?I come each year to raise the drooping head,To whisper to the mourner, Is Christ dead,That you so mourn your loved? Look upward, sing!Behold yon butterfly on gorgeous wing!Know that this grave is but the chrysalis—Then light, and glory, where the Saviour is;And ‘where I am, there ye shall also be’;‘Come, weary, heavy laden, come to me!’”The vision fled,But to her heart there softly cameAbiding faith in Jesus’ precious name;A joy, that all her sorrow she could restUpon her Saviour’s sympathizing breast,And, in the place of gloom and fear, was bornA perfect trust—on that fair Easter morn.—Exchange.
LONG nights she wept!Sad days and weary weeks went by,And life resumed its routine mournfully;The tasks that once were easy to performDid seem vast mountains to the strength so worn;And if the sun did shine, or if it not,In shadow’s dwelt her heart; no ray, no spotOf light or hope did penetrate the gloom—This life seemed sadder far than death or tomb.And still she wept!’Till to her tear-washed eyes there came,Like “bow of promise” after summer rain,A vision beauteous from that “other land”—Sleep and a “maiden” walking hand in hand.They passed among those homes of “silent dead,”They found “her darling’s grave,” the “name” they read,Then, bending on her soulful, tender eyes,The “maiden” whispered: “Did our dear Lord rise?Then wherefore fall these teardrops from thine eyes?If ‘Christ is risen indeed,’ then shall not we,His ‘friends,’ his ‘heirs,’ live through eternity?“Why should the Christians fear, who thus believe?Why will they not the ‘Comforter’ receive?I come each year to raise the drooping head,To whisper to the mourner, Is Christ dead,That you so mourn your loved? Look upward, sing!Behold yon butterfly on gorgeous wing!Know that this grave is but the chrysalis—Then light, and glory, where the Saviour is;And ‘where I am, there ye shall also be’;‘Come, weary, heavy laden, come to me!’”The vision fled,But to her heart there softly cameAbiding faith in Jesus’ precious name;A joy, that all her sorrow she could restUpon her Saviour’s sympathizing breast,And, in the place of gloom and fear, was bornA perfect trust—on that fair Easter morn.—Exchange.
LONG nights she wept!Sad days and weary weeks went by,And life resumed its routine mournfully;The tasks that once were easy to performDid seem vast mountains to the strength so worn;And if the sun did shine, or if it not,In shadow’s dwelt her heart; no ray, no spotOf light or hope did penetrate the gloom—This life seemed sadder far than death or tomb.
LONG nights she wept!
Sad days and weary weeks went by,
And life resumed its routine mournfully;
The tasks that once were easy to perform
Did seem vast mountains to the strength so worn;
And if the sun did shine, or if it not,
In shadow’s dwelt her heart; no ray, no spot
Of light or hope did penetrate the gloom—
This life seemed sadder far than death or tomb.
And still she wept!’Till to her tear-washed eyes there came,Like “bow of promise” after summer rain,A vision beauteous from that “other land”—Sleep and a “maiden” walking hand in hand.They passed among those homes of “silent dead,”They found “her darling’s grave,” the “name” they read,Then, bending on her soulful, tender eyes,The “maiden” whispered: “Did our dear Lord rise?Then wherefore fall these teardrops from thine eyes?If ‘Christ is risen indeed,’ then shall not we,His ‘friends,’ his ‘heirs,’ live through eternity?
And still she wept!
’Till to her tear-washed eyes there came,
Like “bow of promise” after summer rain,
A vision beauteous from that “other land”—
Sleep and a “maiden” walking hand in hand.
They passed among those homes of “silent dead,”
They found “her darling’s grave,” the “name” they read,
Then, bending on her soulful, tender eyes,
The “maiden” whispered: “Did our dear Lord rise?
Then wherefore fall these teardrops from thine eyes?
If ‘Christ is risen indeed,’ then shall not we,
His ‘friends,’ his ‘heirs,’ live through eternity?
“Why should the Christians fear, who thus believe?Why will they not the ‘Comforter’ receive?I come each year to raise the drooping head,To whisper to the mourner, Is Christ dead,That you so mourn your loved? Look upward, sing!Behold yon butterfly on gorgeous wing!Know that this grave is but the chrysalis—Then light, and glory, where the Saviour is;And ‘where I am, there ye shall also be’;‘Come, weary, heavy laden, come to me!’”
“Why should the Christians fear, who thus believe?
Why will they not the ‘Comforter’ receive?
I come each year to raise the drooping head,
To whisper to the mourner, Is Christ dead,
That you so mourn your loved? Look upward, sing!
Behold yon butterfly on gorgeous wing!
Know that this grave is but the chrysalis—
Then light, and glory, where the Saviour is;
And ‘where I am, there ye shall also be’;
‘Come, weary, heavy laden, come to me!’”
The vision fled,But to her heart there softly cameAbiding faith in Jesus’ precious name;A joy, that all her sorrow she could restUpon her Saviour’s sympathizing breast,And, in the place of gloom and fear, was bornA perfect trust—on that fair Easter morn.—Exchange.
The vision fled,
But to her heart there softly came
Abiding faith in Jesus’ precious name;
A joy, that all her sorrow she could rest
Upon her Saviour’s sympathizing breast,
And, in the place of gloom and fear, was born
A perfect trust—on that fair Easter morn.
—Exchange.
boy sharing with birdHAVE A BITE?
boy sharing with birdHAVE A BITE?
HAVE A BITE?
podgy tollder tied inot a chair consideringSHALL I BITE OFF THIS BUTTON?
podgy tollder tied inot a chair consideringSHALL I BITE OFF THIS BUTTON?
SHALL I BITE OFF THIS BUTTON?
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A
ABOUT three hundred years ago England’s great queen died. She was not very beautiful. Some said this was a great trial to her, and that she took marvelous pains to “fix” herself up to look as well as any lady in the land. Fine feathers often make pretty birds, but all Queen Bess’ efforts failed to make her handsome. However, as she had royal power she had many admirers. They called her “charming,” “lovely,” “lily,” “rose,” and such other words to flatter her. She liked it, and persuaded herself that after all her features and complexion were nearly exquisite.
However that be she had not a few offers of marriage. But none suited her, or may be she, as a queen, did not want to be bothered with a husband, who would be continually interfering in the government.
It is sad to think of some things this woman did. Of course you will read about it. Sometimes she would have outbursts of anger so great that she would actually box the ears of those around her, no matter how distinguished they were.
The great stain upon her character was her treatment of Mary, Queen of Scots, her own relative. Mary was imprisoned eighteen years, then put to death on charge of conspiracy.
But England arose to extraordinary prosperity under the long reign of “Queen Bess.” There were great scholars in her day, and she encouraged all sorts of improvements. You Pansy girls must some day dress your P. S. President up in the Elizabethan style and say if you would like it nowadays.
L.
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(Sent with the gift of a Canary Bird in Cage.)
Inmemory of the birdlings fairWho from your nest have flown,To try in Heaven’s serener airThe wings earth could not own.M. S. B.
Inmemory of the birdlings fairWho from your nest have flown,To try in Heaven’s serener airThe wings earth could not own.M. S. B.
Inmemory of the birdlings fair
Who from your nest have flown,
To try in Heaven’s serener air
The wings earth could not own.
M. S. B.
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two children in tree swing
T
THE thought grew in Elsie’s mind, nourished by three remarks made by her mother and sisters. They were all at work except Irma, who was trying to teach Leoline to jump gracefully from her shoulder, instead of giving such a rude bound. Leoline was the cat. Irma was not apt to be at work, if the truth must be told; she was the only one of the little household who did not seem to understand the need for being industrious. She was two years older than Elsie, but the grown-up sisters often said of her that Elsie was at least three years ahead of Irma in judgment. I have sometimes thought if they had said in conscientiousness it would have been nearer the truth.
At this particular time, while Irma struggled with the cat’s education, Elsie took neat stitches in the apron she was mending, her face looking thoughtful the while. Margaret, the oldest sister, was sewing swiftly on a dress of Irma’s, setting in new sleeves, and in other ways trying to make the half-worn garment look like a new one. Nannie came in, dustpan in hand, and with a handkerchief bound about her hair to protect it from the dust, just as her mother opened the door of the kitchen, with her hands filled with soiled napkins and towels.
“Mother, where can I put that roll of matting?” Nannie asked, a touch of irritation in her voice; “I have reached the end of my resources in tucking things away. If I ever do build a house I will have all the closets I want; good-sized ones, too—and if there is any space left for rooms, there may be a few tucked in; but the closets I will have.”
Mrs. Harding sighed. “Closets are certainly very scarce in this house,” she said wearily, “as well as many other things. I don’t know what to do with the soiled clothes; we need a clothes hamper very much. There is a corner in the upper back hall where one might stand, if we had it.” The sentence ended as it had begun, with a little sigh.
Irma echoed the sigh in a sort of groan. “I saw such a pretty one, mother, last night, at Turner’s. It was only two dollars; I thought of you when I saw them unpacking it. And to think that we cannot afford even two dollars for a basket!”
“There are worse trials in life than even that, I suspect,” said Nannie, darting an angry glance at Irma, as she saw the flush spread and deepen over her mother’s face. Margaret made haste to change the subject.
“We each have our perplexities, it seems,” she said, with a light laugh; “mine has to do with dress. I don’t know what to do with that light sateen of mine; it is too gay to wear about the house at work, even if it were long enough, which it isn’t. It is not worth giving away, it is too good to throw into the rag bag, and there isn’t room for it in my closet. Now what is to be done in such a case?”
Then Elsie spoke for the first time, eagerly, a bright look flashing over her face, as though some perplexity had just then been delightfully solved. “O, Margaret! will you give the dress to me to do just what I please with?”
“To you, child! what can you do with it? It isn’t just the thing for a dollie, I should say.”
“No,” said Irma scornfully, “I should think not. Do let us have our dolls dressed in good taste and decent style, even if we cannot afford anything for ourselves.”
“I don’t want it for my doll, Margaret. I have a plan, a real nice one, if you will let me have the dress, and if mother will give me the matting Nannie cannot find a place for. Will you, mother? There is only a little of it left.”
“Is it the yellow plaid, Nannie? Why, yes, dear, if there is any pleasure to be gotten out of that yard and a half of cheap matting, by all means use it; especially since there is no place to store it.”
Then Mrs. Harding left the room, giving Nannie a chance to say what she was longing to.
“I never saw such a girl as you are, Irma; you omit no opportunity to remind mother of our poverty. Even so trivial a thing as a soiled clothes hamper must draw from you a woe-begone sigh. Why can’t you remember that it is hard enough for mother, at the best, without trying to keep the thought of our troubles ever before her?”
“Why, dear me!” said Irma, “what did I say? Mother knew before I spoke of it that we could not afford even two dollars to buy a clothes hamper. I don’t think she is very likely to forget that we have lost our money.”
“Not if you are around,” answered Nannie angrily. “I think you are a selfish girl; you do nothing but groan and regret, for your share. Well, I can’t help it,” she added, in answer to Margaret’s warning look; “that child’s selfish frettings do try me so!”
“We must not expect old heads on young shoulders, remember,” Margaret said gently, as Irma put Leoline down with a decided bounce, and slammed the door the least bit after her, as she left the room.
“It is the contrast that makes one notice it so,” answered Nannie, with a significant nod of her head toward Elsie. But Elsie neither heard the words, nor saw the nod; her mind was busy elsewhere.
“O, Margaret!” she said eagerly, “I have the loveliest plan. You know to-morrow will be mother’s birthday, and I was all the evening wondering what I could give her; now I know. Nannie, I will take the matting out of your way. I mean to make a clothes hamper for mother out of that and Margaret’s dress.”
Nannie laughed outright, and even Margaret smiled as she said: “Why, dear child, how can you? I am afraid that is a very large undertaking.”
“No,” said Elsie positively; “I see just how I can do it. The plan flashed into my mind as soon as you and Nannie began to talk about the two things in the way. I almost know I can do it. If you will help to keep mother away from our room this afternoon, and she won’t give me anything special to do, I can make it and have it ready for to-morrow morning. I know just how to go to work.”
“Let her try it,” said Nannie, with a wise nod of her head. “The child will make something; I never knew her to fail when she had undertaken to do a thing, and mother’s birthday ought to be noticed in some way, even though we cannot do as we used. I’m going to fix over her sewing-chair; I believe in useful presents myself. We will agree to keep mother in order, Elsie, and the sooner the matting disappears from the front hall the better.”
So the little room occupied by the two younger girls was locked all the afternoon, while Elsie worked steadily, and Irma lounged on the bed with a book, encouraging her sister occasionally with: “You never can do it in the world, Elsie Harding! I don’t see any sense in trying. For my part I would rather give her no present than a bungling thing like that. You can’t sew matting decently; it ravels so.”
Pansy.