WOULD AND SHOULD.

double line

A PUPIL in a quiet boarding-school in —— displayed some time since no small degree of industry in collecting autographs of distinguished persons. The late James Russell Lowell was one of the number addressed. The address to him was in substance: “I would be very much obliged for your autograph.” The response contained a lesson that many besides the ambitious pupil have not learned: “Pray do not say hereafter ‘I would be obliged.’ If you would be obliged, be obliged and be done with it. Say ‘I should be obliged,’ and oblige yours truly,James Russell Lowell.”—Selected.

double line

YOU see it is most beautiful to the eye, though you Pansies of the great cities may think some of your churches quite as handsome. But none of them has such a history. This church was founded—started, as some would say—more than a thousand years ago! Now where’s your pretty “meeting-house” which was built only last year?

Old King Siebert, a Saxon, built Westminster Abbey, and many of the Saxons really believed that the Apostle Peter dedicated it, though Peter had died nearly one thousand years before!

very blurry photo of the abbeyA VIEW OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

A VIEW OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

However, this building is not the very same that King Siebert put up. That one stood several hundred years, when Edward, “the Confessor,” as he was called, rebuilt it. Two hundred years later King Henry the Third enlarged it, making it look about as it now is.

For years and years the English kings and queens have been crowned here, and buried, too, nearly all. Here the great ones of the nation are buried—Shakespeare, Milton, Ben Jonson, Wordsworth, and many more, the poets in the “Poets’ Corner.”

Under the coronation (crowning) chair is the “Stone of Scone,” which some actually say is the very one Jacob laid his head upon when he dreamed! However that be, many kings have sat upon it when they were crowned.

Of course you will search out the “Jerusalem Chamber” when you visit Westminster. The Presbyterian Church began in this chamber. Here, too, the Bible was revised (re-translated from the Hebrew and Greek).

“Why do they call it the ‘Jerusalem Chamber’?”

Probably because its windows came from that old city, and the Cedar of Lebanon forms the wainscoting.

So this wonderful building has served many purposes besides that of a church. For some hundred years the House of Commons (something like our House of Representatives) made laws here, especially laws to secure the liberties of the people.

So you see this building is something like Faneuil Hall of Boston and Independence Hall of Philadelphia.

What a book Westminster Abbey could make if it only could write. But somehow, like Nineveh and such places, it will rise up in the Judgment; then what will it say of the people who have had to do with it?

double line

TO Africa! Yes; here it is ’92, January 1, early in the morning, and we are in the sleigh, and away we glide over the snow to Africa, to return to-night.

“Twenty thousand miles in twelve hours, pooh! and going to hot Africa in a sleigh!”

Suppose, then, we just think we are there, and we are there to all intents and purposes.

“Well, here goes; I think I’m in South Africa at the mouth of some diamond hole (tunnel), January 1, ’92. Of course I’m there picking up diamonds to bring back for New Year’s presents, eh?”

Indeed you—the best part of you, your soul, your thought—are. Just wake up your imagination, and it’s about the same. Now you step down into the dark hole. Deeper you descend, as down a steep hill, to the very bottom—eight hundred feet or more—through fields full of diamonds.

See, just before you dim forms. They are naked natives digging. They fill up the small car of dirt, dotted with the precious stones, and away it goes up and out. It dumps its load and returns. It’s a dirty, dreadful place. Every little while there’s a roar; the ground shakes. There’s dynamite blasting to loosen the earth.

Hurry out now; the tunnel may cave in, and you’ll be choked, as were several hundred a few years ago.

Here we are outside. See, the ground is two feet deep with the earth carted out. They are harrowing it, or the rain is falling upon it. It is crumbling fine. Ah! see the shining treasures. But look out! Don’t put one into your pocket without permission; you are watched.

Now back we come—in thought. There! have not we had one of the brightest New Year’s?

Thus brighten up your imagination and you need not be bothering yourself forever with cars and steamboats and ships and seasickness and such things to see foreign lands. With a good book of travels or newspaper you can just trip over there—to Europe, Asia and Africa—in a moment, and see all you can carry back in a few more moments, and be home to tea the same day to show (tell) your treasures!

double line

HERE we are. It is midwinter—

“In Maine or New Hampshire or Canada, I guess.”

Guess again, you mistaken Pansy.

“Norway, then.”

Nor Norway, but just simply in Germany.

“Such snow-storms in Germany?”

Yes, and that miss with umbrella and fat face trudging on is—

“Fräulein, I dare say. Isn’t that, or something like it, the name of all the German girls?”

Wouldn’t that mix things in a family of six girls? Think of a mother calling each one Fräulein!

But that girl is no other than Bessie—

“Bessie a German girl? Never heard one called that in all my life.”

Who said she was a German girl? Can’t one be in Germany and not be a German? Do you expect to turn into one as soon as you get to—“Sweet Bingen on the Rhine,” or Frankfort? Frankfort, once the home of the great poet, Goethe, some of whose sayings it may make your dear head ache to understand. Frankfort, once a free city, as free from any king or great ruler as—the United States is of Mexico; a queer, bright old city—

“Bessie! Bessie! what about Bessie? Won’t she be lost in Frankfort? Who is she, any how?”

A Pansy, quite likely from Boston, by that name, on a visit to Germany. She will spend a few months in Frankfort, studying German and seeing the German sights, among them Luther’s house.

“But you do not explain what Bessie is doing out in a Frankfort snow-storm.”

Maybe she is after red cheeks; she left Boston looking pale enough. Her mamma thought a sea voyage and a few months in France and as many more in Germany would color her face again with rose tints as formerly. You see how she has improved. Now the Christmas festival of Frankfort begins, lasting three days. There will be trees and trees, and so much more that paper can hardly hold it or ink write it.

Bessie is on her way to the festival to see the German of it with Yankee eyes.

double line

unhappy man and dogSIR WALTER SCOTT AND HIS BULL-TERRIER, “CAMP.”(From the painting by Raeburn.)

SIR WALTER SCOTT AND HIS BULL-TERRIER, “CAMP.”(From the painting by Raeburn.)

double line

statueSTATUE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, IN EDINBURGH.

STATUE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, IN EDINBURGH.

WHEN you go to Edinburgh, Scotland—as some day go you may—you must not fail to visit one of the finest structures there, the monument of Sir Walter Scott.

Before you go it would be well to read some of his charming books: Ivanhoe, Old Mortality, Tales of a Grandfather, etc.

The Scottish folks are justly proud of Sir Walter. Few nations have produced so delightful a writer. So no wonder this grand monument was built. It is a Gothic edifice, the top of the spire of which is two hundred feet from the ground. The lower part is open, and here is a fine marble statue of Sir Walter, his favorite dog by his side.

Seventy-five thousand dollars have been put into this edifice! Many of you would be satisfied with a house costing one thousand. Young Walter Scott did not expect to become so great a man when he first took up his pen.

Girl with umblrella in snowstormOUT IN A SNOW-STORM.

OUT IN A SNOW-STORM.

double line

AT Fort Smith, Ark., is Mrs. Edith M. Degen. She knows a great deal about Mr. “In.” If you will write her a letter saying you want to know something more about him, and if you will put in your letter a postal card addressed to yourself, it will soon get back to you with writing on the other side which you will like to read. Try it.

Now this man is really Mr. Lewis F. Hadley of Massachusetts. He has been many years among the Indians, studying their Sign Language.

You see the different tribes of Indians have different mouth or spoken languages, as do white people. To understand each other’s speech they must have an interpreter to give its meaning; but they all seem to have about the same sign speech; by using this the different tribes can understand each other when they meet.

man iwth wild beardMR. LEWIS F. HADLEY.

MR. LEWIS F. HADLEY.

You know the deaf and dumb talk with their hands. So with the Indians of different tribes when they can’t understand each other’s speech.

Here is a specimen of the sign language:

sign language

Well, Mr. Hadley has been mastering these signs, and now, after many years’ hard study, you see he can write it.

“What for?”

To spread knowledge among the Indians. To give them the Gospel—the blessed good news about the Lord who came and died for them.

“But has not the Bible been put into Indian for them to read, and don’t the missionaries preach to them in their own language?”

Yes, indeed; but don’t you see that for each one of the many tribes it may be necessary to have just the Bible and missionary that each can understand? But if all the tribes now know this one Sign Talk, then all can read the Lord’s Prayer, and any other part of the Bible, if put in this sign talk. And all the more so because every one can understand a thing better if he can see the language as well as hear it.

Now to do this good work Mr. H—— lived among the Indians. He is a missionary unlike any other. He has suffered much living as the Indians do to learn this language. Read what Mrs. Degen says: “Would you like to go out to dine where all the family kneel on an earth floor around the tin dish-pan in which the dinner has been cooked, and grab for ‘a little white meat,’ or ‘a little dark meat,’ or a ‘little of both, if you please’? Would you like to see your fellow diners throw the bones they have picked back into the pan? Or would you like to have your food brought to you in a wash-basin?”

Now you can see something of what Mr. Hadley bears. He is a hero. You can help him. So write to Mrs. Degen.

double line

A LITTLE boy in Russia lay dying. But a few months before he had heard of Jesus and his love, and given his heart to that wonderful friend. His greatest desire in life was to have other Russian children get acquainted with Jesus. He meant when he grew up to be a missionary among his people; but God wanted him in heaven. Just before he died he called his father, and told him how much he wanted to have the Bible sent to people who were not acquainted with Jesus. Said he: “I haven’t much money, you know, father, but if you would take what is in my box and send it to the house where they print Bibles, I think there might be enough to dot the I’s in the name of Christ. I feel sure there must be enough to do that in one Bible, and I would like it so much! Will you, father?”

You do not need to be told that the father carried out his boy’s last directions, and the little purse of money is helping to-day to “dot the I’s” in that blessed name.

Surely that little fellow ought to have had engraved upon his headstone, “He hath done what he could.”

double line

SOME years ago—

“Some years ago!” Why, it was as long ago as five times the age of your grandpapa—he was eighty, I think—a brave man and a few sailors got into a small ship on the coast of Spain, spread its sails, and away westward they sped, over the ocean wide and rough with waves. They found America at last. Others came. Villages grew up. Still they came.

About this time, three thousand miles away, walked two—

“Lovers, I guess.”

Indeed they did love each other, if that is what you mean. See them in the picture of the “Two Missionaries;” were there ever sweeter faces, purer and more pitiful? It is because the love of God is shed abroad in their hearts. Dress and feathers don’t make beauty so much as a right heart, you must know.

These two hearts were walking near the dear old church, and as they walked they thought of the sermon the day before about bearing the tidings—the Gospel—to the needy. They had heard of America, and their hearts bled for the people here.

Indian dancingONE OF THE FIERCE SAVAGES.

ONE OF THE FIERCE SAVAGES.

“And did they go to a seminary, and learn how to teach and preach, and get ordained, and get married, and come over here and have a Sunday-school and church?”

They left all to follow Jesus—fathers, mothers, everybody, everything, “for Jesus’ sake,” for wild America.

“And how did most of the people in America look when they got here?”

How does this creature on the following page look? or that one?

“Now you don’t mean that the Americans then were such objects?”

The very same. And our two sweet, beautiful missionaries came to them and learned their language and lived among them, and taught them of the true God, and Jesus Christ, the Saviour.

“Did they stay more than a year that way?”

They lived and died among them. Then their children took up the work, and they have been carrying it on ever since!

“And what came of it all?”

Why, many of those fierce savages put off their war paint and wild ways, and settled down in good homes like nice Christian people, with churches and Sunday-schools and ministers of their own. Some of them now look almost as sweet as the two sweet faces of the Two Missionaries. That’s the way it often works when God puts his grace into a rough heart. It really changes the face too into beauty. God can make everything beautiful.

“But what about the picture on the next page?”

You mean that queer-looking man going ahead with a child in his arms and a big boy by his side?

“It is a family on a journey somewhere.”

The “somewhere” is America. They are peasants (the poor working folks) of—Denmark, maybe.

another Indian dancing before wigwamsANOTHER TYPE OF SAVAGES.

ANOTHER TYPE OF SAVAGES.

They have heard of America—what a goodly land it is for the poor and homeless, and where they can be free to worship God—so they have sold the cow and poultry and a few other things, and putting into bundles what they have over, and saying a sad good-by to the dear old hut where they have always lived, they are on their march to the sea. They will soon be aboard the ship, Safety; then, after two months—

“Two months! why, the Teutonic of the White Star Line has just crossed the Atlantic in five days, sixteen hours and a few seconds.”

Yes, but this was long ago.

But the two months are gone; they have landed at Castle Garden, New York, and now those nine have become ninety thousand. You see, no sooner had they got nicely settled upon a little spot of land, and in a neat cottage, and two or three cows about them, and a patch of potatoes growing near by, when away went a letter back to Denmark to their cousins to pack up and come too.

Well, ever since the ships have grown larger and faster, bringing loads and loads of peasants, five hundred thousand some years, from almost every nation on the other side of the ocean.

“And those two sweet-faced missionaries, did they teach all these low people the good ways of God?”

three children walking bareful in road dressed in ragsDO YOU THINK THEY LIVE IN A PALACE?(See “Work Enough.”)

DO YOU THINK THEY LIVE IN A PALACE?(See “Work Enough.”)

Yes; they and their children. Don’t you see, they stand for all good missionaries whom Jesus sends? They are all beautiful in his eyes. Where in the Bible does it say something like “How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings; that publisheth peace, etc?” If beautiful feet, beautiful everything—so beautiful that all among whom they go with these tidings become beautiful too!

Like of exctended family going leftGOING ON A JOURNEY.

GOING ON A JOURNEY.

See those children in the opening picture, coming down the road with bundles under their arms? Look them over, and say if you think they live in a palace, and if they wear silks or furs.

No, no, poor things! a sorry dinner they’ve had. A bed of straw for them to-night. But in a few years some cousins in America will send them some money; then they will be here, and somehow they must be made beautiful as those two sweet-faced ones. Oh! so much work in this land for Jesus, to meet these heathen at Castle Garden with the good news and make them beautiful. Oh! for more home missionaries. What say you?

double line

I CAME across an old paper which told a pretty story that ought not to grow old. It was about a “doll’s reception” which a certain Mission Band gave. The dollies were lent by the members and their friends, and the friends of their friends, until there was a great army of them. Then they were arrayed in choice robes and grouped with artistic skill. On the piano, under a lovely marriage bell of sweet-smelling flowers, were two bridal groups, dressed in satin and old lace regardless of expense. The friends of the bride and groom were numerous. Some of them were old, appearing in costumes of sixty years before; some were in Mother Hubbard dress, and one very large rag doll, with lips made of beet juice and eyes of black beads, came to the wedding in the little wooden cradle which had belonged to her mother’s grandmother.

There was an “old ladies’” group arranged on a round table, two of them dressed in Quaker attire, the others in the sweet old fashion of our great-grandmothers. Then there was a babies’ group, and a group of children fresh from the schoolroom; there was a German table, a French table, and I do not know what all.

One hundred and thirty dolls were lent for the occasion. The description of each group was printed in rhyme made by the friends of the Band, and from time to time, as a crowd gathered near any of the tables, one member stepped forward and recited the descriptive poem. Ten cents admission was charged, and the hall was thronged on two afternoons. There was not a cent of expense in the entire affair, and there was nothing to sell. Over forty dollars were taken in at the door, and the Mission Band went home happy in the thought that they and their dollies had enriched a certain school in Japan by that amount.

double line

ILAY my finger on time’s wrist to scoreThe forward-surging moments as they roll;Each pulse seems quicker than the one before;And lo! my days pile up against my soulAs clouds pile up against the golden sun.Alas! what have I done? What have I done?I never steep the rosy hours in sleep,Or hide my soul, as in a gloomy crypt;No idle hands into my bosom creep;And yet, as water-drops from house-eaves drip,So, viewless, melt my days, and from me run;Alas! what have I done? What have I done?I have not missed the fragrance of the flowers,Or scorned the music of the flowing rills,Whose numerous liquid tongues sing to the hours;Yet rise my days behind me, like the hillsUnstayed by light of mighty triumphs won;Alas! what have I done? What have I done?Be still, my soul, restrain thy lips from woe!Cease thy lament! for life is but the flower,The fruit comes after death; how can’st thou knowThe roundness of its form, its depth of power?Death is life’s morning. When thy work’s begun,Then ask thyself—what yet is to be done?Lillian Blanche Fearing,In Home Mission Monthly.

ILAY my finger on time’s wrist to score

The forward-surging moments as they roll;

Each pulse seems quicker than the one before;

And lo! my days pile up against my soul

As clouds pile up against the golden sun.

Alas! what have I done? What have I done?

I never steep the rosy hours in sleep,Or hide my soul, as in a gloomy crypt;No idle hands into my bosom creep;And yet, as water-drops from house-eaves drip,So, viewless, melt my days, and from me run;Alas! what have I done? What have I done?

I never steep the rosy hours in sleep,

Or hide my soul, as in a gloomy crypt;

No idle hands into my bosom creep;

And yet, as water-drops from house-eaves drip,

So, viewless, melt my days, and from me run;

Alas! what have I done? What have I done?

I have not missed the fragrance of the flowers,Or scorned the music of the flowing rills,Whose numerous liquid tongues sing to the hours;Yet rise my days behind me, like the hillsUnstayed by light of mighty triumphs won;Alas! what have I done? What have I done?

I have not missed the fragrance of the flowers,

Or scorned the music of the flowing rills,

Whose numerous liquid tongues sing to the hours;

Yet rise my days behind me, like the hills

Unstayed by light of mighty triumphs won;

Alas! what have I done? What have I done?

Be still, my soul, restrain thy lips from woe!Cease thy lament! for life is but the flower,The fruit comes after death; how can’st thou knowThe roundness of its form, its depth of power?Death is life’s morning. When thy work’s begun,Then ask thyself—what yet is to be done?Lillian Blanche Fearing,In Home Mission Monthly.

Be still, my soul, restrain thy lips from woe!

Cease thy lament! for life is but the flower,

The fruit comes after death; how can’st thou know

The roundness of its form, its depth of power?

Death is life’s morning. When thy work’s begun,

Then ask thyself—what yet is to be done?

Lillian Blanche Fearing,

In Home Mission Monthly.

double line

’TWAS not enough to kneel in prayer,And pur his very soul awayIn fervid wrestlings, night and day,For those who owned his shepherd care;But faith and works went hand in hand,As test of each petition made,And saints were helped throughout the landWhen St. Chrysostom prayed.Within the closet where he kneltA box of Bethlehem’s olive wood—“For Christ” engraved upon it—stood;And ever as he daily feltThe pressure of the church’s need,Therein the daily gift was laid;For word had instant proof of deedWhen St. Chrysostom prayed.Beneath his folded hands he placedWhatever gold was his; and whenHe travailed for the souls of men,So long by pagan rites debased,The more he agonized, the moreThe burden on his spirit weighed;And piece by piece went all his storeWhen St. Chrysostom prayed.O, golden mother! let this thine almsRouse us to shame who daily bowWithin our sacred places now,With outstretched yet with empty palms!We supplicate indeed; but hasOur faith brought answering works to aid?Have words by deeds been proven, asWhen St. Chrysostom prayed?Margaret J. Preston,in Missionary World.

’TWAS not enough to kneel in prayer,

And pur his very soul away

In fervid wrestlings, night and day,

For those who owned his shepherd care;

But faith and works went hand in hand,

As test of each petition made,

And saints were helped throughout the land

When St. Chrysostom prayed.

Within the closet where he kneltA box of Bethlehem’s olive wood—“For Christ” engraved upon it—stood;And ever as he daily feltThe pressure of the church’s need,Therein the daily gift was laid;For word had instant proof of deedWhen St. Chrysostom prayed.

Within the closet where he knelt

A box of Bethlehem’s olive wood—

“For Christ” engraved upon it—stood;

And ever as he daily felt

The pressure of the church’s need,

Therein the daily gift was laid;

For word had instant proof of deed

When St. Chrysostom prayed.

Beneath his folded hands he placedWhatever gold was his; and whenHe travailed for the souls of men,So long by pagan rites debased,The more he agonized, the moreThe burden on his spirit weighed;And piece by piece went all his storeWhen St. Chrysostom prayed.

Beneath his folded hands he placed

Whatever gold was his; and when

He travailed for the souls of men,

So long by pagan rites debased,

The more he agonized, the more

The burden on his spirit weighed;

And piece by piece went all his store

When St. Chrysostom prayed.

O, golden mother! let this thine almsRouse us to shame who daily bowWithin our sacred places now,With outstretched yet with empty palms!We supplicate indeed; but hasOur faith brought answering works to aid?Have words by deeds been proven, asWhen St. Chrysostom prayed?Margaret J. Preston,in Missionary World.

O, golden mother! let this thine alms

Rouse us to shame who daily bow

Within our sacred places now,

With outstretched yet with empty palms!

We supplicate indeed; but has

Our faith brought answering works to aid?

Have words by deeds been proven, as

When St. Chrysostom prayed?

Margaret J. Preston,

in Missionary World.

double line

THEY were sitting in the window-seat, Magdalene and Mabel, busy with their work, and talking. “The Mission Band meets this week, you know,” said Mabel.

“I know it,” Magdalene said, with a scowl on her face; “I’ve got to go, I suppose, but I don’t want to a bit; I haven’t any money to spare to give; I’m not going to give but a cent, anyhow, I just can’t afford it. Isn’t this blue silk sash lovely, Mabel? It just fits my dollie’s eyes. It was horridly expensive; I had to give twenty cents just for this little piece.”

“Nell is going to Mission Band,” said that small woman from the carpet, where she played with her dollie. “Nell knows all about it; mamma told her. Nell doesn’t want to be a selfish little girl and not give to the heathens; Nell is going to give her bestest thing.”

Magdalene nudged her friend’s elbow to call attention to what her darling little sister was saying, and the two listened.

“What are you going to give, Pet?” asked Magdalene at last, as the baby voice ceased its talking.

The little girl looked up with surprised eyes; she had not supposed anybody was paying attention to her.

“What are you going to give to the Mission Band for the heathens?”

“I’m going to give my bestest thing,” said the baby, with sweet gravity; “I shall give my wubber dollie, that I love.”

Mabel laughed, but Magdalene looked sober. Nobody understood better than she how the “wubber dollie” was loved, and she knew that Baby Nell meant what she said.

“I think I will give my twenty-five cents, after all,” she said, after a moment’s silence, “and let my doll go without a fur cape; there is a lovely fur cape for sale at the doll store for twenty-five cents, and I meant to have it; but I believe I won’t.”

“You want to match Nell’s ‘wubber dollie,’” said Mabel, with a good-natured laugh; “but I don’t believe you can.”

double line

Native young womanTEWEELEMA.

TEWEELEMA.

SOME summer day you may be in Saratoga, N. Y. Among other sights you may see Indian encampments. Thither they come to sell their curious manufactures—bows, arrows, bead bags and many other queer things.

The squaws (women) will be among them, dressed as Indian women have always dressed, but hardly so well as “Teweelema.”

If you wish to see her you can now find her on her goodly farm near Lakeville, Mass., or traveling among the neighboring villages selling her wares—moccasins, necklaces of shells and beads, etc. She can chop a tree down or spade up the ground, and do almost any man’s work. She and her sister manage the farm. Her name is Wootonekanuske.

At Oneida, N. Y., you may always see a few Indian women on the cars or at the station, looking something like Teweelema.

But in a few more years there may not be any Indians left east of the Mississippi River. The Gospel is now among them, and maybe you will never again read of so fierce a warrior as Sitting-Bull or King Philip, Teweelema’s great, great, greatest grandfather.

family in orchard at springEVERYTHING IS GAY AND HAPPY.

EVERYTHING IS GAY AND HAPPY.

double line

FOR a boy who was usually happy, Carl Hammond certainly spent a very uncomfortable winter. It is true it was his first away from home, and some people thought he was young to be sent from home, but that was not the trouble. He was with Aunt Mary, which was almost the same as being with mother; and the schools where Aunt Mary lived were so much better than at Carl’s own home, that his mother had made the sacrifice, and sent him away.

His unhappiness had to do with a certain September day which was as bright and beautiful as a sunny day in early autumn can be. Carl remembered every little thing about that afternoon—just how his father’s desk looked, and what books were piled on the table at its left, and above all, just how Bunce looked when he bounded in at the window. He was writing to Aunt Mary then, he remembered, telling her on what train to expect him, and he had held the pen in hand and turned to laugh at Bunce because he was so ridiculously glad over having found him. He had leaned over and patted the dog’s eager head, and had asked him how he was going to manage to get along without his playmate all winter; and Bunce had begun to run around his chair in that absurd fashion he had when especially pleased, and had bumped against the table just as Carl had shouted to him to “take care!” The shout came too late. Bunce succeeded in jostling the table, so that a ponderous book set too near the edge tumbled off, taking the great cut-glass inkstand with it, and the contents of that dreadful inkstand spread itself not only over the costly book, but the handsome carpet as well. If it had happened but the day before, Carl could not have remembered every little particular more vividly.

Especially what followed; there is no denying that Carl was very much frightened. It seems a strange thing to say, but the truth is, he was not very well acquainted with his father. Mr. Hammond was connected with a business firm which sent him every year, and sometimes two or three times a year, to Europe; and between times he had to go South and West, and Carl hardly knew where else, on business; so that he was not often at home for many days together, and when there, was so crowded with business as to have little leisure for his family. Carl had once complained that whenever his father was at home for an hour or two it was always after he had gone to bed. Perhaps on this account he was the more frightened; for his father had great respect for books, and was particularly careful of the large one that Bunce had ruined. Carl could seem to hear his quick firm voice giving directions:

“Remember, my son, you are on no account to allow Bunce in the study; he is a dangerous fellow in such a place; he can hardly move without doing injury. Be careful always to close the sash window when you go there, lest he might follow you.” And Carl had been in the study on the day in question for a half hour, with the sash window wide open. Not that he had forgotten, but he believed Bunce to be a mile away taking a walk with his young mistress; and he said to himself: “It is very much pleasanter with the window open, and of course papa does not care when Bunce is away.” As if Bunce could not return at any moment! which he presently did. Even then Carl might have ordered him instantly out and closed the sash, but the dear fellow was so absurdly glad to see him, and ran around in such a funny fashion to show his joy that it seemed too bad to dismiss him at once. Therefore the result which I have given you.

But this was not the end of the story. Carl arose in great alarm, and without even attempting to repair damages, which indeed would have been beyond his skill, made all haste from the room, taking Bunce with him and closing the sash window carefully. Then, an hour afterwards, when his father’s stern voice questioned: “Carl, do you know anything about the accident in the study?” What did Carl do but ask: “What accident, sir?”

“The overturning and breaking of the large inkstand and the spoiling of a very valuable book. Did you have anything to do with it?”

“No, sir,” said Carl; “I had not.”

The poor fellow told his conscience that he really did not have a thing to do with it, that the dog did all the mischief while he sat perfectly still, and that his father was the one who had left the book open on the table so dangerously near the edge. But his conscience had been better taught than that, and would have nothing to do with such flimsiness. It told him plainly before he slept that night, that the name of such talk, in plain English, was lying!

Nobody questioned Carl further; his friends were in the habit of believing his word, and his father had been almost immediately called away by a telegram, so that indeed there had been no time to investigate. Two days afterwards, Carl himself left home. Now you know why his winter had been uncomfortable. The simple truth was, that he was an honorable, truth-loving boy, who had been astonished and dismayed at himself for telling what was not true, and who could not help despising himself for it. Moreover, he knew that if there was one sin more than another which his father hated with all his earnest nature, it was the sin of lying.

It may be surprising to think that a boy like Carl should be half the winter making up his mind to tell the exact truth; nevertheless such was the case. The longer he put it off, the more impossible it seemed to him to write to his father and explain his share in the mischief. But at last, one snowy winter day, only two weeks before the holidays, he did it. He felt better as soon as the letter was mailed. He told himself that no matter what his father said in reply, he knew he had at last done right, and should be glad over it. Still he watched for the home letter more anxiously than ever before. It was from his mother, with a little note enclosed, for Carl’s private reading, from his father.

“A fellow couldn’t have a better letter,” said Carl, wiping his eyes, and feeling a warm glow in his heart for the dear father who had been so kind and gentle, and yet honest and plain-spoken. Less than a week afterwards, Carl was on his way home. His mind was in a strange confusion as the train neared the home station. He could not help feeling just a little sorry that his father was at home. “Of course he will punish me,” thought the poor fellow. “I suppose he must; he always punishes disobedience. What if he should not let me see mother to-night! Or perhaps he will not let me go to Grandma’s with the family to-morrow. I’d most rather he would whip me, and perhaps he will!”

Over this thought the twelve-year-old boy’s heart almost stood still. His father had not often punished him in this way, but on the very rare occasions when it had to be done, it was managed in such a manner that Carl distinctly remembered it. By the time the train ran into the station he had succeeded in working himself up to such a pitch of excitement that he was almost tempted to run away, to avoid the disgrace of this home-coming. But his father was there, waiting.

“Here’s my boy!” Carl heard him say, and in a minute more the father’s arms were around him, and the father’s kiss was on his cheeks. Mother was waiting in the carriage, and not a word during the quick ride home, nor at the joyous supper table afterwards, was said to him about his fault. They went to Grandma’s the next day in great happiness, and the next day they went to Uncle Will’s. “I am having a holiday,” his father explained, “in honor of my boy’s home-coming. I am taking a longer vacation from business than I have had before in two years.” The days passed, and not a word was said to Carl about his disobedience and falseness. Nobody could be kinder or more thoughtful for his comfort and pleasure than his father, yet Carl could not help wondering when and how his punishment was to come. At last, one evening, when they were alone together for a few minutes, he resolved to discover. “Father,” he said, and his voice trembled a little, “when are you going to punish me?”

His father turned astonished eyes upon him. “Punish you, my dear boy! For what?”

Carl’s cheeks were very red. “Why, father, don’t you know—surely you remember? I wrote about it.”

“But surely, my boy, I wrote you about it! Did I not tell you I forgave you utterly?”

“O, yes, sir! but then I thought—that you would think”—Carl stopped in confusion.

“You thought I must remember the sin, and punish the sinner, even though I had forgiven him? Is that it?”

“Yes, sir,” said Carl, low-voiced and troubled.

“No,” said Mr. Hammond, and Carl noticed how tender his voice was; “I do not remember anything about it in the sense which you mean. Do you remember my telling you once that God meant fathers to be object lessons to their children, giving them some faint idea, at least, of what kind of a father God would be to those who trusted him?”

“Yes, sir,” said Carl.

“Very well, then, here on this card, which I would like you to keep in your Bible, is my answer to your question.”

The card was a lovely blue celluloid, and had printed on it in gold letters, the words, “I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more.”

One evening, when Carl was twenty years old, he repeated that verse in a Christian Endeavor prayer meeting, and said that his father’s commentary on it had made him understand it. Then he told, in brief, the story which I have given you.

Myra Spafford.

dog jumping in through window, boy at desk smiling at himHE REMEMBERED JUST HOW BUNCE LOOKED.

HE REMEMBERED JUST HOW BUNCE LOOKED.

drawing of state houseTHE STATE HOUSE AT BOSTON.

THE STATE HOUSE AT BOSTON.

double line

THEY were all in the library after dinner, and were all talking at once, as the Edwards family were inclined to be. “I don’t see why we always have so much more to say than other people seem to,” Lora Edwards had once remarked, setting them all into shouts of laughter. Howard was not talking; his head was bent low over a Latin dictionary. They were waiting for some of the family, because they always gathered at this hour in the library for evening prayers; but Howard, while he waited, saved the minutes, remembering the hard lesson of the morning, and the liability to be interrupted in his study hour.

The back parlor door was pushed open and Uncle Edward’s handsome form appeared. “Where is Ashman Square?” he inquired.

Several voices at once attempted to answer him. “It is just off of Second Street,” said Lora. And Emma in the same breath said, “It is over by the river somewhere; near Park Street, isn’t it?” Then Dickie, “Why, Lora, it can’t be near Second Street, because Wyeth Avenue runs in there.”

“No, it doesn’t; Wyeth Avenue crosses at Third Street.”

Then exclamations from at least four: “Why, Lora Edwards! Wyeth Avenue isn’t near Third Street. I think Ashman Square is down by the Lincoln Statue; isn’t it, papa?”

“I am sure I don’t know,” said papa, who just then entered the room. “The city changes so rapidly and adds so many fancy names that I cannot keep track of it. Who wants to know—Edward? There is a map about somewhere. I shouldn’t wonder if Ashman Square was down near the old Ashman place, towards the river.”

“There!” said Emma, “I was sure it was near the river.”

“But the river is quite a stream, my dear niece,” Uncle Edward said, smiling.

“Yes; but Ashman Square is not very far down; it is near the Westfield car line.”

Then a perfect babel of voices ensued.

“O, Emma, no!”

“Emma Edwards! it is a quarter of a mile from the Eastman line, I am certain.”

“I don’t think Ashman Square is on this side at all; I think you are all confused.”

“Yes, it is; I pass it every day, but I don’t remember on which side of the avenue it is. I go down one way and come up another, and so get things mixed.”

“I don’t think any of you know much about it,” said Uncle Edward, and this time he laughed. Several voices began again in eager disclaimer, but Father Edwards silenced them: “See here, children, we must have prayers at once; I have an important engagement at seven. Afterwards, one of you can find a map and settle your discussion.”

Lora struck the chord and the entire family joined in:

Back to Index Next