10888	----	[Illustration: ARTHUR AND HIS DOG.] ARTHUR HAMILTON, AND HIS DOG. _Written for the Massachusetts Sabbath School Society, and approved by the Committee of Publication_. 1851. ARTHUR HAMILTON. CHAPTER I. LEAVING HOME. One pleasant October evening, Arthur Hamilton was at play in front of the small, brown cottage in which he lived. He and his brother James, were having a great frolic with a large spotted dog, who was performing a great variety of antics, such as only well-educated dogs understand. But Rover had been carefully initiated into the mysteries of making a bow while standing on his hind legs, tossing pieces of bread off his nose, putting up his fore-paws with a most imploring look, and piteous whine, which the boys called "begging for money," and when a chip had been given him, he uttered a most energetic bow-wow-wow, which they regarded as equivalent to "thank you, sir," and walked off. While they were thus amusing themselves, their mother was sitting on the rude piazza which ran along the front of the cottage, now looking at the merry children, and then thoughtfully gazing at the long shadows which were stretching across the road. Mrs. Hamilton was a woman of wonderful strength, and energy, both of body and mind; and she had been sustained for many years by the Christian's hope; but there was now a heavy burden resting on her soul, which even her native energy and Christian trust were unable to remove. She had known many days of worldly prosperity, since she had resided in that little cottage; but of late, trials had multiplied; and days and nights of heart-crushing sorrow had been appointed unto her. He who should have shared life's trials and lightened their weight, had proved recreant to his trust, and was now wandering, she knew not whither; and poverty was staring the deserted family in the face. Debts had accumulated, and though Mrs. Hamilton had done all that could be done to meet the emergency, though she had labored incessantly, and borne fatigue and self-denial, with a brave and cheerful spirit, it had been found necessary to leave the home so dear to her,--the home where she had been brought a fair and youthful bride; where she had spent many happy years, and which was endeared to her by so many sweet and hallowed, as well as painful, associations. Every foot of the green meadow, the orchard on the hill, and the pasture lying beyond, was dear to her; and it was painful to see them pass into other hands. But that heaviest of all the trials which poverty brings to the mother's heart, was hers also. The conviction had been forced upon her, that she must separate the children, and find other homes for such as were old enough to do any thing for themselves. This necessary separation had now taken place. Her eldest son had gone to a distant southern state, carrying with him, his mother's prayers and blessings; and a strong arm, and stout heart, with which to win himself a name and a place in his adopted home. John, the second, still remained with her, assisting, by his unceasing toil, to earn a supply for their daily wants. Henry, the third son, a bright-eyed youth of sixteen, had attracted the notice of his pastor, and by his advice and assistance, had been placed on the list of the beneficiaries of the American Education Society, and was now at an Academy, preparing for College. James was living with a farmer in the neighborhood, and was now on the green with Arthur. These changes had already taken place, and now, could she part with Arthur,--her sweet-tempered, gentle Arthur? That was the question which agitated and saddened her. An offer had been made her, by Mr. Martin, who lived in an adjoining town, and whom she knew to be an excellent man. He wished to take Arthur, and keep him till he was twenty-one; would clothe him, send him to school, and treat him as one of his own family; training him to habits of industry and economy. Could she hope any thing better for her darling boy? There was a younger brother and two sisters still remaining at home, and embarrassed as she was, ought she not to be grateful for such an opening, and thankfully avail herself of it? Such was the view another might take of the subject, but to her it was unspeakably painful to think of the separation. Arthur was ten years old; but he was a modest and timid boy, whose sensitive nature had led him to cling more closely to his mother's side than his bolder and more active brothers. Mrs. Hamilton knew that this was no time for the indulgence of sentiment; she knew that _duty_ must be done, even though every chord of her heart quivered with agony. After much consideration and earnest prayer, she had concluded to let him go, and the thought of sending him away from her, and all he loved, among entire strangers, was what made her so sorrowful. She strove to calm herself by the reflection, that she had done what seemed to be right, and by remembering the blessed promises of God's Holy Word to the fatherless, and to all those who put their trust in Him. With a cheerful voice, she called the boys, telling James it was time for him to go home, as Captain L., with whom he lived, was a very particular man, and would be displeased if he staid out beyond the proper time. Mrs. Hamilton's sons had been trained to obedience, and James never thought of lingering and loitering for half an hour, as I have seen some boys do, after being told to go. He just gave Rover a good pat on the back, and saying a hasty "good-night" to his mother and Arthur, he ran home. Arthur was alone with his mother, and she told him of the arrangement she had made for him, and the reasons for it. Arthur was quite overcome at the idea of a separation from the mother he loved so dearly, and exclaimed-- "Oh, mother, don't send me away from home, I can earn something, and will work very hard if you will only let me stay. Please mother, let me stay with you!" "It is quite as painful to me, Arthur," said his mother, "to part from you, as it can be to you; but I think it is best for you; and I am sure you will not increase my trials by complaining. Be a brave boy, Arthur, and learn to submit cheerfully to what God sends upon you. Trust in Him, and he will bless you wherever you are. Always remember He watches over you, and loves you. I think Mr. and Mrs. Martin will be kind to you, and I hope you will make yourself very useful to them. They are quite aged, and a pair of young hands and feet can be of great service to them. Always do cheerfully whatever they wish of you, even if not quite so agreeable at the moment. Always be respectful in your manners to them, and to all others with whom you come in contact, and try to make them happier. A little boy may do a good deal to make others happy, or unhappy. I hope you will try to do what is right at all times, and I doubt not you will be contented and happy there, after you become accustomed to it." Arthur had dried his tears, but his heart was heavy as he laid down in his bed that night, and when he was alone, his sobs burst forth afresh. It seemed to him very cruel to send him among strange people, and he thought he should rather go without much to eat or wear, than to leave home. About ten days after, John carried Arthur to Mr. Martin's. Mrs. Hamilton had made his clothes look as neat and tidy as possible, by thoroughly washing and mending them, (for she could not afford to get any new ones), and John had made him a nice box, in which they were all carefully placed. Arthur tried to be a brave boy, as his mother wished; but he could not eat his breakfast that morning. Every mouthful seemed to choke him; and when he bade his mother and the children good-bye, the tears would come fast and thick into his eyes, in spite of all he could do to prevent it. Tears were in his mother's eyes too, but she spoke cheerfully. "Well, Arthur," said she, "it will be only six weeks to Thanksgiving, and Mr. Martin has promised you shall come home then; and how glad we shall all be to see you!" It was a sunny, autumn morning. The white frost lay on the grass and the fences, and the north-wind was chilly, as the boys drove on. Rover persisted in following them, and finally Arthur begged John to take him in, and carry him over. Rover was delighted, and laid himself down in the bottom of the wagon, and looked affectionately into Arthur's face. "Poor Rover," said he, "you will miss me I know; and I shall miss you a great deal more. I wonder if Mr. Martin has a dog?" "I guess not," said John, "for he took no notice of Rover, and every body who likes dogs speaks to Rover, because he is so large and handsome. I am afraid you will be homesick at first over there, but we must do the best we can, for these are hard times. I don't see how we can do any thing more than pay the rent this year, after all my summer's work; for the dry weather ruined the potatoes, and corn won't bring more than fifty cents a bushel; and how we are to live, I don't see. I am not afraid for myself, but it is too bad for mother, and the little ones; so, if you are homesick, you must try to get over it again, and not come back, or let mother know it, for she has just as much trouble as she can bear already." "Oh, no," said Arthur, "I won't be homesick, I _will_ be a brave boy, as mother calls it, and never complain, let what will come; but I do wish we were not so poor." "I don't know," said John, "I think poor folks that work hard, enjoy about as much as anybody, after all. It isn't a disgrace to be poor, if we are only honest, and do what is right; and you know the minister said last Sabbath, that Jesus Christ when he lived on the earth was a poor man, and worked with his hands for a living. He won't despise the poor now he has gone into heaven again; for he will remember how he was poor once. Mother says, nothing will break her heart but living to see us do some wicked deed, and that she could not survive that. We must be careful not to break her heart, musn't we, Arthur?" So the lads rode on till noon; and when the sun shone out warmly, the forest-trees looked more magnificent in its golden light, than King Solomon in all his glory. There was the crimson-leaved maple, and the yellow beach, and the variegated oak, mingled with the fresh green hemlocks and pines. There was something in the quiet, and deep stillness of the woods, which made the boys silent, as they rode through; they felt the influence of its exceeding beauty, though they could not have expressed it in words; for God always speaks to us through his works, and if we will listen to the voice, our hearts will be softened, and pleasant and profitable thoughts will arise. It was two in the afternoon, when John and Arthur reached Mr. Martin's. He was not at home, but Mrs. Martin received them kindly, saying, "she expected they would come that day." She was a grave-looking old lady, who wore spectacles, and the inquisitive manner in which she looked over the top of them into Arthur's face, quite frightened the little fellow, and he could only reply in very low monosyllables to the questions she asked him; so John gave her such information as she desired. Mrs. Martin showed them the small chamber in which Arthur was to sleep, and John carried up the wooden box, and put it down in one corner. After staying half an hour, John thought he must go. A sense of the loneliness of his situation among strangers, where no one familiar voice would be heard, and not one familiar object seen, came over the heart of poor Arthur with such force at this moment, that he burst into a flood of tears, exclaiming-- "Oh, don't leave me here, John! don't leave me, I cannot stay." Brushing the tears from his own eyes, John drew the sobbing child out into the yard, saying, as he put his arms affectionately about his neck,-- "But Arthur, what do you think mother would say to see you coming back with me? How it would distress her! Indeed you _must_ stay, and try to be contented. I think it looks like a pleasant place here. This is a very pretty yard, and yonder is a large garden; I dare say Mr. Martin will let you have a bed in it next spring." "But it is living here all alone, which I dread," said Arthur. "You know mother says we are never all alone," said John. "God will be with you, and if you try to be a good contented boy, he will approve of your conduct, and love you. Only six weeks too, remember, till you come home. Just think how soon they will be gone!" Rover had been gazing wistfully into Arthur's face, as if he wondered what was going on that made them all so sober, and now he gently laid his paw upon his hand. Arthur caressed him fondly, saying-- "Oh, Rover, dear good fellow, how I wish I could have you for company." "I wish you could," said John, "but I don't think it would be right to leave him, for Mr. Martin might not wish to have him." John now untied his horse, saying, "Try to be contented for mother's sake, dear Arthur." Many years after, when John was a middle-aged man, he told me that nothing in his whole life had made him feel worse than leaving little Arthur behind him, that day. "I can see the poor little fellow now," said he, "just as he looked standing at the gate, weeping bitterly." Rover refused at first to leave Arthur, but John lifted him into the wagon, and drove off. It was a lonely evening to Arthur. There was no frolic with Rover and the children on the green; no kind mother's voice to call him in; no affectionate good-night kiss for the little stranger. Mr. and Mrs. Martin were very kind-hearted people, but they had little sympathy with a child, and made no conversation with him. There was no hardship imposed on Arthur; indeed they required less of him than he had been accustomed to doing at home, and had he been a courageous, light-hearted boy like his brother James, he would soon have been very happy in his new home. But we have said he was shy and sensitive; like a delicate plant he needed sunshine to develope his nature, and shrank from the rough chilling blast. None, who has not experienced it, can know any thing of the suffering such a child endures when deprived of the sweet influences of home. Such an one often appears dull and stupid to a careless observer, when there is throbbing under that cold exterior, a heart of the keenest sensibility. Let the bold, healthy, active boy be sent from home, if necessary; a little hardship, and a little struggling with the rougher elements of life, will perchance but strengthen and increase his courage, and prepare him for the conflicts and struggles of after years; but oh, fond mother, keep that delicate, timid child which nestles to thy side with such confiding trust, which trembles at the voice of a stranger, and shrinks like the mimosa, from a rude and unfamiliar touch, under thine own sheltering roof-tree, for a time at least; there seek to develope and strengthen his delicate nature into more manly strength and vigor; there judiciously repress excessive sensibility, and increase confidence in himself and others; if it can possibly be avoided, do not expose him, while a child, to the tender mercies of those who do not understand his peculiar temperament, and who, however kind their feelings, cannot possess his confidence. We need not dwell on the first weeks of Arthur's stay at Mr. Martin's. They thought him a little homesick, but presumed he would soon get over it; he performed the little tasks they exacted of him with great alacrity, and was quite a favorite with Mrs. Martin, who said he was the most quiet, and well-behaved child she ever saw. At first, Arthur thought of nothing but home, and home-scenes; but he struggled bravely to rise above sad and sorrowful thoughts, and to be contented. "They shall never hear me complain," he said to himself, "and dear mother too shall never know how bad I feel. I want to do my duty, and be a _brave_ boy." Every fortnight a letter came from home, and though Arthur read it with streaming eyes, it was a precious treasure. He would read them over and over, till he seemed to hear his mother's voice once more, and feel her loving hand upon his head. He answered them; but wrote only a few words, saying, he was well, and the other common place remarks children usually write. He was not happy, but he was calmer now, and did not _every_ night cry himself to sleep. The visit at home, was a bright, cheering spot, to which he often looked forward; and as week after week passed away, slowly indeed, he rejoiced in the certainty that that long-looked-for period was getting nearer and nearer, and _would_ come at last. CHAPTER II. THANKSGIVING. Thanksgiving! dear, delightful Thanksgiving! What a happy sound in all childish ears! What visions of roast turkeys, plum puddings, and pumpkin pies rise before us at the name! What hosts of rosy cheeks, sparkling eyes, nicely-combed little heads, and bounding feet; what blazing fires and warm parlors; what large stuffed rocking-chairs, with comfortable-looking grandpapas and grandmamas in them; what huge bundles of flannel, out of which, plump blue-eyed babies roll; what stuffed hoods and cloaks, from which little boys and girls emerge; and better than all, what warm hearts brimming with affection; what sweet songs of joyful praise; what untold depths of "sacred and home-felt delight," belong to thee, dear, glad, Thanksgiving-day! Let us look in at Mrs. Hamilton's on Thanksgiving eve. Every thing in her little sitting-room is just as clean as it can possibly be; the fire burns brightly, and the blaze goes dancing and leaping merrily up the chimney, diffusing throughout the room an aspect of cheerfulness. Henry, "the student," as John calls him, is at home; for of course it is vacation in his school; and his mother looks with pride on the manly form and handsome face of this her favorite boy, who has certainly grown taller and handsomer since his last visit at home, in her eyes at least; and who is now entertaining himself by teaching his pet, Emma, (a little girl of four,) to repeat the Greek alphabet, and whose funny pronunciation of Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta, &c., is received with peals of laughter by the other children. "We will make a famous Greek scholar of you yet," said Harry, "who knows, darling Em, but you may be a great poetess before you die? But you won't be a blue stocking, I hope!" "My stockings are _red_," said the unconscious Emma; "mother don't make me _blue_ stockings," sticking out her little feet by way of confirming the fact. Charlie, the baby, as he is called, now almost three years old, has donned his new red flannel dress, and white apron, in honor of the day. James is cracking butternuts in one corner, and a well-heaped milk-pan is the trophy of his persevering toil. Lucy, the eldest sister, has come home, and she and Mary are deep in some confidential conversation the opposite side of the room, stopping every now and then to listen, as if expecting to hear some pleasant sound. Among them all, the mother moves with a beaming face and quiet step, completing the arrangements of the table, which is standing at the backside of the room, covered by a snowy cloth, and decorated with the best plates, and china cups and saucers, the relics of more prosperous days. "Hurra, they've come! they've come!" said James, tossing down his hammer, and bounding over the pan of nuts; "that's our wagon, I know." All are at the door. 'Tis they! Yes, 'tis John and Arthur, our dear little Arthur home again! How they all seize upon and kiss him! How the mother holds him to her heart with tearful eyes! Ah, this is joy; such joy as can be purchased only by separation and suffering. Who that looked now on Arthur's beaming eye, and glowing cheek, could dream that they had been clouded by sorrow, or dimmed by tears? Of all the happy groups that were assembled in our old Commonwealth that night, few we think were happier than this. Rover was by no means a silent witness of the joy. He would not leave Arthur's side a moment, and constantly sought to attract his notice. Arthur had been always very fond of Rover, almost more so than the other children, though he was a great favorite with all, and Rover had missed him since he went away almost as much as Arthur had missed Rover; so it was a joyful re-union on both sides. He was a large dog, of the Newfoundland breed, with shaggy hair. He had beautiful white spots, and long, silky ears, and was a very good-natured dog. He would let Charlie get on his back, and ride him all about the yard; and the boys had made a little sled to which they fastened Rover, and Emma, well wrapped up in her hood and cloak, with her woolen mittens on, would have quite long rides after him; sometimes in the yard, and sometimes in the street. How much the children had to talk about that night; how many stories to tell Arthur, and questions to ask him in return! Arthur had decided beforehand not to make any complaint, or to say he was unhappy, or homesick; and indeed in the pleasure of being at home again, he almost forgot he had ever been unhappy. He was to stay till Monday morning, and to him those four days seemed a long period of enjoyment, quite too long to be saddened yet by the thoughts of separation. The night settled down on the inmates of the cottage, and sweet sleep sealed up all eyes; even those of the weary mother. The year had brought many trials, and some heavy ones, but there was in spite of them all, much to be thankful for, especially that all her beloved children had been preserved to her, and were so healthy, so promising, and so likely to prove blessings to her. Ah, how long afterwards did she recall that merry evening, and those beaming faces, with a heavy heart! CHAPTER III. THE SEPARATION. Thanksgiving is over! Its dinner, its frolics, its boisterous mirth, are all in the past! It is Sabbath evening. A sadness seems to hang about the party. Lucy had returned to her aunt, with whom she lived. James was to go home that evening. Henry and Arthur in the morning. They with John and their mother, sat thoughtfully around the fire; the younger children were in bed; little was said by any one, but Mrs. Hamilton, wishing to have a more private interview with Arthur, took him to her room. There she questioned him about his new home more particularly. To her amazement, the moment she spoke of his returning, he burst into a flood of tears. Poor Arthur! he meant to be brave, and to hide his troubles, but now that his heart had been warmed by the light of affection and home-joy, the idea of going back was terrible to him. He could not deceive, or keep back any thing. With passionate earnestness, he besought his mother to let him stay at home. "I will only eat a potatoe and a piece of bread, if you will let me stay, mother; indeed I won't be much of a burden to you, but oh, dear mother, don't send me back there," cried he, sobbing as if his heart would break. This was a sad trial for Mrs. Hamilton, and she paused to think what was right, and to ask for guidance from on high. It seemed to her that Arthur's dissatisfaction arose from his own weakness of spirit, rather than from anything really disagreeable in his situation. They were kind to him; he was not over-worked; could attend a good school; and would it not be an injury to him, to indulge this excessive love for home, and yield to his entreaties? Would he ever be a man, with courage to face the storms of life, if she, with a woman's weakness, allowed her feelings to prevail over her judgment? It must not be. She must be firm for his sake; cruel as it seemed, it was real kindness, and she trusted he would soon be contented. If not, she could then change her determination if she wished. So she told him once more, that duty and not present enjoyment was to be consulted; that she still thought it was best for him to stay at Mr. Martin's, and she still believed he would find contentment and peace there, in doing his duty. She did not upbraid him, but told him very tenderly, she wished him to acquire more strength of purpose, and to gain the habit of controlling his feelings. If he did not, he could never be happy or useful, and it would be sad indeed to grow up a weak, timid and useless being, who had not strength of character enough to pursue what was right, if difficulties lay in the path. "Whenever you are lonely and sad," said she, "think of me, and how much pleasure you are giving me by staying and doing your duty. Think of your Father in heaven, who watches over you, and will be well-pleased when you try to subdue your faults. Never forget to ask Him for strength to do right, and He will give it, if you ask in sincerity. Remember always that He has placed us in the world to become his children, and grow holy; and it is often through trial, we are made better. You will be a better boy if you conquer your weakness, and become cheerful and contented, than you could have been, had no sacrifice been required of you. My dear child, I do believe God will bless you, and enable you to conquer." With such words Mrs. Hamilton sought to soothe and strengthen her child, while her own heart was throbbing with painful emotions. She could not sleep that night, for her heart yearned over her darling boy, and she longed to fold him under the shelter of a loving home. She felt that she needed in her own heart more of that perfect submission to God's will which she enjoined on others, and it was only by earnest and humble prayer that she could calm her troubled spirit, and feel trust and confidence that all was for the best. But she had found prayer to be a balm for the wounded spirit in many an hour of suffering, and she now realized the sweetness of that inestimable privilege. "Oh not a gift or blessing With this can we compare; The power which he hath given, To pour our souls in prayer." CHAPTER IV. THE PRESENT. Arthur left home early Monday morning. It was a cold, dreary day without, and a dreary one within to Mrs. Hamilton. She had no unoccupied moments in which to sit down, and pore over her troubles; but amid all her cares and labors, the pleading, sorrowful face of her boy would rise before her, like an accusing angel. She feared she had shown him too little sympathy in his sufferings, and had too much repressed the manifestation of his feelings. She seemed to herself, as her imagination followed her weeping boy, a cruel, heartless mother; and again only in prayer could she find relief and peace, and even then, a weight still rested upon her spirits. A few days after Arthur's departure, an idea occurred to Mrs. Hamilton which she was sure would give him pleasure. This was to send him Rover, to keep as his own. But would the children be willing to part with their pet and playfellow? And if they were, would Mr. Martin give his consent? That very evening she proposed it to the children, and she was pleased to find how willing they were to make some sacrifice for their little brother's sake. Even Emma, who loved so dearly to play with him, and ride on the sled after him, seemed ready to part with him when she found it would make Arthur happy. Yet it was with a mournful voice, she told him, as she patted him and stroked his long ears, "You must be a good doggie, Rover, and make my brother Arthur happy. He be good brother, and you must be good doggie too. Won't you, Rover, good fellow?" Mrs. Hamilton wrote to Mr. Martin stating Arthur's fondness for the dog, and that if he had no objections, they should like to give him to Arthur for his own; but added, that she did not wish to do so unless perfectly agreeable to him. She was quite surprised to see Mr. Martin coming in at the door on the second morning after the letter was sent. He said he had come within three miles on business, and thought he would just ride round, and take the dog. "I fear you may find him troublesome, sir," said Mrs. H., "for my children have allowed him to take great liberties with them." "Not a bit! Not a bit!" said the old gentleman; "to be sure my wife don't take to dogs overmuch, but you see, the boy is a little home-sick, and we want him to feel more contented, if we can; so I was very glad to take the dog. He is a noble fellow, on my word. How old is he?" "Two next Spring," said Mrs. H., "and he is a very kind, faithful creature, I assure you. We all love him very much." Emma and Charlie, who had just comprehended that the stranger-gentleman was going to take away the dog, began to look very grave indeed. Emma was no martyr, to suffer calmly for conscience' sake, much less little white-headed Charlie, who obstinately asserted with a most heroic air, that "nobody should tarry off _his_ doggie." "But your dear brother Arthur is all alone, and he cries at night when he goes to bed, because he has no brother nor sister there, not even a pussie or a dog. He won't cry if Rover is with him. Don't you want Rover to go?" "Esmaam I do; but I want Rover to stay here with me too." "But he can't make Arthur happy then. Arthur, poor, dear Arthur, will have nobody to comfort him." "Rover _must_ go," said Emma, sorrowfully; "but I wish there were two Rovers, one for Arthur, and one for me." It was a pretty sight to see these children put their fat, little arms round Rover's neck, and hug him over and over again, and kiss his rough face with their rosy mouths, and let their sunny curls lie among his shaggy locks. Great tears rolled down Emma's cheeks as the dog went out of the door; but though Emma was no martyr, she was a warm-hearted, generous little girl, and she did not want to keep the dog away from Arthur, though so sorry to part with it. "We have got you and I, and two kitties, haven't we Charlie," said she, "and sister Mary and brother John." "And your mother beside, who I hope is worth counting," said Mrs. Hamilton. "You can spare Rover very well, I think." After Arthur left home on that dark, cheerless Monday morning, he felt very sorry indeed that he had made any complaint to his mother; for he knew that by doing so, he had given her trouble, instead of being a comfort and help to her, in the midst of her sorrows. Besides, he had broken his resolution; for he had most firmly resolved not to complain; he had yielded to the strong impulse of the moment, and now he was afraid he never should gain self-control. But there was nothing to be done, but to make stronger efforts to be contented and useful in his new home. He humbly asked God to enable him to do better, and to pardon the weakness of the past. Whenever a little boy desires with his whole soul to do right, and prays to God for strength, he will certainly find he can, however difficult it may seem at first. God, our kind heavenly Father, has promised to give us his Holy Spirit if we ask Him for it in sincerity; and however young you are, or weak, or ignorant; however far away from earthly friends, or human sympathy, He will hear the softest word you utter, the faintest breathing of a silent prayer, and will come into your soul and bless it. That glorious spirit is infinite. It gives life to the archangel hosts; it blesses the weakest, and lowliest child. Arthur found that by making a great effort, a _very_ great one, he could restrain his tears and turn his thoughts away from his own troubles, and indeed from himself entirely. He had a few books, and he became fond of reading them. Sometimes Mrs. Martin would ask him to read aloud, and though she seldom wished to hear any thing but newspapers, that was a diversion of his thoughts. Arthur had a clear, pleasant voice, and read very well for a child of his age; and every time he read aloud, he was improving himself in this part of education. Another pleasant change was, going to school. Arthur had dreaded this very much, because all the scholars would be strangers to him, and he had never been to school without older brothers and sisters with him. Being so shy and timid, he did not form acquaintances so readily as some boys; but in two or three weeks, he had become quite friendly with some, particularly Theodore Roberts. Theodore was two years older than Arthur, but recited in the same classes. He passed Mr. Martin's on his way to school, and usually called for Arthur. They walked about half a mile, partly through a wood, to reach the school-house; a little brown building, with only one room in it. Theodore was a bold, generous-hearted boy, and his influence over Arthur was very good; while Arthur's gentler nature and more refined manners were of service to Theodore, who was not very particular about little things. One night, as Theodore and Arthur were coming home from school, they stopped to look at a squirrel's nest in a hollow tree, just in the wood. A pretty striped squirrel was running up and down a tree at a little distance, whisking his bushy tail, and watching them with his large, bright eyes. They found a large store of nuts in the hollow tree, and Theodore proposed they should take them out. "Oh no, no!" said Arthur, "would you have the poor squirrel starve?" "Oh, he'll find enough to eat, never fear," said Theodore, "a squirrel is too cunning to starve." "But it isn't right to take them, Theodore. Just think how many hours the little fellow worked, and how hard he tugged to get them all in here, and they are _his_ now, I'm sure; he has a good right to them, and I wouldn't any sooner rob him of his nuts, than I would a man of his money!" "La, what a fuss you make about it;" said Theodore with a loud laugh, "but since you feel so bad, I'll let his squirrelship alone, this time." "Thank you," said Arthur, "and now, Theodore, I must say if you had done it, I wouldn't have liked to play with you so well as I did before, for I should think you were a cruel boy, and I couldn't love you." "You are a curious fellow," said Theodore, with another loud laugh. Such lessons were not lost on Theodore, for though he had had very little instruction in morals or manners, he had a heart in the right place under his rough outside. "We'll begin our stone house to-night, if you'll come in, Theodore," said Arthur, as they reached Mr. Martin's gate. "No, I can't stop to-night. Sister Susan is coming to see us, and I want to get home early." This made Arthur think of _his_ sisters, and it was with rather a heavy heart he entered the yard. Mr. Martin stood near the door, and as Arthur passed him, he said, "I have got a present in the house for you!" "A present for _me_, sir!" said Arthur, "Yes, for you; and something you'll like too, I guess. What do you think it is?" Rover, who knew the sound of Arthur's voice began to bark loudly, and in a moment the door was opened, and he was in Arthur's arms. Never was there a more joyful meeting between old friends. Arthur was so excited that he laughed and cried at once, and said all kinds of wild things to Rover, who in his turn, kept caressing his young master, and telling him in his way, how glad he was to see him again. And indeed the poor dumb animal seemed to express as much affection and delight, as if he had had a tongue to say in words, how much he loved him. "How do you like your present, my boy?" said Mr. Martin. Arthur could hardly speak for emotion, but in a moment he replied, "Very much, indeed, sir, and you are very good to get him for me. But may he stay here with me?" "Yes, he is your dog now, Arthur; they have given him to you at home; they seem to set a great deal by him too, there." Arthur well knew how dearly they all loved Rover, and he felt sure it must have been hard for them to give him up. His heart was touched by this generosity and he resolved to become worthy of it, and to strive to do something to make the family happy in return. Rover seemed to impart new life to Arthur. He had now something to love, and something that loved him; and though it was only a poor dumb animal, it filled the vacant place in his heart. Never had Mrs. Martin seen his dark eyes sparkle so, and his pale cheek look so bright. And did the children at home regret making this sacrifice for their little brother's sake? If any little reader asks this question, we fear they have never tried the experiment of giving up something they loved, to make another happy. If they had, they would know, what great delight there was in it; what a warm, delicious feeling it spreads throughout the heart. "It _is_ more blessed to give than to receive," and happy as Arthur was in receiving this precious present, they were still happier in having given it. As Mrs. Hamilton was undressing Emma that night, the latter said, "Mother, do you think Arthur has got Rover yet?" "Oh yes, some hours ago, I hope. I dare say he found him there when he got home from school; and how happy he is to-night! Dear child! I can see just how bright and happy he looks, as he strokes Rover, and talks to him!" "Oh, I am glad he is gone, mother, for this dear brother was all alone." "So I glad," echoed Charlie, who was snugly tucked into the trundle-bed. "Yes," said their mother, kissing them both, "it always makes us glad when we have made another happy; and I am glad you have had an opportunity of learning early how pleasant it is to make sacrifices for others." "The darkest lot is not all gloom," thought she as she sat down by her little table and began to sew. "Poverty can teach many sweet lessons, and give us many rich enjoyments." And her eyes filled with tears; but they were sweet, refreshing tears. CHAPTER V. BRIGHTER DAYS. Arthur was never lonely now; for Rover was constantly at his side, except in school, and he always went to the school-room door with him in the morning, and often when Arthur came out of school at night, he would find Rover standing by the door, waiting for him. A happy dog was Rover, in his new home. Mrs. Martin fed him with her own hand, and many a nice dainty did he get, which he was not accustomed to. Arthur was such a sweet-tempered, obliging boy, so ready to obey her, and had such gentle, respectful manners, that the good old lady was glad to make Rover happy for his sake. Obliging little boys almost always find that those they live with, are obliging too; while quarrelsome boys usually find it their fortune to fall among quarrelsome companions; for good temper and bad temper are both contagious and infect all those who come in contact with them. On bright, cold winter mornings, after eating his nice breakfast, Rover would scamper off to school with Arthur. He was in too fine spirits to walk by his side, so he would bound off before him, plunging into the snow drifts up to his neck; then bound back again, with a short quick bark, shaking himself from the feathery snow; and away again for another merry race. If he was separated for an hour from Arthur, he would leap up at his return, and almost overwhelm him with his rough embraces. But this seldom happened out of school hours, for let Arthur go where he would, to the barn, the brook, of an errand, or on a visit to his friend Theodore, there Rover was sure to follow. Arthur would sometimes take him into his room at night and let him lie there, but Mrs. Martin did not approve of this, but as she was always up by day-light, she would open the door and Rover would go scampering up the stairs ready for a great frolic on Arthur's bed. As the school continued, Arthur became attached to his teacher and was quite a favorite with his schoolmates. "_Little_ Arthur Hamilton" he was always called by them, not because there were not many other boys smaller than he, but from his gentleness and timid softness, he seemed one to be protected by them; and the roughest boy never thought of pushing and striking _him_. Arthur made a visit of two days at home in the spring vacation. His mother's heart was cheered by the visible improvement in her boy; and she told him he had done much to make her happy, by rising above his weakness and gaining the victory over his besetting sin. "Nothing," she told him, "could ever grieve his mother's heart like seeing her children do wrong; nothing ever make her so happy as their doing right." Henry was still at the Academy, hoping to enter College the ensuing Commencement; Lucy with her aunt; and James at Captain L's. Arthur did not see them, but he had a pleasant visit with the rest. He went to all his favorite places of resort; the orchard, the "old pasture," and the little brook in the meadow. He led Charlie in one hand, and Emma in the other out on the green grass in the lot, and picked for them the pretty wild-flowers which were springing up everywhere among it, while Rover ran along by their side, or bounded off in a merry frolic. They were all glad to see Rover once more, and never was a dog so petted and caressed, as he was on this visit to his old friends. When Arthur returned home, he found that the spring had brought a variety of labors with it. Mr. Martin was a farmer, and there were many things to do, suited to his age and strength. He did all that was required of him with alacrity, but he often found at night that his limbs were very weary when he lay down in bed. Mr. Martin soon found he could not endure so much as most boys of his age; but said he to his wife, "Out-of-door work will do him good, and make him hearty; a woman never can bring up a boy properly!" Mrs. Hamilton also hoped that exercise in the open air would give tone and vigor to his somewhat delicate system, and develope his slender frame into manly strength and symmetry. She wished nothing better for her sons than to become intelligent, industrious, and honest farmers; and such with God's blessing she hoped Arthur would in time be. CHAPTER VI. SAD NEWS. It was a hot Saturday in August, when Henry Hamilton left school to go home and spend the Sabbath with his mother. This he frequently did, as it was but ten miles distant, and such a walk was only pastime to the vigorous youth, now glowing with health and strength in every vein. On this day however, the walk appeared unusually long to him; and he sat down twice by the road-side to rest himself. This was very uncommon; but he said nothing of fatigue when he reached home about sunset. He met them with his usual cheerful smile, and had a laugh and pleasant words for the children as they crowded round him. Of all Mrs. Hamilton's children, Henry was the most sanguine and light-hearted, and when at home, he was always the life of the family circle. He was sincerely desirous of gaining a thorough education, and of doing credit to his patrons and friends, and he hoped to be permitted to accomplish much good in the world, when he had acquired his profession. There was much enthusiasm in his character, and much of generous impulse; yet they were modified by Christian principle. Henry was a sincere Christian. There was little of noisy pretension, or loud profession; but in his soul was a deep and abiding sense of obligation to God; a supreme desire to do his will, and a fervent love to his fellow-men. To a remarkably fine person, was added an intellect of uncommon quickness and discrimination, and his teachers spoke in high commendation of his progress. We have said he was the favorite son of his mother; and if a thrill of pride passed through her heart as she gazed on his beaming face, if she garnered up in her inmost soul many precious dreams of a brilliant future, who can wonder? Who shall blame her? It is now many years since "the dust fell on that sunny brow," but I well remember Henry Hamilton--"handsome Henry Hamilton"--and seldom indeed since have I seen a more striking form and face. There was a frank, joyous expression beaming forth from his dark eyes, and his mouth had always a sweet smile playing about it; there was a high intellectual forehead, indicating thought, though it was half hidden by the sunny, brown curls which clustered about it, and gave a youthful look to even this portion of his face. His tall, well-developed figure was the perfection of manly symmetry, and his musical laugh was ever ringing out freely and unconsciously. His temperament was just the reverse of Arthur's. Bold, courageous, self-relying, he hoped all things, and feared nothing that man could do; by nature too, he was quick and passionate, yet full of affection and all generous impulses. Such was Henry Hamilton, now eighteen years of age--the pride of his family--the favorite of all who knew him. The night of his return home, he became violently ill, and no remedies appeared to relieve his sufferings. I will not pain my young readers with a recital of his agonies. They were most intense; and on the third day after he was attacked, at six o'clock in the afternoon, he went from an earthly to a heavenly home; from the bosom of his mother, to the bosom of his God! There were few intervals of sufficient ease, to allow of conversation. During these, he expressed entire confidence in the Saviour, and perfect submission to the will of God, though death then was most unexpected to him. He also expressed regret that he had done so little for God, and besought a friend who stood by his bedside, to be faithful to his Christian vows. The last struggle was a fearful one; but his mother supported him in her arms to the last; and to her his last look was given,--a look of sweet affection, trust, and gratitude. I stood beside his dead body an hour after the spirit had left it. I had never before, and have never since, seen one so beautiful in death. The last rays of the setting sun streamed softly in at an open window, and one sweet ray fell upon his head. It was a bright halo,--a glorious crown, for that sleeping dust to wear. The fair, wide brow, the rich, dark curls, the softly-closed eyelids, the beautiful mouth, had never been so lovely. All was life-like,--radiant. There was an expression of heavenly joy I have never seen in a sleeper since. I had not seen him in his mortal agony, and now it seemed impossible he could have ever suffered. Can this be death, thought I?--Ah, there is a stillness too deep for life! Those closed lips do not move; those eyes do not open; there is no lingering breath, no beating heart! It is only dust. The spirit _has_ fled! Beautiful sleeper! There shall be no waking of thy precious dust till the resurrection morning! Others came in, and I left the room, reluctantly, for it was pleasant to me to be near one I had loved in life. I went into the sitting-room, several neighbors were moving about, but the mother was not there. I found her in the piazza; she was calm, but oh, who could fathom the depths of her anguish? Who but He who formed the soul with all its mysterious capacities for suffering? The red light lay on the western hills, and they were very beautiful in their summer greenness, stretching along the horizon in wavy outlines; the summer sky above was beautiful, and so were the quiet fields, and the ancient trees standing breathlessly silent in that glorious twilight. Rays of heaven were blending with all that was loveliest on earth; but though the mother's eye was fixed upon the scene, it was evident she did not see it, nor feel its healing power. What wonder? The agony was too recent,--the blighting of all her hopes too sudden for resignation and peace to come into her soul at once. The heavy blow had fallen, and her heart was crushed! No tear was in her eye, no trembling in her voice, as she replied to questions; but a face more expressive of utter woe I have seldom seen. What word of consolation could a mortal speak at such an hour? "The heart knoweth its own bitterness," and a stranger may not inter-meddle with its griefs. Let it be alone with God! James was sent the next morning to bear the heavy tidings to Arthur, and to bring him home to see the precious dust committed to its kindred dust. Arthur was stunned by the suddenness of the blow. He rode back with James, scarcely speaking a word. He could not feel that Henry was _dead_; it seemed like some fearful dream from which he must rouse himself. But when he saw his mother, and felt himself pressed in speechless agony to her heart, his tears burst forth in torrents. Childhood can weep over its sorrows; it is only later griefs that refuse the healing balm of tears. CHAPTER VII. THE GATHERING. It was thought best to lay Henry's beloved form in the earth on the day following his death. It was one of those intensely warm, sultry days, August often brings. Not a leaf stirred upon the trees, not a cloud dimmed the sky. One by one, neighbors and friends dropped in, with noiseless step. Hushed voices and stifled sobs alone were heard in the house of death. Many, very many had loved Henry, and many looked with tearful eyes on his peaceful form. The life-like glow had passed away from his sweet face, the marks of the destroying angel were more clearly visible, but there was a soft repose, still beautiful to look upon, diffused over every feature. Aged men and women who had known him from a child, sobbed as they gazed on one so young, so gifted, snatched away from life. The pastor who had baptized him when an infant, and one from the adjoining town were there. Both had known Henry, and both had loved him. Both spoke with tearful eyes and quivering lip of his worth and loveliness. Holy words of prayer were spoken,--the bereaved mother and weeping children were commended to God, the only refuge in this hour of darkness, and fervent intercessions were offered, united with grateful thanksgivings for all that had been enjoyed in the past, and for all the cheering hopes which brightened the future. The hymn "Why should we mourn departing friends, Or shake at death's alarms?" was read and sung. Once more the children were all together under the roof where they had often met; all save the son whose home was now in a sunnier clime. But how unlike was this to their last joyful gathering! Hours of rejoicing, and hours of mourning, ye are strangely blended in the experience of human hearts. The little village burying-ground was not far distant. A grave was opened there, for him who but one short week ago was as full of life, of bounding vigor and of high hopes, as the strongest there. "Oh, had it been but told you then, To mark whose lamp was dim; From out the ranks of these young men Would ye have singled _him_? "Whose was the sinewy arm that flung Defiance to the ring? Whose shout of victory loudest rung? Yet not for glorying. "Whose heart in generous thought and deed, No rivalry could brook? And yet distinction claiming not; There lies he,--go and look! "Tread lightly, comrades! we have laid His dark locks on his brow; Like life, save deeper light and shade,-- We'll not disturb them now!" Of all who stood by that open grave, none wept so passionately as little Arthur. He could not control his emotions, and it was in vain that friends tried to soothe him. Poor child! did a sad presentiment of coming evil pass over his soul? "Slowly and sadly they laid him down," and "slowly and sadly" they returned home; that home now so vacant, so desolate! There let us leave them; sorrowing, but "not sorrowing as those without hope." It is on just such scenes as these, that the light of Christian Faith shines with a pure and holy radiance, cheering the bereaved heart, and speaking sweet words of reunion, of immortality, of glory "which fadeth not away." CHAPTER VIII MORE TRIALS. The next day Arthur returned to Mr. Martin's. His affectionate heart was saddened, and every pleasure seemed to have lost its charm. But the griefs of childhood quickly pass away; and Arthur in a few days became calm and cheerful. A close observer, however, might have seen a deeper shade of thoughtfulness in his eyes, and a softer tone in his always gentle voice. He went to school again, and mingled in his quiet way, with the sports of his companions. Theodore could not be spared from home-duties to attend school in the summer months, and Arthur saw much less of him than formerly. They would meet occasionally after tea, and with Rover by their side, stroll down by the stream which wound in fanciful little curves about the lot; or would play at ball, on the green before the house. Arthur seemed less inclined than usual for noisy sports, and Theodore sometimes thought he was a sad, stupid playfellow. One evening about five weeks after Henry's funeral, Mrs. Martin said to her husband,-- "It seems to me, Arthur is not well to-day. He has complained a great deal of his head, and his face looks flushed and feverish." "I haven't noticed him to-day," replied Mr. Martin, "but he certainly is not a healthy boy, and I am afraid never will be." The next morning, Arthur refused to eat; and before night a burning fever had evidently seized upon him. A physician was called, who said at once,-- "He is a very sick child; his head is so hot, I fear a brain fever. You had better send for his mother, for mothers I find are generally the best nurses. He's a fine little fellow, and we must try to save him." Mr. Martin went himself for Mrs. Hamilton the next morning. It was indeed heavy tidings that he bore. Was God about to strip her of all she loved? Her little, tender-hearted Arthur was a precious child, and must he be taken too? But she quietly prepared to go to him. That was manifestly her first duty. There was no time for the indulgence of grief, though heavy forebodings weighed upon her heart. When Mrs. Hamilton reached the bedside of her child, she found him delirious, and was shocked to see he did not know her. He was much sicker than she expected to find him, and her heart sunk within her. "Is there no hope, Doctor?" she asked, with a quivering lip. "Certainly there is a chance for a boy of his age; but he is a very sick child, Mrs. Hamilton. Twill be a hard struggle for life, and it is impossible to tell what will be the result." Day after, day, night after night, the mother bent over the sick-bed of her child; her heart sickening with alternations of hope and fear. Sometimes the pulse would lessen, and the medicine seem to affect him favorably, and she would hope her prayers had been heard, and that life and not death was to be his fate; then the fever would rage with renewed violence, and his little frame would be convulsed with pain. At no time did he appear to know who was with him, or have the slightest gleam of consciousness. He talked but little, and that incoherently; like one in a dream. Those were long, sad hours to the anxious mother's heart. "How I lived through those days and weeks of anguish, I know not," she afterwards said, "but strength was given me according to the day." And where was Rover, faithful, affectionate Rover, in these mournful days? The poor animal moaned and howled perpetually. He would it through the whole day and night, upon the stairs leading to Arthur's room, endeavoring to gain admittance, and when driven away, would contrive to return to his post, watching with intense eagerness those who entered or left the room; continually making that dismal moaning which a dog in distress usually does. It was heartrending to hear him. One day, they allowed him to enter the room, hoping it might quiet him; he jumped upon the bed instantly, and disturbed the suffering child so much that he was never permitted to go in again. Poor Arthur! he no longer had a smile or caress even for Rover, the companion of his lonely hours, the sharer of his exile! He did not even notice him, except by raising his hand to keep him off. After three weeks of severe suffering, a change came over the beloved child. The physician thought it barely possible that such a crisis might terminate favorably, and had prescribed powerful stimulants, but it was soon evident that he was rapidly sinking in spite of them. He suffered no longer, but the shadows of the grave were gathering upon his face, and it was not probable he would survive till morning. But Mrs. Hamilton did not wish any one to sit up by his bedside except herself. "They were wearied," she said, "by watching; she should not sleep if others watched, and if any thing was needed, she would call them." So she passed the night alone with her sweet boy. In after years, I have often heard her speak of it. It was one of those glorious moonlight October nights. The loveliest of landscapes lay before her eye as she stood by the window, and gazed out upon the scene. Green hills, with intersecting valleys, forest trees lifting their tops toward the sky, wide-spreading pasture lands, and, threading its way among them, a little mountain-stream, bright and pure as innocence itself; all these were visible, and over all, lay that holy moonlight bathing each object in its spiritual radiance. Who would imagine, to look on the earth on such a night, that it could be filled with sin and suffering, that those glorious skies bent over breaking hearts, and opening graves? The scene was full of calming influences, and the heart of the mother as she gazed, was soothed and elevated. She felt the presence of God who had made the universe; and she knew that while he guided those glorious orbs in their courses, he also felt compassion and love for her poor suffering heart. _He_ had afflicted her, and He, in his infinite power and love, knew so much better than she what was best and good, that it was pleasant to commit all her interests into his hands. Her older son, her bright, beloved boy, had gone she believed to mingle his songs in a purer worship than that of earth, and would she call him back from glory? As she lifted her eyes up to the serene heavens, she almost fancied she heard his voice, saying, "He doeth all things well, do not fear to trust him." And when she returned to her dying child, it was with a feeling of sweet confidence. "I will not fear to trust him, even with this darling child. His gentle spirit was not fitted for earthly strifes; now it shall expand in an atmosphere of perfect love. 'The Lord gave him, the Lord taketh him away; blessed be his name.'" The dying boy breathed gently, and looked as if in a sweet sleep, sometimes a smile would play around his mouth, as if he were in a pleasant dream. There was no perceptible change till nearly morning, then Mrs. Hamilton called Mr. and Mrs. Martin. They stood in tearful silence round his bed, (for they loved Arthur almost as a child), watching his shortened breathing. There was no pain, no sigh, but as the morning light gleamed across the eastern hill, the spirit passed away. CHAPTER IX. THE SECOND GATHERING. Once more the family stood together under the cottage roof; once more the neighbors and friends one by one, silently passed in; once more a coffin stood upon the table, and aged men and women, and middle-aged and children looked into it with weeping eyes; once more stifled sobs were heard; once more that mother with her children sat in the inner room; but not all; all were not there. The pale weeping boy was no longer clinging to his mother's side. He slept; and tears would never dim his eyelids more. Sweet, gentle Arthur; _his_ dust was now fair to look upon. He had never been a beautiful child, but his face wore a sweet and mild expression in life, and it was serene and sweet in death. Once more, the voice of prayer was heard, and the sweet hymn was sung; once more they walked to the place of graves; and he, who just eight weeks before had stood weeping there, was now gently laid down to sleep "that sleep, which knows not waking" till "the trump of God shall sound." "Unvail thy bosom, faithful tomb! Take this new treasure to thy trust; And give these sacred relics room To slumber in the silent dust." Once more, slowly and sadly, the stricken family went to their home, now still more vacant--still more desolate! Once more Christian faith shed its soul-cheering light into the aching heart; once more the sorrowing found "there was balm in Gilead, and a physician there." CHAPTER X. ROVER, WHERE IS HE? The day little Arthur was laid in the grave, Rover was seen to stand in Mr. Martin's yard, as the body of his young master was carried out; and when Mr. and Mrs. Martin returned home and found Rover was not there, they supposed he had gone with the procession, and had remained behind at his old home, and therefore they felt no anxiety about him. At Mrs. Hamilton's when the question was asked, "Where is Rover?" some one replied, "he staid at Mr. Martin's probably; nothing has been seen of him here." He would now be more fondly cherished than ever by the brothers and sisters of his beloved master; and they resolved to send for him as soon as possible and bring him back. He had been such a fond and faithful friend to dear little Arthur, and had contributed so much to his enjoyment the last year of his life, that henceforth he would be associated with the image of that dear, dead brother, and would have for them a tender and mournful interest. When they sent for him, nothing could be found of the poor creature; no one had seen him, nor did long and protracted search discover any tidings or traces of him. Had he wandered off into the woods on that mournful day, and laid down and died of grief? Had he been stolen and carried off? Had he been accidentally destroyed? No one could tell. No one ever knew. But now, after long years have passed away, with the memory of little Arthur Hamilton is associated that of the faithful Rover; and an allusion to the dear child so early called away, is sure to bring up the remembrance of Rover, and of his mysterious end. CHAPTER XI. THE TWO GRAVES. It is twenty-two years since Henry and Arthur Hamilton were buried in that little grave-yard. Last spring, passing by the spot, I got out of the carriage and entered the quiet little enclosure. I well remembered where they lay, after this lapse of years, and without difficulty found the spot. Two small white stones had been erected, and I sat down on the grass and spent an half hour in gentle musing, and in half-sad, half-pleasing memories. Once more the manly form and beaming face of Henry Hamilton rose before me, and I seemed to hear his clear, ringing laugh. I thought of all his sanguine hopes and earnest plans for usefulness; how eagerly he had striven to excel in study; how warmly he had sympathized with the suffering and sorrowful; how joyfully he had entered into the recreations of the happy; and then I thought of the sudden blighting of all those warm affections, those passionate desires. But were they blighted? Rather, was not all that was good and lovely in him, still existing and perfecting? Was he not still loving, sympathizing, rejoicing? True, that outward form was now dust beneath my feet, and it was sad that any thing so beautiful should have passed away from before our eyes; but the warmly-beating soul with all its noble longings, and rich aspirations, had not perished with it. When, oh when, shall we learn that we and those we love, are immortal beings? When shall we learn that death does not destroy, only remove them and us? The grass had sprung up thick and green over little Arthur's grave, and the sweet morning sunlight lay quietly upon it. One little blue violet had opened its pretty leaves, and lay there smiling. I was about to pick it, to keep as a little memorial of the spot and the hour, but it seemed so full of life; so fit a companion for the precious dust beneath, I would not shorten its existence, but left it to wither there. My tears flowed; for little Arthur was a child I had dearly loved; but yet I knew not why I should mourn his early death. The God who had watched over him here, was still watching over him, and we need not fear to trust that loving Friend. Death is not terrible in itself; it is sin that makes it fearful. If we were pure and holy, we should be happy here, or in another world, just where God thought best to place us; but we are sinful, and we need pardon and redemption from sin, before we can look calmly and fearlessly upon the grave. Jesus Christ has told us how ready he is to forgive sin; how much he has suffered that we might be forgiven, and to every human being, even to the youngest who reads this page, he is saying, "Come unto me ye that are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest." THE SOUL'S RETURN. Return, my soul, unto thy rest, From vain pursuits and maddening cares; From lonely woes that wring thy breast, The world's allurements, toils and snares. Return unto thy rest, my soul, From all the wanderings of thy thought; From sickness unto death made whole, Safe through a thousand perils brought. Then to thy rest, my soul, return, From passions every hour at strife; Sin's works, and ways, and wages spurn, Lay hold upon eternal life. God is thy rest;--with heart inclined To keep his word, that word believe; Christ is thy rest;--with lowly mind, His light and easy yoke receive. THE END. 
10994	----	THE GOOD RESOLUTION. [Illustration] REVISED BY D.P. KIDDER FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION OF THE METHODIST EPISCOPAL CHURCH, 200 MULBERRY-STREET. 1831. THE GOOD RESOLUTION. "Why am I so unhappy to-day?" said Isabella Gardner, as she opened her eyes on the morning of her fourteenth birth-day. "Is it because the sun is not bright enough, or the flowers are not sweet enough?" she added, as she looked on the glorious sunshine that lay upon the rose-bushes surrounding her window. Isabella arose, and dressed herself, and tried to drive away her uncomfortable feelings, by thinking of the pleasures of the afternoon, when some of her young friends were to assemble to keep her birth-day. But she could not do it; and, sad and restless, she walked in her father's garden, and seated herself on a little bench beneath a shady tree. Everything around was pleasant; the flowers seemed to send up their gratitude to Heaven in sweetness, and the little birds in songs of joy. All spoke peace and love, and Isabella could find nothing there like discontent or sorrow. The cause of her present troubled feelings was to be found within. Isabella Gardner was in the habit of indulging in a fretful and peevish temper. She was often "hasty in her spirit to be angry;" forgetting that the wise Solomon says, "Anger resteth in the bosom of fools;" and that a greater than Solomon had commanded her to forgive, as she would be forgiven. Her disrespect and ill-humor toward her parents had caused her many unhappy days and sleepless nights; and often had the day closed on faults unrepented of, and sins unforgiven. It was but the afternoon before that she had spoken in a high angry tone to her eldest sister, Mary, and parted in displeasure from her brother Edward, because he would not leave his studies to go into the garden with her. Thus had the "sun gone down upon her wrath;" and we cannot be surprised that when it rose in the morning she was unhappy. Isabella had a generous temper; and after she had been unkind or unjust, she was frequently sorry, and determined to be so no more; but her regret was forgotten as soon as she was again tempted; and at the age of thirteen she had gained no victory over the sinful habit of indulging in an angry temper. Isabella had kind and indulgent parents;--parents who looked with thankfulness upon the virtues, and with sorrow upon the faults, of their children, and prayed that the former might be strengthened, and the latter corrected. Mrs. Gardner had long seen with deep anxiety the growing defect in Isabella's temper, and it was now brought more painfully home to her feelings, as she reflected how much an added year increased the responsibility of her child. She had risen early, and had been long engaged in prayer to Him who can alone regulate the unruly dispositions, wills, and passions of sinful men. She prayed for knowledge of her duty to her child, and for strength to perform it: she prayed for Isabella, that God would convince her of the error of her way; that his Holy Spirit might renew her in the spirit of her mind, that she might become a child and follower of the Lord Jesus Christ. Long and anxiously the pious mother continued her supplications at the throne of grace; and after taking her Bible, and reading the blessed assurance, "I can do all things through Christ strengthening me," she went into the garden to meet Isabella. She found her there, sitting as we have described, alone and sorrowful. "What is the matter, Isabella," said Mrs. Gardner, in a kind tone: "why are you so sad on the morning of your birth-day?" [Illustration] "I don't know, mother," replied Isabella; "I believe it is because nobody loves me." "Isabella," said Mrs. Gardner, "I am afraid nobody will love you long if you go on as you have done lately, giving way to angry feelings whenever anything opposes your wishes; and, what is much worse, you will offend your heavenly Father, if you thus continue to break his holy commands." "I can't help being displeased, mother, when people show me that they don't like me, and try to vex me." "Seldom does any one vex us on purpose, Isabella. It is the bad state of our own hearts that makes us think we are not liked; and, besides, Jesus Christ has forbidden us to be angry even when there are real faults. He tells us to forgive others, as he has forgiven us; and do you think you have obeyed him?" "No, mother; but people must be angry when they are treated unfairly; and the girls at school are often very unkind and unjust to me; and I am sure I ought to show them that I don't like it." "Such is not the gospel rule, Isabella; and that alone should be your guide. There you are directed to love those who treat you unkindly, to do good to those that hate you, and to 'pray for those who despitefully use you.' The recollection of your own need of forgiveness from God, ought to make you patient toward the faults of others." "Very often, mother, when I try to do my best, I am misunderstood, and reproved; and then I am sure even the best persons would be displeased." "Not if they are disciples of the Lord Jesus Christ, Isabella. Was he not holy and undefiled, pure, spotless, and without sin? and was he not persecuted, falsely accused, and scourged? reviled and rejected by men, betrayed by one disciple, and forsaken by all the rest? Yet no word of evil passion was ever heard from him. He opened not his mouth, nor would he suffer another to resent any of the insults offered to him. 'The disciple is not above his Master;' and if we profess to follow Jesus Christ, we must learn to bear all things, and try 'to be perfect, as our Father in heaven is perfect.' "Forgiveness of injuries is a high duty, and patiently to bear injustice is one of the greatest Christian excellences. God alone can give us the right temper of mind, but we must ourselves try to attain it. Perhaps you may recollect what Peter says about suffering patiently for well-doing. To be sure, those to whom he was preaching were suffering in a great cause; but the conquest of our faults is a great cause to us; and we may all apply his words to our own cases. He was preaching to the Christians at Pontus, who were enduring persecution in the cause of Christ,--'For what glory is it, if, when ye be buffeted for your faults, ye shall take it patiently? but if, when ye do well, and suffer for it, ye take it patiently, this is acceptable with God.'" 1 Pet. ii, 20. Isabella, as usual, acknowledged her error, and said she would try to correct it. "Do you know, Isabella," said Mrs. Gardner, "that you have promised me this a great many times before?" "Yes, mother." "And do you know that, by thus repeatedly breaking your promises, you add to the sins already committed?" "Yes, mother." "And do you know, my child, the reason why you cannot keep your promises?" "No, mother; I am sure I try to keep them; but before I think I get angry." "We are all weak and sinful creatures," said Mrs. Gardner; "and without help from God we can do no good thing. Even the apostle Paul found that when he would do good, evil was present with him: so that the best persons require aid from above, to enable them to keep in the right path. You must be convinced of your own weakness, Isabella, before you will feel the need of this assistance; and I should think your failures in your efforts to regulate your temper would be enough of it. "This is the commencement of your new year. On this day you begin another term of duty. Think of all your faults; think particularly of that which now troubles you so much: then go to God, and humbly confess to him your wickedness; seek the influence of the Holy Spirit; promise from this day to try and govern your temper, and promise it in his presence. Ask God to help you to keep this resolution; pray that you may be gentle, kind, and forgiving; humble, and willing to be reproved; and that the beginning of your new year may be the beginning of a new life with you. "I now leave you to think of these things, and commit you to Him who can alone make you perfect in every good work, with the earnest prayer that he may cleanse and purify your heart, and lead you into the path of life." Isabella turned to her mother, and large tears rolled down her cheeks as she said, "Mother, I feel the truth of what you say; I feel that I have been an ungrateful child; I have neglected my duty to you, to my father, sister, brothers, and friends; and I now see, for the first time, how greatly I have been offending God. From him I will first seek forgiveness, through the atonement of Christ, and before him I will make a solemn resolution to try, from this day, to subdue my sinful temper. I say, I will promise to try; I dare not promise to do it: I fear I shall fall back many times; and perhaps before this day closes I shall have to repent of angry words and wicked feelings." My young readers, if any of you are conscious of having the same fault that Isabella determined to endeavor to correct, make with her now a resolution to pray, and strive against it, and go to your heavenly Father, and ask his assistance. Plead earnestly in the name of Christ for the gift of the Holy Spirit. Mrs. Gardner heard with gratitude the determination of her child, and left her with an affectionate wish that her birth-day might pass happily. When Isabella returned to her chamber she found upon her table a large Bible. It was a birth-day gift from her parents, and beneath Isabella's name were written the words which stand on the title-page of this book,--"He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city." Prov. xvi, 32. Isabella had two brothers, Edward and George: they were both younger than herself. Mary, her only sister, was seventeen years old, and was a lovely example of gentleness and piety. She was not so quick as Isabella; but she had "the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit," which is far more beautiful in the sight of God than the most brilliant worldly accomplishments. Her faults were controlled by Christian principle and self-denial; and an affectionate interest in the happiness of others marked her conduct. On the morning of Isabella's birthday, Mary was busily employed in arranging fresh flowers in the little parlor, and in trying to make everything look pleasant for her sister. The recollection of Isabella's unkindness to her the day before, while it grieved her kind heart, only made her the more anxious to add to her happiness. This was like many other summer days. Though it opened in sunshine, it closed in clouds. At about twelve o'clock the bright light was darkened, and soon the heavy rain began to fall. "How cross Isabella will be this afternoon!" said Edward to his sister Mary. "I am sure I don't want to see her; she will be so angry because it rains." "That is a very unkind remark, Edward," replied Mary, "and shows a wrong state of feeling. I have not heard Isabella speak an angry word to-day; and instead of wishing to be out of her way, you ought to try to do all that you can to make up to her for the disappointment she will feel at not seeing her young friends." "You are right, sister Mary," said Edward: "in judging Isabella I was committing the same sin myself; and I thank you for correcting me. I will try to make my sister happy; but I do hope that as she grows older she will become more amiable, and do to others as she would have them do to her." At this moment Isabella entered the room. There was no blue sky to be seen, nor any prospect of fair weather. "I am sorry that your friends will not be able to come this afternoon, Isabella," said Mary; "but we will all try to make the evening of your birth-day pass pleasantly; and when our father comes home, I am sure he will read to us in any book you wish." Isabella thanked her sister, and said she thought she deserved the disappointment. After tea Mr. Gardner read a very interesting book to his children. They listened with pleasure, and had a happy evening; and when they knelt in family devotion, Isabella deeply felt her father's petition, that as his children grew in years, they might, like their divine Master, "grow in favor with God and man." She went to bed that night with a cheerful heart, rejoicing that she had been able to keep her resolution for one day. "I give God thanks," said she, "that his grace has been sufficient for this purpose." One afternoon Isabella asked her sister Mary to go with her to see their cousins, who lived about half a mile from their father's house. Mary told her that she would be glad to go with her on any other day, but that she was engaged that afternoon, to visit her Sunday-school children. Mary had been a Sunday-school teacher but a short time, and she was deeply interested in the sacred work. Isabella had set her heart upon going to see her cousins, and doubted not that Mary would have been ready to go with her. She was disappointed; and, forgetting herself, she told Mary that she thought she was very unkind, and that she had better oblige her sister, than go and see children that did not care anything about her. Isabella spoke angrily, and looked displeased. One moment after she remembered her resolution; but she was then too proud to confess her fault. Mary made no reply, but soon went out upon her errand of love. The faces of the little children brightened with pleasure as she entered their doors. "Dear Miss Mary," said one little blue-eyed girl, "I have learned my verse in the Bible every morning, as you said I must; and to-morrow I shall say to you seven verses out of the second chapter of Matthew, about the birth of Jesus Christ in Bethlehem, of Judea." "And I," said her little sister, "have learned my hymn, about 'little children, love each other;' and I have tried to love brother John, and to be kind to sister Susan, as you said was right." "Does no one but I say that you must love your brothers and sisters, Nancy?" said Mary. "O yes," said Nancy; "our Lord Jesus Christ says so; and he says we cannot be his children unless we love one another. I think of that sometimes, but sister Susan thinks of it much oftener than I do; and when John and I get angry in our play, or speak cross to any one at school, she will come, and say so sweetly, 'Little children, love each other.'" Mary told Nancy to remember her hymn at all times, and to be early at Sunday school the next morning, to say it to her. Mary found one of her scholars sick,--a little girl, named Sarah, who on the Sunday before was as bright and as well as any child in school. Now her hands were burning with fever, and her large dark eyes were dim with disease. Once they brightened a little when Mary spoke to her of her class, but she soon turned over her little head, and sunk into an uneasy sleep. Her Testament was by her bedside, and her mother said that her last effort, before she was taken ill, was to learn her Sunday lesson. Mary watched by her all the afternoon: she lifted her aching head, and spread under it the cool pillows: she bathed her burning temples, and gently fanned her; and when, she gave the medicine, she silently prayed that the means used for her recovery might be blessed. Sarah did not speak, but when she opened her eyes she looked pleased that Mary was beside her. She remained with the little sufferer until her brother came for her in the evening, and promised to return the next day. Isabella had gone to her room before Mary got home. She did not like to meet her; for the unpleasant feelings had not left her bosom, though she sincerely regretted her impatience. Pride now prevented her acknowledging her fault. When alone, she took her Bible, and sat down to read our Saviour's sermon on the mount. As the sacred precepts, one after another, met her eye, she felt serious and humble. When she came to the verse, "If thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest that thy brother hath aught against thee; leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way: first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift;" she felt that Jesus Christ had spoken these words directly to her. She had often read them before, but never until this moment had they reached her heart. "What gift have I to lay upon God's altar?" she said to herself: "prayer is my only offering; one that I am now about to present. Will God accept it while I am angry with my sister? O no! I will go this moment to her, and confess my fault, and ask her forgiveness. I will first be reconciled, and then come and offer my gift." She went to Mary's room, and putting her arms around her neck, she said, "Dear sister, I cannot ask God to forgive me my trespasses this night until I have told you how sorry I am that I treated you so unkindly this afternoon. You are a good, affectionate sister to me, and I am very ungrateful. Will you forgive me? I will try to check my impatient feelings in future, and I hope to try in better strength than my own." "I am quite ready to forgive you," said Mary, affectionately: "the offense to me is but a trifle; it is not that I regret. It is the sin we commit against God, when we give way to improper feelings of any kind, we should mourn over. He has commanded us to be patient and forgiving; and it makes me sad to think how often we grieve his Holy Spirit by doing what we know is wrong." "It is a source of daily sorrow to me," replied Isabella, "that I cannot cultivate the temper of mind which is pleasing to God and man." "I have rejoiced lately, dear Isabella, to see you bear many little disappointments patiently; and until yesterday I have scarcely heard a hasty word from you for some time. I hope you will persevere, and that we shall both of us grow better as we grow older." "Yes," said Isabella, "I have endeavored lately to subdue my evil temper, which is the source of so much trouble to me, I had hoped that I had in some degree succeeded, for many a time when I have felt an angry passion rising, I have tried to lift up my heart to God, and to say, 'Lord, give me strength to resist this temptation;' but to-day I have gone very far back, and how can I be forgiven for thus breaking the solemn resolution I made on my birth-day?" "Do not say so, Isabella. Humbly confess your fault before God: he will forgive you according to his promise through Christ Jesus, and encourage you in your renewed efforts. God seeth not as man seeth: he knows how frail and weak we are, and he sees every penitent tear, and rejoices over every effort we make to overcome besetting sins. Our Lord Jesus Christ should be our example of forbearance. No angry words were ever heard from him, and he is not willing to hear them from those who call themselves his followers. Let us pray, my dear sister, 'that the same mind may be in us that was also in Christ Jesus.'" "I hear kind instructive words from you, my dear sister, and from my parents, teachers, and other friends, and I hope they will not be lost upon me. The Bible is much dearer to me now than it once was, and I find there simple directions for every duty. Formerly when I read my Saviour's words, if I applied them at all, it was to somebody else rather than myself; but now I begin to feel that I need his blessed counsels more than anybody." "I am thankful, Isabella, to hear you speak so of the Bible. May it be a lamp unto the feet and a light unto the path, of us both; then our footsteps will not slip, and we shall be faithful children, sisters, and friends. Jesus Christ came to this world to save us from the power as well as the punishment of sin; and his gospel must purify our hearts, and correct our daily faults, or it will do us no good." Isabella listened attentively to her sister's words. She felt their value, for she saw how faithfully Mary practiced what she taught. "Good night, dear sister," said Isabella: "may the humbling recollection of to-day's failure strengthen me in my efforts to keep my resolution." As week after week passed by, Isabella Gardner met new difficulties to oppose her resolution; but though often cast down, she gained strength every day. Her trials at her day-school were very great, for her school-fellows did not know how she was endeavoring to correct her great fault; and they would often avoid her company in their walks and amusements, knowing how she formerly made them unhappy by her caprices. She bore all this patiently, and would leave her companions immediately when anything was said or done that displeased her; and by going away by herself she was prevented from making a hasty reply, and had time to reflect and gather strength for future trials. It was hard for Isabella to "cease to do evil," and harder still for her to "learn to do well;" and it would fill a much larger book than this, were I to tell you of all the difficulties she met with in trying to "put on the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit." But God was near. He saw her efforts and her failures, and he saw that his correcting hand must be stretched forth to finish the good work which he had begun. He sent sickness upon her, and the lately blooming Isabella was laid low upon the bed of pain. It was then she was called upon to "let patience have its perfect work." When Isabella heard her physician say that she would probably be ill for a long time, she thought of her resolution, and feared that she would be unable to keep it when there was so much pain to bear, and so much medicine to be taken. Then the solemn thought came that death might be very near, and that she might have but a little time left to correct her fault; and she determined to pray for patience, and to be particularly watchful over herself. "I have indulged my old habit of fretfulness a good deal to-day, mother," she said, as Mrs. Gardner sat down by her side, after making everything ready for the night. "I fear I shall never correct it; but I did not think of this sick bed when I made my resolution." "Has not God promised to be 'about your bed, and about your path,' my dear child?" said Mrs. Gardner. "Yes, mother; and could I but remember his presence, I should not so often grieve you by my impatience." "You must not talk any more tonight, Isabella," said her mother affectionately; "but try to go to sleep, and remember that God is always near you, and that his Holy Spirit is more grieved than even your mother by any disobedience to his commands. I love you, and forgive you. Now go to sleep, and may you awake refreshed in body and soul." Mary nursed her sister night and day, and never left her except when Mrs. Gardner insisted upon her going away to rest herself. Isabella was often impatient toward her, but Mary quietly went on treating her with more and more tenderness. She scarcely spoke, but humbly and silently went on doing everything a sister's love could suggest. "I wish you would speak cross to me sometimes," said Isabella to her one day, "and then I should not feel so sorry after I had been unkind to you; but you are so patient and good, that it makes me quite ashamed of my fretfulness." "I will do anything for you but that, Isabella," said Mary; "but it is my constant prayer that my Saviour may grant me the temper of mind that becometh his disciple, and that I may 'sin not with my lips' against him." Isabella became rapidly worse, and the sorrowful countenance of her father, and the anxious tenderness of her mother, showed how dear their erring child was to their hearts. Edward would come home early from school to know how his sister was, and to see if there was anything he could do for her; and the merry voice of little George was still, and no one heard the sound of his ball or top. It was a house of sadness, but of composure,--a house of Christian sorrow! Trouble had entered it; but its inmates felt that the trouble came from a Father's hand, and that they should have no more than He who knew them best, and loved them best, saw was for their good. They felt their Saviour's presence, and rested upon his words, "My grace is sufficient for thee." But this sickness was not unto death: God raised Isabella from her bed of pain to glorify him by the holy obedience of her life. To the eye of man there was much yet to be done; but her heart was humbled, and her pride subdued; and He who knew all her weakness, saw that she would persevere, and that his chastisement had answered the purpose for which it had been sent. As Isabella began to recover, the confinement to her room, and her extreme weakness, were rather more difficult to bear than her sickness. She was, however, mild and very thoughtful, and she would sit sometimes for an hour in the easy chair, with her face covered with her hands. One evening she asked her mother if she had seen her show a wrong spirit during the day. "I have not," said Mrs. Gardner. "I am glad of it," said Isabella: "I have been trying to be faithful to myself, and I rejoice that one day has passed at the close of which my mother can give me a smile of approbation. I have been looking back upon this long sickness, and I fear I have not improved as I ought: I must begin in earnest now, relying upon divine assistance." It was a happy morning in Mr. Gardner's family when Isabella once more took her usual seat at the breakfast table. She was pale and thin: the glow of health had left her cheeks; but there was an expression there that showed the better health of the soul. The grateful child joined the family group at breakfast with a prayer that she might never again disturb its harmony. But little time had passed before her school companions found that she was "renewed in the spirit of her mind." They found her ready to forgive those who injured her, willing to oblige others, and to be pleased herself. They soon began to love her much; for her bright, active mind, made her a delightful companion; and it was not long before Isabella Gardner was one of the most pleasing and best-esteemed girls in school. The beautiful summer had passed, and the solemn autumn. The green fields had given their rich crops to the farmers, making glad their hearts with an abundance of good things. In short, winter had come, and was nearly gone. At the close of a cold day the family of Mr. Gardner were sitting by their comfortable fire. "I have been thinking," said little George, as he looked into the bright fire, "how good sister Isabella has grown lately. She has not spoken a cross word to me since I can remember; and cousin Emily Gray says she would rather come to see her than anybody, now that she is so kind and obliging." Mr. Gardner tried, by a serious look and shake of the head, to make little George understand that he did not like his remarks; but George did not see him, and went on to say that he should like to know how Isabella had managed to grow so good. "I see your kindness, dear father," said Isabella, "in wishing George to be silent lest he should hurt my feelings; but you need not shake your head at him, for I am quite willing that he should say what he thinks. I have noticed how carefully you and mother have avoided speaking of my faults; but I have known by your silent kindness that you have seen and approved of my efforts to overcome them. I have done but little; but I hope by perseverance to become more worthy to be your child. "You say, George, that I have grown better, and wonder what has made me so. I will tell you, my dear brother. My mother's counsels and prayers first directed me to the source of all strength,--to God, and his holy word. I had neglected her wishes, and showed disrespect to her authority; and in sorrow, but in much love, she committed me to the care of my heavenly Parent. She led me to Jesus, who was meek and lowly in heart. From him I have sought dayly, hourly help, and to him let all the praise be given, if I have succeeded at all in subduing my unruly temper. My long sickness, last autumn, brought me to feel my great weakness and entire dependence upon God, and gave me time for reflection. The patient kindness of my friends humbled me also; for I felt how little I deserved it; and I resolved anew, that if my life was spared, I would be a better child in future. But I have much yet to do, and the constant effort that I am obliged to make, to conquer this one fault, is enough to keep me humble." "I don't quite understand all that you have said, Isabella," replied George; "but I know it is much like what father and mother have often told me, that when I don't know exactly how to do right, I must go to God, and he will always direct me." "I can scarcely tell you, George, how much happier I am now than I used to be. I wish I could tell you and every friend I have. My disrespect to my father and mother caused me many a bitter tear, while my unkindness to my brothers and sisters made my dayly life unhappy; and after my angry disputes with my school-fellows, I was left in a troubled state of mind, vexed with myself and them. Now, with all my strivings and failures, I have much peace; and I believe every one will have it just in proportion as he or she obeys the commandment of the Lord Jesus Christ, 'Love one another.'" Mr. Gardner embraced his child, and when again they knelt in evening devotion, he prayed that love to God and man might reign in the bosom of each of his family, that when they were called from this world of trial and temptation, they might all meet in those blessed regions where all is love, and peace, and joy in the Holy Ghost. * * * * * "Why am I so happy this morning?" said Isabella Gardner, as she arose from her bed, just one year after the day on which this little history of her trials commenced: "because, through the grace of God, I have, in some degree, subdued my sinful and unruly temper." YOUTHFUL TEMPTATIONS. Many a snare and temptation, young friend, Will often obtrude in your way, And constantly every footstep attend, And threaten to lead you astray. Perhaps you'll be tempted to hazard a lie, Some trivial fault to conceal; But remember that God, the all-seeing, is nigh, And will one day the falsehood reveal. You'll be tempted to cheat your companions at play, For the sake of a marble or top; But they who once enter dishonesty's way, Will find it not easy to stop. You'll be tempted, perhaps, holy friends to despise, And follow the godless and vain; But ever remember to walk with the wise If heaven you seek to attain. Another temptation will lie in your road,-- To think that religion is sad; But none are so happy as those who love God, And none are so dull as the bad. Beware, too, of slighting the day of the Lord, And never its duties neglect; But meet with his people, and rev'rence his word, If you would his blessing expect. But though such temptations your path will attend, The Lord will still make you his care,-- Will be, if you seek him, your guide and your friend, 'Mid every temptation and snare. * * * * * HEAVEN. Far beyond the furthest sky, Never seen by mortal eye, Heaven in dazzling beauty lies,-- An unfading paradise. Evening dim, and gloomy night, Never veil that world of light; Winter never sojourns there, Summer reigns throughout the year. In one bright unclouded day Endless ages roll away; There, beneath the unsetting sun, Years of ceaseless pleasure run. There the good, in concord sweet, Worship at Jehovah's feet,-- Raise the song, with joy unknown, Circling round his holy throne. Works of love, and songs of joy, All the happy hours employ; Sickness, trouble, want, and pain, Seek admittance there in vain. There shall He who, laugh'd to scorn, Wore the piercing crown of thorn, Hear his praise in sweetest chords, King of kings, and Lord of lords. O may I, when life is pass'd, Join that happy throng at last; Through the great Redeemer's blood, Sing with them, and dwell with God. * * * * * IMPROVEMENT. How many poor children I see every day Who have no one to guide them aright! No wonder in vice they should wander astray, And in all that is evil delight. But I, who have got a good Bible to read, And parents so anxious and kind, Shall prove myself vile and ungrateful indeed If I still am perversely inclined. These blessings will rise at God's terrible bar, If I do not grow better by them; And my Bible, neglected, will also be there, And my friends and my teachers condemn. Then let me attend, and make haste to improve, With every fresh season that's given, And pray to the Lord of all mercy and love To train me for virtue and heaven. BOOKS PUBLISHED FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION OF THE METHODIST EPISCOPAL CHURCH. * * * * * NAPOLEON BONAPARTE: SKETCHES FROM HIS HISTORY. WRITTEN FOR THE YOUNG. No person, young or old, that takes up this book will wish to put it down before it is finished; and no reader will fail to be profited by its perusal. We doubt whether in the same space there can anywhere be found a better summary of the history of that wonderful man, or a clearer picture of the folly of his extravagant ambition, or the cruelties it led him to perpetrate, and of the downfall in which it terminated. False views of the character of warriors and conquerors have ruined thousands. Need any other fact be stated to show the importance of giving the young, especially, timely and correct views of these characters? If there is one class to whom more than another this book is particularly commended, it is to that large class of boys, between the ages of five and fifteen years, who often think, and sometimes say, "I would like to be a soldier." 
11148	----	AUNT HARDING'S KEEPSAKES: OR, THE TWO BIBLES REVISED BY DANIEL P. KIDDER. 1851. [Illustration A: Frontispiece] CONTENTS. I. GUESSING II. THE PRESENTS III. USE OF THE KEEPSAKES IV. TWO CHARACTERS V. LETTERS FROM INDIA VI. TROUBLE BETWEEN SISTERS VII. AUNT HARDING'S LETTER VIII. USE OF MONEY IX. AUNT HARDING'S RETURN AUNT HARDING'S KEEPSAKES. CHAPTER I. GUESSING. "Can you guess," said Louisa to her sister, as they sat at their work in the summer-house, "can you guess what aunt Harding will give us, as a keepsake, before she goes away?" "No, I have not thought about it," said Emma; "and aunt has lately given us so many pretty things, that we can scarcely expect any more for a long time to come. There is my doll and its cradle, you know, and your baby-house and furniture, how much money they cost! No, I do not think aunt intends to give us anything else." "But I am quite sure she will," replied Louisa; "for I was going past mamma's dressing-room this morning, when the door was a little way open, and I heard aunt Harding say, 'I should like to give the dear girls something really useful, which they may value as they grow older.' I did not hear anymore, because mamma has always told us it is not right to listen, and so I came away as fast as I could." "Well, I wonder what the present will be?" said Emma, now quite convinced. "What should you think of two handsome work-boxes--or, perhaps, as I am the eldest, of a work-box for yourself, and writing-desk for me?" "That would be charming!" said Emma; "and I would let you use my work-box, and you could lend me your writing-desk sometimes." "I will not make any promises," said Louisa; "you know you are very careless, and I should not like my nice new desk to be stained with ink, or, perhaps, scratched with the point of a pin." "But mamma says I am growing more careful," said her sister; "and I do not think I am so heedless about other people's things, though I often spoil my own." "Remember my wax doll," said Louisa, "which you left in the garden through that heavy shower of rain, so that I could never play with it again." "O, that was such a very long time ago!" said Emma, looking a little vexed. "Perhaps it will not be a writing-desk nor a work-box that aunt Harding will give us," said Louisa; "there are many other things which we should like. I wish she would ask us to choose." "So do I," added Emma; "but there is nothing that I should like better than a work-box." Louisa thought of many other things which she should be glad to have; for she was apt to indulge in a foolish habit of wishing for what she was not likely to possess. It is a bad thing to give way to this failing; for by doing so we may often make ourselves unhappy, without any good or real cause. People who do so should think of the words of St. Paul: "I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content." Philip. iv, 11. And children, who have kind parents or friends to provide for all their wants, should learn that it is very sinful to let the thoughts be often dwelling upon things that they cannot have, and do not really need. Pray for a grateful heart, that you may rejoice in the blessings that surround you, and be thankful to your heavenly Father, who gives you all things richly to enjoy. CHAPTER II. THE PRESENTS. Mrs. Harding, the aunt of these little girls, had been paying a farewell visit to their mamma, before going with Mr. Harding to India, where it was likely that they would remain for some years. She had kindly given many little presents to her nieces during her stay with them; but they were such as Louisa and Emma would cease to value when they became old enough to "put away childish things;" and being a person of piety and judgment, she wished her last gift to be one which might be worthy of their regard in youth and in age, and through all the changes of life. It did not take any long time to determine what this parting gift should be. The evening before she went away, she called Louisa and Emma into the room. They both looked round upon the table and chests of drawers, but no sign of a present was to be seen; no parcel neatly wrapped up in brown paper, nor anything like a work-box or a desk. But, to do them justice, the thought of what they might receive was not then uppermost in their mind; for their heart was full of grief at the prospect of parting with their aunt, whom they dearly loved, and who was going so very far away. "Sit down beside me, dear children," said their aunt Harding, "and let us have a little talk together, quietly by ourselves. I wish to give you a few parting words of advice. I am sure that you will not forget me when I am gone; and when you think of me, I hope that the good things which I have tried to teach you will also come into your mind." Both Louisa and Emma said, again and again, that they could never forget her, and they promised to remember her advice. "Your mamma will often write to me concerning you," said aunt Harding, "and I cannot express the joy that it will afford me to hear that you are learning to hate sin more and more, and to live like children of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. I shall be glad to find that you are improving in your studies, and I hope that every letter will bring me an account of your progress in useful knowledge; but I shall be far more anxious to hear of your being good and dutiful to your parents; and, above all, I shall long to know if you seek in earnest for the pardon of your sins, through the blood of Christ, and whether there is any proof in your conduct that your evil hearts have been changed by the grace of the Holy Spirit." "If mamma sends you a good account of us," said Louisa, "please to remember, aunt, that you promised to write to us when that was the case. And you will write to me first, because I am the eldest, you know." "Since you claim to be thought of first," replied her aunt, "because you are a year older then your sister, I hope you intend to take the lead by setting before her a good example, that it may be well for her to imitate you in every respect." Louisa blushed, and was silent. "We will try our very best, dear aunt," said Emma, "that mamma may send you good news, and then you will write to us both. And, perhaps, before you come back, we shall be grown such good girls, that you will not be able to find fault with either of us." "I am afraid that is not very likely," said Louisa; "for it seems as if we could not help being naughty sometimes. I am sure I have often said to myself, 'Mamma shall not have to reprove me once to-day,' and yet, directly after, something has been amiss." "O! that is quite true," said Emma, with a sigh. "The reason is this," their aunt replied; "you were born with an evil nature, which loves sin and leads you to do wrong, so that you cannot be good and dutiful of yourselves. When you have made such resolves, it has been in your own strength, without your having asked for help from God; and this being the case, it was not possible that you should keep from sin. The only way to lead a holy life is to put no trust in ourselves, to have a constant sense of our need of divine grace, and to pray earnestly that it may be given to us for Christ's sake." "But you talk of my return," added she, "as if it were certain that we should meet again; yet how many things may happen to prevent it! Nothing can be more uncertain than the future, though young people are apt to think that all will fall out just as they wish. I may not live to come back; or if I should be spared to do so, who can tell that you will be here to meet me? Long before that time you may be laid low in the narrow grave. 'For what is your life? It is even a vapor, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.' James iv, 14." Before their aunt Harding had done speaking, both the children were in tears; for the thought that they might never see her again was more than they could bear. Seeing that their hearts were softened to receive the word of instruction, she went on to talk to them in a kind and earnest manner on the great importance of preparing for another world, showing them their awful state without the Saviour, and urging them to seek him at once by faith and prayer; then, further to impress her advice upon their minds, she unlocked a little cabinet which stood near her, and taking out two handsome Bibles,[A] gave one to each of her nieces, telling them that as it was the best present she could give them, so she hoped they would value it, not only for her sake, but because it was the word of God, and taught the way of eternal life. After this, she desired them to kneel down with her, while she offered a fervent prayer that God would bless them, and that they might be led by the Holy Spirit into the fold of Christ, who died to take away their sins. And she also prayed, that if they should never more see each other in this world, they and all whom they loved might meet again and be happy for ever in heaven. [Footnote A: See frontispiece.] Now I will not say that when the sisters were alone together, and looked at their handsome Bibles, a thought of the work-box and the writing-desk never crossed their minds; but it is certain that there was not a word said upon the subject, and each seemed to be greatly pleased with her present, admiring the rich purple binding, and opening the book with care, to look at the name which had been nicely written by their aunt on one of the blank leaves at the beginning. In Louisa's Bible, just under her name, was the text, "Open thou mine eyes, that I may behold wondrous things out of thy law," Psa. cxix, 18; and in Emma's, in the same place, was written, "I love them that love me; and those that seek me early shall find me." Prov. viii, 17. CHAPTER III. USE OF THE KEEPSAKES. The next day was a sorrowful one, both to the friends who went away, and to those who were left behind. The children could talk of little else than their uncle and aunt Harding. They asked their mother many questions about the journey they had begun, and the country to which they were going. When Louisa and Emma saw that their mamma was very sad, and not so ready as usual to join in their talk, they did not tease her, as some thoughtless children would have done, but each chose for herself a pleasant and quiet employment. Louisa began to arrange the furniture in her baby-house, and Emma brought a piece of brown silk from her drawer of treasures, and set about making a cover for her new Bible. "Why, Emma, what are you about?" cried Louisa, after watching her sister for a moment; "surely you are not going to use that beautiful book?" "Yes, I am," said Emma, quietly; "I mean to read a little in it every day. Ah! I see that you think it will soon be torn and soiled; but I assure you I intend to be very careful; and look, what a nice cover this will make!" "I am afraid," said Louisa, laughing, "you will never be careful as long as you live. To think of so soon beginning to use that handsome book! I have made up my mind to read a chapter every day, but not out of my new Bible. I think the old one, that lies in the school-room, will do just as well." "So it would," returned Emma; "and I thought of that myself last night, when aunt Harding told us how much she wished us to be good, and to love the Scriptures: but then the school-room Bible is not always in its place, and that might sometimes hinder me from reading at all. Now I shall keep this book in my little drawer in our room, where I can find it in a minute." "You must please yourself, I suppose," said Louisa; "but I will ask mamma whether it is better to use aunt Harding's Bible or the old one." Mrs. Western heard what her little girl had to say, but did not give just the answer that Louisa expected. "You are right," she said, "in supposing that it does not signify whether you read in an old Bible or a new one. It is from the divine blessing upon what we read, and not from the book itself, that we must look for benefit to our souls. If you pray for this blessing with all your heart, you will find the way of salvation as plainly declared in the worn-out school-room Bible as in your aunt Harding's keepsake, with its purple binding and shining gilt leaves. But yet I approve of Emma's wish to use her new Bible from this time, and advise you to follow her example. For though it ought to be our great delight to read the Scriptures, yet we have such sinful hearts, so ready to put off doing what is right for any poor excuse, that even such a little thing as having to look for the Bible, when it happens to be mislaid, will be likely to prevent you from reading it so constantly as you intend." To this Louisa made no reply. She had wrapped up her beautiful book in silver paper, and laid it carefully in a box, under lock and key, and she did not mean to disturb it, except perhaps now and then for a few moments, that it might be looked at and admired. As for Emma, she went on fitting the brown silk cover as neatly as she could; and hoping that, if she prayed for the divine blessing, as her mother and aunt had told her, she might learn from her precious Bible the way to be good and happy. CHAPTER IV. TWO CHARACTERS. It is time that I should tell you the age of these two little girls. Louisa was just turned of ten, and Emma was one year younger. I have no doubt that although you know so little about them, you already like Emma better than her sister; and the reason of this is plain. No one could be long with Louisa without finding out that she was a selfish child; while Emma, though she had many faults, of which carelessness was the chief, was of a kind, good-natured disposition, always ready to oblige. Louisa, too, was often willful, and would not give up her own way; while Emma was humble-minded, knowing that she had much to learn, and thankful to be taught. Both of these children were sinners, like all who are born into this sinful world: but Louisa cared little about the concerns of her soul; while Emma had begun to pray in secret for pardon through Christ her Saviour, and for the new heart which is the gift of his Holy Spirit. Reader, you too are a sinner, and by nature far from God. Do you ever consider what is your present state? Have you been brought near to him by the blood of Christ, the new and living way? You may have heard of these things before, but without giving heed to the salvation of your own soul, or seeking to prepare for the world to come. If this has been the case, pause now, and ask yourself whither you are going, and what must be the end, if you do not repent and turn from sin. There are many awful texts in the Bible concerning those who trifle with the offers of divine mercy, and harden their hearts against the Saviour's gracious call. O! pray that you may not be one of this unhappy number. Seek the Lord while he may be found, before the day of grace is past. God has said that his "Spirit shall not always strive with man," Gen. vi, 3; and if you will not repent to-day, to-morrow may be too late. Emma's Bible was nicely covered, and laid in her own little drawer; and every morning she read a chapter before she went down stairs. She prayed that God would teach her by his Holy Spirit to understand what she read; and though her prayers were very simple, and she scarcely knew what words to use, yet she felt sure that he would hear her, because he has promised to do so, for the sake of his dear Son. And by degrees, as she began to love her Bible more and more, she learned a habit of going to their little room alone, once in each day, to read a few verses in private, and to offer a short prayer to her "Father who seeth in secret." Matt, vi, 6. She found a great blessing in this; and it often happened that the thought of a text of Scripture which she had been reading in her room alone would come into her mind when she was afterward tempted to say or do something wrong, and thus help to keep her from sin. It was not so with Louisa. The Bible was often wanted in the schoolroom--for the children had a governess who came to teach them every day; and Louisa soon found it too much trouble to take the book up stairs at night, and to carry it down again the next morning. Besides this, she did not always rise from her bed in time to read a chapter, so that it was often put off till after breakfast, and then it commonly happened that she had other things to do, and did not read it at all. Emma would sometimes gently remind her that her Bible reading had been forgotten; but this made Louisa so cross that she left off doing so at last. The truth was, that this poor child had no real love for the Scriptures; and as she did not seek for grace to help her, the good resolves that she had made passed away quickly from her mind. The difference between the sisters was seen in their outward conduct; for Emma's reading of the Bible would have been in vain if the effects had not been shown in her temper and daily life. I do not mean to say that she never went wrong; for Emma had still an evil nature, and a sinful heart, often leading her to forget the commands of God. But she was truly sorry when this had been the case, and would ask to be forgiven with many tears; and she also prayed for divine grace, that she might try to be more watchful for the time to come. Louisa, on the other hand, thought too highly of herself to be easily convinced of a fault; and as she seldom received reproof in an humble and proper manner, she made but little progress toward improvement. CHAPTER V. LETTERS FROM INDIA. Some months passed before there came a letter from Mrs. Harding; for India, as you know, is many thousands of miles from here, and it takes a long time for a ship to sail over the wide sea which lies between. But great was the joy of the children and their mother when at last the good tidings came that, through the mercy of God, their friends had reached that distant country, safe and well. Louisa danced and clapped her hands; and Emma felt very happy, sitting beside her mother, and looking up in her face, while she read the letter through tears of pleasure. Mrs. Harding had written a few lines to the children, which their mother read aloud to them, and then allowed them to look at for themselves. The words were these: "I often think of you, dear Louisa and Emma, and pray for divine blessings upon you both; and I hope to hear that you are giving yourselves to the Saviour, who died upon the cross for you. You know the love of Jesus for the young; his kindness to them when he was upon earth; and the tender way in which he still invites them to come to him. Go, then, to Christ without delay: ask him to be your friend, and you will be happy for evermore." A few weeks after this letter had been received, Mrs. Western's birthday arrived, when it was usual for her children to have a holiday and a little treat. On the morning of this day, as Emma was running up stairs, her mamma called to her from her dressing-room, and desired her to come in, and to shut the door. Emma did as she was bid; and then Mrs. Western, with a smile on her face, told her to look round, and try if she could discover anything in the room that she had not seen before. Almost before her mother had done speaking, the little girl fixed her eyes upon a handsome work-box, standing upon the table with the lid open, and showing a lining of pale blue silk, edged with silver; while within were scissors and thimble, an abundance of needles and cotton, everything, in short, that Emma had long been wishing for in vain. "It is yours, my dear," said her mamma; "it is a present from your aunt Harding, who, in her letter, requested me to choose for you on my birthday something that you would like, if your conduct should have been such as to deserve a token of our approval. I am happy to see that you strive to amend your faults, and I trust that you will still go on trying to improve." "O, mamma, how beautiful! and how kind in aunt Harding! Indeed I will try to deserve it." And the little girl went close to the box, and looked at its contents, but without venturing to touch them; then gently closing the lid, she stood gazing upon it with silent delight. "But, mamma," said Emma, looking up with a sudden thought, and casting her eyes round the room as if in search of something which was not to be seen, "where is Louisa's present? She would like a writing-desk, I know; for the old work-box which she has had so long is not yet worn out, because she is so very careful." "I am sorry to say," returned Mrs. Western, "that Louisa is not deserving of any present, and therefore it would have been wrong to provide one for her." At hearing this, Emma changed color, and looked almost ready to cry. "Dear mamma," said she, "do pray have pity on poor Louisa. I cannot bear to show her my beautiful box, if she is not to have a present too. She would be so much grieved." "My dear," said Mrs. Western, "do you not perceive that it would be unjust and contrary to your aunt's wish, if, while Louisa gives way to her faults, I were to treat her as though she were seeking to overcome them? It is quite as painful to me as to yourself to make this needful difference between you; but in all our actions we must think of what is _right_, and not of what it would be _pleasant_ to do. When I see any sign of improvement in your sister, I shall gladly provide her with a writing-desk; but not till then." Emma paused for a moment; her eyes filled with tears, and the color rose to her face. "Then mamma," said she, "I will wait, if you please, for my work-box, until you think proper to give Louisa her desk. Please to put it away in some safe place, and I will not say anything about it. I can do very well without the box a little while longer, you know." When Mrs. Western found that Emma was willing to deny herself a pleasure rather than give pain to her sister, she consented to her wish, because she desired to encourage kind and tender feelings between them; and she knew it would be easy to find some other way of showing Louisa that her friends were grieved and displeased by her conduct. So the work-box was safely put away for the present; though Emma had her hopes that the time would soon come when, with the promised writing-desk, it might be again brought forward. CHAPTER VI. TROUBLE BETWEEN SISTERS. I have told you that Emma was not without her faults; and whether she was a little lifted up by her mother's approval, so that she became less watchful over herself, and felt less her need of the grace of God, I cannot say: but so it was, that on the very same evening of their mother's birthday, the sisters had a quarrel, which would certainly have been worse, if Mrs. Western had not been sitting by. Louisa was the first to blame; but, on the other hand, Emma did not behave like a meek and Christian child. It was about Louisa's old work-box that this quarrel took place. Emma wished to have the use of it for a short time, as Louisa did not want it herself: but Louisa, as you have seen, was not very willing to lend; and some sharp and unkind words passed between them, such as children too often use when they give way to angry and sinful passions. No doubt the thought of her own work-box was in Emma's mind when she said, "You are selfish and ill-natured, Louisa, and do not deserve that people should give up any pleasure for you." While she was speaking, she saw her mother's eyes turned toward her with a look of surprise and sorrow; and at the same moment the words of Scripture, "Be kindly affectioned one toward another," came into her mind. She blushed and looked down while Mrs. Western reproved them both, and told them of the grief which, she felt on account of their sinful conduct, reminding them also of the example of the meek and lowly Jesus, who has commanded us to live in love. Emma was soon brought to tears, and went out of the room to weep alone, and ask forgiveness, for her Saviour's sake, from the holy God whom she had displeased by her sin: but Louisa, as usual, was inclined to be sullen, and did not think that she had been at all in the wrong. Upon this, her mother pointed out to her the unkindness of refusing so small a favor to her sister; and in the hope of bringing her to a sense of her fault, she told her what had passed in the morning, and made known to her the whole affair of the work-box. Louisa was so much struck by this proof of Emma's love, that her heart was quite softened, and she not only owned that she had done amiss, but ran to seek her sister, and asked her to forget their quarrel and be friends. Emma was very glad to agree to this, and was also ready to take her share of blame, saying that she had been very wrong in speaking so unkindly, and she hoped never to be so naughty again. It was pleasant after this, to see Louisa's desire that her sister should use the old work-box, and what care Emma showed in keeping all its contents nicely in their place. The loss of the birthday present had a great effect upon Louisa, so that she became more watchful over her temper and conduct. In a few months she had improved so much, that though she was still far from being all that could be wished, yet her mother thought she might safely buy her the writing-desk, according to the desire of her aunt Harding. Emma had still waited for her work-box with hope and patience; and you may imagine the joy of both when they at last received these long wished-for gifts. And as Emma was now not so careless as formerly, and Louisa had grown more kind, the work-box and the writing-desk were often lent in exchange; while the sisters soon found out the truth of what their mother told them, that such little frequent acts of mutual kindness do more to increase love than those greater deeds which children sometimes talk about, but seldom have the power to perform. The second packet from aunt Harding was received with not less joy than the first; for there was in it a letter for Louisa and Emma; and that she might show no favor to one above the other, she had directed it to both. Louisa, however, claimed and was allowed the privilege of breaking the seal. I wish you could have seen their happy faces, as Emma leaned upon her sister's shoulder to read the welcome letter which had been sent to them from a country so distant, and by a friend whom they loved so well. CHAPTER VII. AUNT HARDING'S LETTER. Would you like to know what aunt Harding Wrote to her nieces? Here then is the letter, word for word:-- "MY DEAR CHILDREN, LOUISA AND EMMA,--It is with great pleasure that I read in your mamma's letter the account of your improvement, and I am glad to fulfill the promise which I made of writing to you when that should be the case. I hope that you will go on trying to grow better and better; and for this end you should pray daily for the grace of God to help you every moment of your lives. Without his grace the evil desires of your sinful hearts will lead you from the right way; and as one sin always brings on others, you would, if left to yourselves, wander further and further from that which is good, until you lost all love for your Saviour and his commands. "I often think of you, and wish that you could see the poor little Hindoo children, who have never heard of the true God, but are taught by their heathen parents to kneel down, and pray to idols of wood and stone. There is a river in this country, the river Ganges, which the people believe to be a goddess, and they think that its waters can wash away their sins. Mothers often bring their little infants and bathe them in this river, because they believe it will make them holy. Do you not pity these poor people, whose souls are perishing for want of knowledge? Do you not wish that some one would go among them, and tell them about Jesus the Son of God, who gave himself to die for sinners, and whose blood alone can wash away sin? If so, you will be glad to know that there are some good men here who have left their own dear home and friends to live in this heathen country, and to teach the poor Hindoos the true and only way to heaven. Christians in other places, who love the Saviour, and wish that the heathen should learn to love him too, give money to send these good men here, and to pay for Bibles, and for other books which have been written on purpose to show how sinners may be saved. All may help to do this who will spare a little money from their own wishes and wants. _You_ may help, if you love the Saviour enough to deny yourselves some little pleasure now and then. I think you would resolve to do so, if you could go with me sometimes to the missionary school, and see the little children sitting in rows, learning to read about Jesus, and hear them asking for more books to take home, that they may tell the tidings of salvation to their heathen parents. O yes! I am sure you would want to help them then; for you would remember that heathen children, like yourselves, have souls which must live for ever and ever; and you would long that they should come to the knowledge of the Saviour, who died for them as well as for you. "It is now time that I should finish this long letter; so farewell, dear Louisa and Emma. Your uncle sends his love to you. We often talk of you, and pray that you may be the children of God, through faith in his dear Son. Your ever affectionate, "AUNT HARDING." CHAPTER VIII. USE OF MONEY. Emma found a great deal to think about in this letter, and it led to frequent talk with her mother about the heathen, for whom she began to feel much concern. When she heard how Christian people were trying to help them, and had read some accounts which her mother lent to her, telling of the happy change that, through the blessing of God, had been brought about in many cases by the preaching of the gospel, she wished that Louisa and herself could join in doing something, though ever so little, for this good cause. The love of Christ was in her heart: when this is the case, it will be sure to show itself in love for the souls of others. But Louisa, when spoken to on the subject, said that she had not anything to give. "I am very sorry, though, that the poor Hindoos should worship idols," she said; "and when I grow older, and have more money, I will do a great deal for them, depend upon it." "But why not help them a little _now_?" said Emma. "Because I have no money," replied Louisa; "no money I mean except what is in my little savings bank, and I should not like to part with that. As for you, Emma, you never can save up a shilling; so that I am sure you have not anything to spare." "Ah," said Emma, "that is true, to be sure; I never can save my money, and so I will tell you what I mean to do. Mamma gives us threepence a week, to spend as we please, you know; but I will only take twopence for the time to come, and I shall ask her to give the other pennies to the Tract Society at the end of the year. Four shillings and fourpence is not much, indeed, yet it will buy some nice little books for the Hindoo children in the schools; and if you will also give a penny a week, that will buy just as many more." It was of no use. Louisa would not be persuaded to do anything for the heathen _yet_. Emma gave her penny a week, and felt happy in giving it; while Louisa only talked of doing so by and by. If Louisa had loved her Saviour and her Bible, she would have felt it a delight to assist in sending the glad tidings of the gospel to heathen lands; but when the heart has not been changed by the Holy Spirit, we feel but little concern for our own souls, and do not care for the salvation of others. Emma was not led away by the example of her sister; but as she grew older she seemed to grow in grace, and in the knowledge and love of Christ. This will always be the case with those who believe the promises of God, and seek for divine assistance to enable them to obey his word. We can do nothing of ourselves, for we are poor, guilty, helpless sinners: but God, who has given his only Son to die for our sins, has also promised to give his Holy Spirit to them that ask it. Therefore, though we feel ourselves ever so weak and sinful, we need not despair of growing better, if we also feel our need of Christ, and go to him for help and pardon. Louisa and Emma had often heard that life is short and uncertain; but it is not easy for young people to feel the truth of this while they are healthy and strong. When Emma was about twelve years old she was taken very ill, so that there was from the first but little hope that she would recover. Then she felt that it is an awful thing to die; and the thought of the soul, which cannot die, and of heaven and hell, were far more solemn than they had ever seemed to her before. At first she was greatly afraid of death, for she knew she was a sinner, and deserving of the anger of God; but by degrees, as she lay on her sick bed, there came into her mind many sweet verses of the Bible, which she had learned in her days of health, and which gave her comfort, by telling her of the love of Jesus the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world. Do you think she was sorry, now, that she had spent so many hours in reading that holy and blessed book? No; for the promises of mercy and salvation which it held out to her was her only support through many hours of pain and suffering, when death seemed near, and eternity close at hand. Though too ill to read, or even to listen to the words of life, she could remember many of them in her heart, and think of them to her comfort in this season of trial. Sometimes she was able to talk to her mother for a few minutes, when it was plain that her mind was chiefly filled with thoughts of Christ and things divine. And she often said that, if it should be the will of God to restore her to health, she hoped for grace to devote herself to his service, and to live more to his glory than she had ever done before. She also spoke oftener to her sister, begging her to think of her soul, to read her Bible more, and to seek for the pardon of her sins; and Louisa, who was in great distress at the thought of losing her, was ready to promise anything that she asked. But it did not appear that she was under any concern for her own state; and this was a great trouble to poor Emma, who now felt more than ever the need of preparing for the world to come. It pleased God to spare her life, though she grew better very slowly, and it was many weeks before she could leave her room. When her long and painful illness was over, she was again able to share with Louisa in her lessons and her pleasures, so that in time those weeks of grief and suffering seemed to be forgotten; but they were not forgotten by Emma: she did not forget the mercies she had received, and the resolve which she had made of leading a holy life: she daily prayed for an humble and watchful mind, and for grace to keep her from falling into sin; and, as you may suppose, she loved her Bible more and more for the comfort which it had given her in the time of trouble. She still took pleasure in reading it alone, and prayed that she might have grace to obey its commands, so that it might be a lamp unto her feet and a light unto her path. Psa. cxix, 105. CHAPTER IX. AUNT HARDING'S RETURN. And now two more years had passed away, and the time when their aunt Harding's return was looked for had come. They had talked of it all through the winter; and when spring was over, and summer begun, the happy tidings came that the ship had arrived in safety, and their uncle and aunt Harding were on their way to visit them once more. I will leave you to guess the joy that was felt by all; and you must picture to yourself the pleasure of their meeting soon afterward: how thankful all were that they were spared to behold each other again; with uncle Harding's surprise at seeing two great girls instead of little Louisa and Emma; and aunt Harding's smiles, and her hopes that there would be found an equal improvement in matters of more importance. The morning after she came, when Mrs. Harding began to unpack her boxes, Louisa and Emma caught sight of many pretty and curious things which she told them were intended as presents for themselves. "But before we proceed any further," said she, as the girls were beginning to express their thanks and pleasure, "I wish to inquire about the parting keepsake which I gave to you; and I should be glad to see how each book has been treated, that I may know the real value which you set upon the gift." Louisa and Emma both ran to fulfill their aunt's desire. To speak the truth, Louisa was now in hopes of having all the praise. She quickly brought in her handsome Bible, still wrapped in the soft white paper, and in all the gloss of newness: not a mark upon the rich purple binding, not a speck upon the bright gilt leaves. Emma, too, brought hers, but with a more timid look; the neat brown silk cover was faded and worn--she had thought of making a new one only the day before--and the brightness was gone from the leaves, and the binding seemed rather loose, for the book opened easily, and there were some pages, less white than others, which looked as if they had been often read. To Louisa's surprise, Mrs. Harding laid down her book without saying a word, while, as soon as she took Emma's Bible into her hand, she smiled with pleasure, although tears came into her eyes. "_This_ book has been valued as it ought to be," said she; "it has been used with care, but often used, so that I trust it has been found a guide and a help to heaven. But yours, Louisa"--and she pointed to the beautiful Bible which lay upon the table--"yours has been laid aside, like the talent which was buried in the earth. It has been of no benefit to your soul, for you seem hardly ever to have looked to it for instruction; as if its real worth consisted in outside ornament, you have been careful to keep that from injury, but have never sought or cared for the treasure that is within. But dry your tears, my dear Louisa," added aunt Harding kindly. "I am not angry, for I know that your mistaken care was in some measure caused by your love for me. I am only sorry that my parting present has not been of the use which I intended. But it is not yet too late for you to learn that, while your Bible should be kept with proper care--for it is the word of God--yet it was given for our daily study, that we might read it, pray over it, and practice it; and thus, by the divine blessing, become 'wise unto salvation through faith which is in Christ Jesus.'" 2 Tim. iii, 15. "I trust," said the kind aunt, looking at her two nieces with much affection; "I trust that my dear Emma knows and loves her Saviour, and takes delight in the Scriptures, because they testify of him. May you both have grace to love him above all things, to do his will, and to put your trust in him for evermore; and then the heartfelt desire of your aunt Harding will be fulfilled." Reader, beware how you neglect the word of God. But remember it is not by merely reading it that you are to look for a blessing to your soul. You must pray for the teaching of the Holy Spirit, who alone can open your understanding, and incline your heart to heavenly wisdom, that you may not read in vain. * * * * * PRAYER FOR DIVINE GUIDANCE. O that the Lord would guide my ways To keep his statutes still! O that my God would grant me grace To know and do his will! O send thy Spirit down to write Thy law upon my heart! Nor let my tongue indulge deceit, Nor act the liar's part. From vanity turn off mine eyes; Let no corrupt design, Nor covetous desires, arise Within this soul of mine. Order my footsteps by thy word, And make my heart sincere: Let sin have no dominion, Lord, But keep my conscience clear. My soul hath gone too far astray, My feet too often slip; Yet, since I've not forgot thy way, Restore thy wand'ring sheep. Make me to walk in thy commands, 'Tis a delightful road; Nor let my head, or heart, or hands, Offend against my God. * * * * * VALUE OF THE SCRIPTURES TO THE YOUNG How shall the young secure their hearts, And guard their lives from sin? Thy word the choicest rules imparts To keep the conscience clean. When once it enters to the mind, It spreads such light abroad, The meanest souls instruction find, And raise their thoughts to God. 'Tis like the sun, a heavenly light That guides us all the day; And through the dangers of the night, A lamp to lead our way. Thy precepts make me truly wise; I hate the sinner's road: I hate my own vain thoughts that rise, But love thy law, my God. Thy word is everlasting truth; How pure is every page! That holy book shall guide our youth, And well support our age. THE END. * * * * * BOOKS PUBLISHED FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION OF THE METHODIST EPISCOPAL CHURCH. * * * * * KINDNESS TO ANIMALS; SHOWING THE SIN OF CRUELTY. BY CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH. Price eighteen cents. THE M'GREGOR FAMILY. Price eighteen cents. THE COTTAGE ON THE MOOR; OR, THE EVILS OF PRIDE. Price eighteen cents. OLD ANTHONY'S HINTS TO YOUNG PEOPLE, TO MAKE THEM CHEERFUL AND WISE. Price twenty cents. THE JEW AMONG ALL NATIONS, SHOWING THE PRESENT CONDITION OF THAT WONDERFUL PEOPLE. Price twenty-one cents. THE EGYPTIAN, BY THE AUTHOR OF THE JEW. Price twenty-one cents. THE STRANGE PLANET, AND OTHER ALLEGORIES, DESIGNED TO ILLUSTRATE IMPORTANT SUBJECTS 
10901	----	THREE YOUNG KNIGHTS By Annie Hamilton Donnell CHAPTER I. The last wisp of hay was in the Eddy mows. "Come on!" shouted Jot. "Here she goes--hip, hip, hoo-ray!" "Hoor-a-ay!" echoed Kent. But of course Old Tilly took it calmly. He planted his brown hands pocket-deep and his bare, brown legs wide apart, and surveyed the splendid, bursting mows with honest pride. "Yes, sir, that's the finest lot o' hay in Hexham county; beat it if you can, sir!" he said approvingly. Then, being ready, he caught off his own hat and cheered, too. "Hold on, you chaps; give the old man a chance to holler with you!" Father Eddy's big, hearty voice cried above the din, and there was the flaring, sun-browned "wide-awake" swinging with the other hats. "Hooray for the best hay in town! Hooray for the smartest team o' boys! Hooray for lib-er-tee!" "Hooray! Hooray!" They were all of them out of breath and red in the face, but how they cheered! Liberty--that was something to cheer for! After planting-time and haying, hurrah for liberty! The din softened gradually. With a sweep of his arm, father gathered all the boys in a laughing heap before him. "Well," he said, "what next? Who's going to celebrate? I'm done with you for a fortnight. I'm going to hire Esau Whalley to milk and do the chores, and send you small chaps about your business. You've earned your holiday. And I don't know but it's as good a time as any to settle up. Pay day's as good one day as another." He drew out a little tight roll of bills and sorted out three five-dollar notes gravely. The boys' eyes began to shine. Father 'most always paid them, after haying, but--five dollars apiece! Old Tilly pursed his lips and whistled softly. Kent nudged Jot. [Illustration: He sorted out three five-dollar notes gravely.] "There you are! You needn't mind about giving receipts!" Father Eddy said matter-of-factly, but his gray eyes were a-twinkle under their cliffs of gray brows. He was exulting quietly in the delight he could read in the three round, brown faces. Good boys--yes, sir--all of them! Wasn't their beat in Hexham county--no, sir! Nor yet in Marylebone county or Winnipeg! "Now, on with you--scatter!" he laughed. "Mother and I are going to mill to celebrate! When you've decided what you're going to do, send a committee o' three to let us know. Mind, you can celebrate any way you want to that's sensible." The boys waited till the tall, stoop-shouldered figure had gone back into the dim, hay-scented barn, then with one accord the din began again. "Hoo-ray! Hoo-ray for father!" "Father! father! hoo-ray!" "Hoor-a-ay!" It died away, began again, then trailed out to a faint wail as the boys scuttled off round the barn to the orchard. Father smiled to himself unsteadily. "Good boys! good boys! good boys!" he muttered. "Come on up in the consultery!" cried Kent excitedly. "Yes, come on, Old Till; that's the place!" Jot echoed. The "consultery" was a platform up in the great horse-chestnut tree. When there was time, it could be reached comfortably by a short ladder, but, in times of hurry, it was the custom to swing up to it by a low-hanging bough, with a long running jump as a starter. To-day they all swung up. "Oh, I say, won't there be times!" cried Kent. "Five apiece is fifteen, lumped. You can celebrate like everything with fifteen dollars!" "Sure--but how?" Old Tilly asked in his gentle, moderate way. "We don't want any old, common celebration!" "You better believe we don't!" "No, sir, we want to do something new! Camping out's old!" "Camping's no good! Go on!" Jot said briefly. It was always Old Tilly they looked to for suggestions. If you waited long enough, they were sure to come. "Well, that's the trouble. I can't 'go on'--yet. You don't give a chap time to wink! What we want is to settle right down to it and think out a fine way to celebrate. It's got to take time." For the space of a minute it was still in the consultery, save for the soft swish of the leaves overhead and roundabout. Then Jot broke out--a minute was Jot's utmost limit of silence. "We could go up through the Notch and back, you know," he reflected. "That's no end of fun. Wouldn't cost us all more'n a fiver for the round trip, and we'd have the other ten to--to--" "Buy popcorn and 'Twin Mountain Views' with!" finished Kent in scorn. "Well, if you want to dress up in your best fixin's and stew all day in a railroad train--" "I don't!" rejoined Jot, hastily. "I was thinking of Old Till!" Tilly's other name was Nathan, but it had grown musty with disuse. He was the oldest of the Eddy trio, and "ballasted" the other two, Father Eddy said. Old Tilly was fourteen and the Eddy twins--Jotham and Kennet--were twelve. All three were well-grown, lusty fellows who could work or celebrate their liberty, as the case might be, with a good will. Just now it was the latter they wanted to do, in some untried way. It was a beautiful thinking-place, up in the consultery. The birds in the meshes of leaves that roofed it over twittered in whispers, as if they realized that a momentous question was under consultation down below and bird-courtesy demanded quiet. Jot fretted impatiently under his breath, "Shouldn't think it need to take all day!" he muttered. "You're as slow as--as--" "Old Tilly!" laughed Kent. The spell of silence was broken, and the birds overhead broke into jubilant trills, as if they were laughing, too. "I guess the name fits all right this time," Old Tilly said ruefully. "I can't seem to think of anything at all! My head clicks--the mowing machine wheels have got into it, I guess!" "Wheels in mine, too!" Kent drawled lazily. "Wheels!" Jot sprang to his feet in excitement. In his haste he miscalculated the dimensions of the consultery. There was a wild flutter of brown hands and feet, and then the chestnut leaves closed calmly over the opening, and there were but two boys in the consultery. One of those parted the leaves again and peered down. "Hello, Jot!" No answer. Old Tilly's laugh froze on his face. "Jot! Hello!" he cried, preparing to swing himself down. "Hello yourself!" came up calmly. "Oh! Are you killed?" "'Course! But, I say, you needn't either o' you sit up there any longer gloomin'. I've thought of the way we'll celebrate. It's great!" The crisp branches creaked as the others swung down to the ground in haste. "You haven't!" cried Kent. "What is it, quick!" Old Tilly said. Old Tilly in a hurry! "Wheels!" announced Jot, deliberately. "You chaps had 'em in your head, and that put 'em into mine. Yes, sir, we'll celebrate on wheels!" "Why, of course! Good for you!" shouted Kent. But Old Tilly weighed things first in his mind. "That would be a go if we had enough to 'go' round. But you twinnies wouid have to ride double, or spell each other, or something." "Spell nobody!" scornfully cried Jot. "N-o, no, b-o-d--" "Shut up, Kent! That's all right, Old Till. Benny Tweed'll lend me his bike just like a book--I know Ben! Besides, he owes me a dollar and I'll call it square. There!" Old Tilly nodded approvingly. "Good!" he said. "Then we'll take a trip off somewhere. That what you meant?" "Sure! We'll go Columbus-ing--discovering things, you know." "Like those fellows--what's their names?--who did errands for people, and had wonderful things happen to them while doing them!" put in Kent, enthusiastically. "Errands? What in the world--knights? He means knight-errants!" exclaimed Old Till, laughing. "That's a good one--'Did errands for folks!'" Jot mocked. "Well, what did they do then, Jotham Eddy?" "Why, they--er--they--they rode round on splendid horses, all armed-- er--aaple-pie--and--" "Apple-pie--armed with apple-pie!" Old Tilly came briskly to the rescue. "Never mind the errands or the pie!" laughed he. "We'll be reg'lar knights and hunt up distressed folks to relieve, and have reg'lar adventures. It will be great--good for Jot! We won't decide where we're going or anything--just keep a-going. We'll start to-morrow morning at sunrise." "Hoo-ray for to-morrow morning!" "Hoo-ray for sunrise!" "Hoo-ray for Jot!" finished Kent, generously forgetting mockeries. The plan promised gloriously. When father and mother came home from the mill they fell in with it heartily, and mother rolled up her sleeves at once to make cakes to fill the boys' bundle racks. They would buy other things as they went along--that would be part of the fun. In the middle of the night Jot got out of bed softly and padded his way across to the bureau, to feel of the three five-dollar bills they had left together under the pincushion for a paper weight. He slid his fingers under carefully. What! He lifted the cushion. Then he struck a match--two matches--three, in agitated succession. The money was gone! CHAPTER II. Jot gasped with horror. The last match went out and left him standing there in the dark. After one instant's hesitation he made a bound for the bed. "Kent! Kent! Wake up!" he whispered shrilly. He shook the limp figure hard. "Thieves! Murder! Wake up, I tell you, Kent! We're robbed!" "M-m--who's rob--Oh, say, lemme alone!" murmured poor Kent, drowsily. Jot shook him again. "I tell you thieves!" he hissed in his ear. "The money's gone! Do you hear? It isn't under the pin-cushion where we left it! It's gone! We've been robbed, Kent Eddy!" The limp figure strengthened as if electrified and rose to a sitting position. Kent's eyes flew open. "What?" he cried. "Get up quick, Kentie, and we'll wake Old Tilly up! Maybe we can catch 'em!" "Catch who? I wish you'd talk English, Jot Eddy!" Old Tilly was slumbering peacefully, oblivious to thieves and five-dollar bills alike. It took a long time to wake him and longer yet to make him understand the dire thing that had happened. "Get up! Get up! We've got to catch 'em!" concluded Jot. "Yes, the thieves--catch the thieves, you know!" Kent explained. "I don't s'pose you'll lie there all night and let 'em cut off with our money, if you are Old Tilly!" Then something funny happened. Anyway, it seemed funny to Old Tilly. He buried his face in the pillow and choked with laughter. "It's gone to his head!" whispered Jot, in alarm. "No, to his t-toe!" giggled Old Tilly, purple in the face. "Yes, sir, he's crazy as a loon. Let's call father, Jot!" "Hold on!--wait! It's all right, boys! The money is, and I am, and everybody is! Just wait till I get my laugh out, won't you?" "No, sir, but we'll wait till you get out o' bed and that's this very minute!" Jot exclaimed wrathfully. He was dancing up and down with impatience. Old Tilly slowly brought a lean, shapely leg into view from beneath the sheet. To the boys' amazement it was covered with a long black stocking. Old Tilly, like the other boys, had been barefooted all day. "Thought I might as well get a good start in dressing!" he chuckled. "Nothing like being read--" "Oh, come off!" "Well, I wish it would; there's something in the toe that hurts. Ow!" He drew off the stocking and gravely examined the snug little wad in the toe. "The money!" cried Kent. "Yes, sir, the money!" Jot echoed in astonishment. "Why, so it is!" Old Tilly said in evident surprise. "Then the thieves didn't get away with it, after all! I call that a lucky stroke--my getting partly dressed overnight! No, hold on, you little chaps--don't get uppy! I'll explain, honest I will! You see, I got up after a while and put the money there for safe-keeping. I'd like to see the thief that would look there for it! He'd get a good kick if he did!" It was half an hour later when the trio settled back into sleep again. In the east already there were dim outriders of day trailing across the darkness. Without further incident the three knights-errant got under way next day. In a glare of July sunshine they rode away in search of adventures, while Father and Mother Eddy in the kitchen doorway looked after them a little wistfully. "Bless their hearts!" mother murmured tender-wise. "Good boys! Good boys!" said father, coughing to cover the break in his voice. "I say, this is great!" called Jot, who led the van, of course. "This is the way to do it!" [Illustration: "I say, this is great!" called Jot.] "Yes, sir!" Kent cried in high feather, "it feels as if you were reg'lar old knights, you know! Isn't it jolly not to know what's going to happen next?" Old Tilly's wheel slid up abreast of Kent's and proceeded sociably. "Esau Whalley's farm 'happens next,' and then old Uncle Rod King's next," Old Tilly said calmly. "I guess we better wait till we get out o' this neck o' woods before we settle down to making believe!" But three wheels driven by three pairs of sturdy, well-muscled legs get over miles swiftly, and by ten o'clock the boys had turned down an unfamiliar road and were on the way to things that happened. Before noon knightly deeds were at their hand. Jot himself discovered the first one. He vaulted from his bicycle suddenly, as they were bowling past a little gray house set in weeds, and the others, looking back, saw him carrying a dripping pail of water along the path to the kitchen doorsteps. "The pail was out there on the well curb, asking to be filled," he explained brusquely, as he caught up with them, "and the old woman pumping into it didn't look as if lugging water agreed with her. Besides, I wanted a drink." "You didn't get one," retorted Kent, wisely. Jot cast a sidewise glance upon him. "I said I wanted one, didn't I? Anybody can want a drink." "And take your remedy. Dose: lug one pail o' water for an old woman. If not successful, repeat in ten min--" Jot made a rapid spurt and left his teaser behind. When Old Tilly had come abreast of him again, he reached out a brotherly hand and bestowed a hearty pat on his arm. "Good boy!" he said, and unconsciously his voice was like father's, miles back in the kitchen doorway. It was the way father would have said it. "That's the way to do. We'll pick up 'errands' to do for folks. What's the use of being knights?" And Old Tilly's turn came next, in the way of driving the cows out of somebody's corn patch and propping up the broken fence. If it took but a few minutes, what of that? It saved a bent old man's rheumatic leg's, and the gay whistle that went with it drifted into an open window and pleased a little fretful child. "My turn next!" shouted Kent, gliding away from them out of sight over the brow of a hill. "Good luck to you!" called Jot. "We're going into camp to take a bite. No use being in such a rush." "When you come my way, drop in!" floated back faintly. They tilted their wheels against trees and threw themselves down in the shade to rest. Jot was ravenous with hunger. "Cakes are all right to begin on," he said, regarding mother's bountiful store with approval. "But when I strike the next store you'll see the crackers and cheese fly!" "I don't mind taking a hand in the scrimmage myself!" laughed Old Tilly, munching a fat cake. "I say, wasn't Kent foolish to go scooting off like that? Might as well have begun easy. I move we ride nights and mornings mostly, and loaf noons. There's a moon, 'silver mo-oo-on'--" His voice trailed lazily into song. It was pleasant lounging in the shade and remembering the hay was all in and adventures ahead. An hour or so later they moved on at a leisurely pace, looking for Kent. The general direction had been agreed upon, so they experienced no anxiety. It added to the fun to hunt for him. "Where in the world did he go to?" queried Old Tilly, laughing. "He disappeared like a streak of lightning!" "I see him--there, under that tree!" cried Jot, waving a salute. "He's lying down and enjoying life." But it was a tired old man under the tree, and, from his forlorn face, he did not seem to be "enjoying life." He was very old, very shabby, very tired. His unkempt figure had collapsed feebly by the way apparently. What astonished the boys was the wheel that lay on its side near him. He did not look like a wheelman. "Hold on. Old Till, I say!" called Jot in sudden excitement, forging ahead to his side. "I say, that looks like our wheel--mine and Kent's! I guess I know our wheel!" Jot was riding the borrowed machine. Kent had the one they owned jointly. "You're right, sonny; it looks that way!" rejoined Old Tilly, excited in his turn. "But we can't pounce on it and cut, you know. How do we know what Kent's up to?" Jot grunted derisively. "Probably he's given it to the old duffer for a birthday present--hundredth anniversary!" he scoffed. "That would be taking his turn at doing knight-errands. Let's go right on and not disturb the poor old man--" "Let's have sense!" remarked Old Tilly, briefly. "We'll forge on ahead and hunt Kent up before we arrest tramps for bike-lifting. When he says he's been robbed it'll be time to holler 'Stop, thief!'" "Yes, come on!" Jot called back as he shot ahead. "I haven't a doubt but we'll find Kentie's got his bike tucked away all safe in the toe of his stocking!" They came almost instantly into the outskirts of a snug little settlement. The road was flanked on both sides by neat white houses. Trig little children scurried out of their way, cheering shrilly. Somewhere there was music. [Transcriber's note: the word "trig", above, is as it appears in the original book.] "Hark!" Jot cried. "Hark yourself! That's a good hand-organ," Old Tilly said; and he hummed the familiar tune, and both wheels sped on to the time of it, as it seemed. The music grew louder. "Look up in that dooryard, will you! Jot Eddy, look at the chap that's grinding it!" Jot uttered an exclamation of astonishment. CHAPTER III. Up in one of the shady side yards stood Kent, turning the crank of a hand-organ! He was facing the highway where the other two boys were, but not a trace of recognition was in his face. Ranged in a semicircle before him was a line of little children shuffling their toes to the gay tune. "It's Kent!" gasped Jot. "Or his ghost--pretty lively one! Where in the world did he get that hand-organ? And what's he done with his bike? Why--oh!" Old Tilly added two and two, and, in the light of a sudden inspiration, they made four. Yes, of course, that was it, but he would wait and let Jot guess it out for himself. Jot had other business in hand just then. "Say, come on up there with the youngsters, Old Till!" he whispered excitedly. "Come on, quick! We'll make him smile! He can't keep his face with us tagging on with the children!" They left their wheels beside the road and stalked solemnly up the path. The children were too intent on the music to notice them, and the figure at the crank did not change its stiff, military attitude. The tune lurched and swayed on. Suddenly, with a sharp click, the music swept into something majestic and martial, with the tread of soldiers' feet and the boom of drums in it. The faces of the little children grew solemn, and unconsciously their little shoulders straightened and they stood "at attention." They were all little patriots at heart and they longed to step into file and tramp away to that splendid music. Again the tune changed sharply, and still again. Then the organ-grinder slung his instrument with an experienced twist and twirl across his shoulders, and took off his cap. "Look, will you? He's going to pass it round!" giggled Jot, under his breath. "He'll pass it to us, Old Till!" "Keep your face straight, mind!" commanded Old Till, sharply. The organ-grinder handed round his cap, up and down the crooked line of his audience. The two sober boys at one end dropped in a number of pennies, one at a time deliberately, "Bless ye!" murmured the organ-grinder, gratefully. Jot's brown face tweaked with the agony of keeping straight, but Old Tilly was equal to the occasion. He assumed a benevolent, pitying expression. "Hold on a minute!" he called. "Here's a nickel for your poor wife and children. How many you got?" "Five, sir, your honor," the musician murmured thickly. "Starving?" "Sure--all but a couple of the little uns. They're up 'n' dressed, thank ye; bless ye!" Jot made a strange, choking sound in his throat. "Is the young gent took ill?" inquired the organ-grinder, solicitously. "No, oh, no; only a slight attack of strangulating--he's liable to attacks. It was the music--too much for him!"' Old Tilly gravely explained, but his lips quivered and struggled to smile. The whole little procession trailed slowly down the lane to the street. At the next house and at all the others in succession, it turned in and arranged itself in line again, prepared to listen with ears and dancing toes. Jot and Old Tilly followed on in the rear. They found it hard work to find pennies enough to drop into the organ-grinder's cap at every round. Toward the end they economized narrowly. The small settlement came to an abrupt ending just over the brow of the hill. The houses gave out, and the musician and his audience swung about and retraced their steps. The children dropped off, a few at a time, until there were left only the three boys, who went on soberly together. "Oh, say!" broke out Jot at last. "'Tis not for the likes o' me to 'say,' your honor," the organ-grinder murmured humbly, and Jot gave him a violent nudge. "Let's knock off foolin'!" he cried. "I say, where'd you get that machine, Kentie? Where'd you get it? And for the sake o' goodness gracious, where's your wheel?" "'Turn, turn, my wheel,'" quoted Kent from the Fourth Reader. He was shaking with suppressed laughter, that turned into astonishment at Old Tilly's calm rejoinder. If it didn't take Old Till to ferret things out! "It isn't liable to 'turn, turn,' while that old tramp has it," Tilly said calmly. "He isn't built for a rider. What kind of a trade did you make, anyway? Going halves?" "No, going wholes!" Kent answered briefly, and would say no more. They went on down the sandy road. When they got back to the forlorn old figure under the tree, it was slowly rising up and regarding them out of tired, lack-luster eyes. The wheel still leaned comfortably in its place close by. "Me--bring--money. Play--tunes. You--buy--food," Kent said very slowly and distinctly, pausing between every word. "He's a foreigner, you know," he explained over his shoulder to the boys. "He no understand. You have to talk pigeon English to him. See how he catches on to what I said?" The old face had grown less dull and weary. A slow light seemed to illumine it. As the little stream of pennies dripped into the tremulous, wrinkled old hand, it suddenly flashed into a smile. Then a stream of strange words issued from the old man's lips. They tripped over each other and made weird, indistinguishable combinations of sound, but the boys translated them by the light of that smile. How pleased the old fellow was! How he fingered over the pennies exultantly! "Tell the whole story, old man," Old Tilly said quietly as they mounted their wheels and glided off. "It looks like a reg'lar novel!" "Yes, hurry up, can't you!" impatiently Jot urged. "Begin at the beginning, and go clear through to the end." "You've helped folks. Why shouldn't I? There weren't any old ladies with empty water pails, or any cows in corn lots, so I had to take up with the poor old organ-grinder. That's all." "All!" scoffed Jot, "Go on with the rest of it, Kent Eddy!" "Isn't any 'rest,'" grunted Kent, "unless you count the organ-grinder; he had some-looked as if he'd rested. Well, sir"--Kent suddenly woke up--"but without any fooling, you ought to have seen that old chap when I came on him. He was all used up--heat, you know. There was a creek, back a ways, and the water kind of pulled him up. He couldn't talk English, but he offered me a black two-cent piece for pay. He turned his pocket out to find it. That set me to thinking I'd make him a little richer." "Of course! Go on!" hurried Jot. "Isn't any 'on.'" "There's honor," Old Tilly cried softly. "I say that was splendid, Kentie! I like that!" Kent flushed uneasily. Old Tilly's face looked like father's when he said his rare, hearty words of commendation. "Well, the organ-grinder likes it, too!" Kent laughed. "Now he can have something to eat. Poor old fellow! He couldn't have gone through all those dooryards to save his life! He was 'most sunstruck. I told a motherly old lady about him, at one of the houses, and she's going to be on the lookout for him, and give him a snack of meat and bread." They went on for half a mile quite silently. Then, without warning. Jot suddenly began to laugh. He tumbled off his bicycle and collapsed in a feeble heap. "Don't anybody st-op me !" he cried. "It's dangerous! I'm having one o' my 'attacks'!" The others joined in, and, for a little, the woods rang with boyish mirth. "It was rich!" stammered Jot. "Passing the hat round capped it!" "It was great!" laughed Old Tilly. "You're an actor, Kentie!" "Me! What are you?" "Well, I can't grind a hand-organ and pass round the hat like that!" "I could!" Jot cried, suddenly sobering down and going through the motions of turning a crank with airy ease. "It's 'most too easy for me!" The fun lasted until night. It was Saturday, and they rode until sunset without further stops. "We'll rest awhile and then go on by moonlight," Old Tilly said. "It will be jolly and cool then. Besides, we don't want to be on the road to-morrow. I promised mother I'd see that you all kept Sunday." "And go to church ?" Jot said. "Yes, and go to church, it there's one to go to anywhere," Old Tilly rejoined quietly. "I told mother I'd see that you fellows went to church quiet and nice, if possible. She put in the extra collars and neckties on purpose." A long rest, with a hearty lunch, and then they were off again in the clear moonlight. It was splendid. The trees, the road, the pale, ghostly houses--everything had a weird, charmed aspect. They might have been riding through fairyland. It was growing late, they knew, and at last they stopped, out of sheer weariness. A great, square bulk loomed faintly before them in the waning moonlight. It might be a house--might be a mountain! Jot spurted on ahead to reconnoiter. "House!" he shouted back. "Doors open--all quiet--guess it's on a picnic ground. I felt a stair that seemed to lead up to a balcony or something." "Well, we're sleepy enough. We'll take anything we can get!" yawned Kent. "Come on, then." And, riding into what seemed a yard, they found a good place for their wheels under some bushes. The moon was too low to give them any light, but the boys found the doorway to the big building and went up the stairs, guided by their hands along the narrow passageway. They could only discern a queer little enclosure, topped by a little rail. They were too thoroughly tired out to be curious, and, feeling some narrow seats, they lay down, and, making themselves comfortable, were soon asleep. Jot was dreaming that Old Tilly had made him go to church and the people were singing, when suddenly he opened his eyes. Was he dreaming? Over him floated a sweet hymn, one his mother loved to join in singing at church Sunday morning. The boy's eyes opened wider still at sight of flecks of sunshine dancing on the walls near, and, raising his head, he saw through the clear little panes of a long window, where the green leaves were dancing against the glass. The singing went on, and the boy raised himself in a wondering fashion upon his elbow. Where were they? Jot lifted his head still higher, and, glancing over the railing, he looked down upon a goodly company. The amazement on his face grew greater instead of less. They were in church!--that was sure. Jot looked back to his sleeping companions and held his breath as one of them stirred uneasily. What if he should roll off the bench? The hymn grew louder and sweeter, and Jot smoothed out his hair and straightened his necktie and sat up straight. The branches outside tapped the narrow, small paned window near him, and from the open windows below the sweet beauty of the summer morning stole in. But as the minister rose to give out his text, a sound from one of the boys back of him caused Jot to turn. CHAPTER IV. Jot turned in his narrow seat there in the church gallery as he heard a sound that made him think his brothers were waking. But Old Tilly had only stirred in his sleep and struck out a little jarringly against the back of the narrow gallery pew. Jot turned back and scanned the place they had so innocently taken for their quarters the night before. The gallery pew they were in was like a tiny half-walled room, with seats running around three sides and up to the queer door on the fourth side. The walls of the pews were almost as high as Jot's head if he had dared to stand up. Kent stirred uneasily and threw out his arm with a smart rap against the side. Jot crept across to him in terror. "Sh! Sh! Keep quiet! don't breathe! You're in meeting!" he whispered. "The minister's down there preaching now! Oh, sh!" "Lemme--" But Jot's hand cut off the rest. The other hand gently shook Kent's arm. "I tell you we're in meeting; don't make a sound!" "Who's making a sound?" whispered Kent, now thoroughly awake. Was Jot taken suddenly crazy? Hark! who was that talking? "If you don't believe me, raise your eye over that wall and sec what!" whispered Jot eagerly. He drew Kent up beside him and they peeped carefully over. Kent dropped back, as Jot had done, in sheer surprise. The two boys gazed at each other silently. It was too much for Kent, though, and, to suppress a laugh, he stuffed his handkerchief in his mouth. Kent pointed to Old Tilly and smiled broadly. "He promised mother he'd take us to meeting," he whispered, "and he's done it!" "Yes, but she wouldn't like to see him asleep in church!" Jot whispered hack. Below them the minister's deep voice tolled on solemnly. They could not catch all the words. "Come on! I'm going to sit up like folks. I want to hear what he's saying," Jot whispered after awhile. They smoothed their hair and tried to straighten collars and ties, and then suddenly some of the people down below in the body of the church glanced up and saw two boyish faces, side by side, in the gallery. The puzzle was beyond unraveling. The women prodded each other gently with their parasol tips and raised their eyebrows. The men looked blank. When had those youngsters got up there in that pew? One of the deacons scowled a little, but the two quiet brown faces allayed his suspicions. It wasn't mischief--it was mystery. The sight that had met Jot's astonished eyes in the beginning was a quaint one. This was a new kind of a church! At home there were rows upon rows of red-cushioned seats, with the hymn books and fans in the racks making the only break to the monotony. Here the pews were all little square rooms with high partitions and doors. The hard board seats ran 'way round them all, so that in some of them people were sitting directly "back to" the minister! Rows on rows of the little rooms, like cells, jutted against each other and filled up the entire space below save the aisles and the pulpit. [Illustration: This was a new kind of church.] And the pulpit! Jot's eyes returned to it constantly in wondering admiration. There was a steep flight of stairs leading up to it on each side, and an enormous umbrella-like sounding-board was poised heavily above it. The pulpit itself was round and tail and hung above the heads of the congregation, making the practice of looking up at the good old minister a neck-aching process. Directly beneath the pulpit was a seat facing the people. It was empty now, but a hundred years ago, had the lads but known it, the deacons had sat there and the "tithing-man," whose duty it was to go about waking up the dozers with his long wand. It was called the Deacon's Seat, and if sometimes the deacons themselves had dropped off into peaceful naps--what then? Did the "tithing-man" nudge them sharply with his stick, or was he dozing, too? There are still a few of these old landmarks left in the country. Now and then we run across them and get a distinct flavor of old times, and it is worth going a good many miles to see the inside of one of them. By just shutting one's eyes and "making believe" a little, how easy it would be to conjure up our dear old grandmothers in their great scoop bonnets, and grandfathers with their high coat collars coming nearly to their bald crowns! And the Deacon's Seat under the pulpit--how easy to make believe the deacons in claw-hammer coats and queer frilled shirt bosoms! The people Jot and Kent saw were ordinary, modern people, and their modern clothes looked oddly out of date against the quaint old setting. Jot thought with a twinge of sympathy how hard the seats must feel, and how shoulders must ache against the perfectly straight-up-and-down backs. He felt a sudden pity for his great-grandmother and great-uncles and aunts. This especial old church, box-like and unchurchly without and ancient within, was rarely used for worship except in the summer months. Then there were services in it as often as a minister could be found to conduct them. The three young adventurers had stumbled upon it in the dark and overslept out of sheer physical weariness. It was up in one of the old choir pews in the high gallery they had wakened--or Jot had wakened--to the strains of the beautiful hymn his mother loved. The whole explanation was simple enough when it was explained. Kent and Jot worked it out slowly in their own minds. Meanwhile Old Tilly slept on, and the sermon came to an end. There was another hymn and then the benediction. The people dispersed slowly, and once more the big house was deserted. Then Jot woke Old Tilly. "I say," he cried, "I say, old fellow, wake up!" "Yes, I'm coming in a minute!" muttered Old Tilly. "You'll be late for church," remarked Kent dryly, with a wink at Jot. Old Tilly stirred and rose on his elbow. Then he gave a bewildered look around him. "You're in church. Didn't you promise mother you'd take us to church?" "Yes." "But you slept all through the service," said Kent, "and I shall tell mother so!" "Kent Eddy, what are you trying to get at? How did we get here, anyhow?" said Old Tilly, rising cautiously; and then, as he looked down on the empty room below, standing to his full height, he said. "Well, if I ever!" a laugh breaking through his white teeth. "I should say we had been in church!" he added. "Why didn't you fellows wake me up? What did the folks think?" "Oh, they only saw the two good boys sitting on the seat facing them! We didn't say we had another one smuggled in under beside us. But my! You did rap the seat awfully once with your elbow!" "Well, I know one thing: my shoulder aches from lying on that narrow seat so long," said Old Tilly. "I say, let's go down to the wheels and the grub. I'm half starved!" "All right," said Kent in rather a subdued way. The morning service had stolen pleasingly through him, and somehow it seemed to the little lad as though their ship had been guided into a wonderfully quiet harbor. And now he followed his brothers down the narrow stairs that they had so innocently groped their way up in darkness the night before. The three had agreed to leave the church and partake of the lunch that was in the baskets on the wheels, but now they found doing so not as easy of accomplishment as they had at first thought. When they tried the outer door they found to their dismay that it was locked. Old Tilly would not believe Kent, and he pushed the latter's hand off the door knob rather impatiently. "Let me get hold of it!" But, rattle the door as he might, he could not stir the rusty lock. "Well, we're locked in, that's sure!" said Kent, looking almost dismayed. CHAPTER V. "I guess you're right, Jotham," Old Tilly said. "But what in the world did they go and lock up for, when we got in just as easy as pie last night?" exclaimed Kent, disgustedly. "Oh, ask something easy!" Jot cried. "What I want to know is, how we're going to get on the other side o' that door." The care-taker, if one could call him that, of the old meeting-house, had taken it into his head to take care of it!--or it may have been that the key chanced to be in his pocket, convenient. At all events, the door was securely fastened. The three boys reluctantly gave up the attempt to force it. "Windows!" Kent suddenly exclaimed, and they all laughed foolishly. They had not thought of the windows. "That's a good joke on the Eddy boys!" Old Tilly said. "We sha'n't hear the last of it if anybody lets on to father." "Better wait till we're on the other side of the windows!" advised Kent. "Maybe it isn't a joke." There were windows enough. They were ranged in monotonous rows on all sides of the church, above and below. They all had tiny old-fashioned panes of glass and were fastened with wooden buttons. It was the work of a minute to "unbutton" one of them and jump out. "There!" breathed Jot in relief, as his toes touched sod again, "I feel as if I'd been in prison and just got out." "Broken out--that's the way I feel. I wish we could fasten the window again," Old Tilly said thoughtfully. Kent was rubbing his ankle ruefully. "It was a joke on us, our mooning round that door all that time, and thinking we were trapped!" "Oh, well, come on; it doesn't matter, now we're free again." "Come along--here are our wheels all right," Old Tilly said briskly. "Let's go down to that little bunch of white houses there under the hill, and pick out the one we want to stay over night in." "The one that wants us to stay in it, you mean! Come on, then." It was already mid-afternoon. The beautiful Sunday peace that broods over New England's country places rested softly on new-mown fields and bits of pasture and woods. The boys' hearts were made tender by the service they had so unexpectedly attended, and as the beauty of the scene recalled again the home fields, they fell into silence. A tiny, brown-coated bird tilted on a twig and sang to them as they passed. The little throat throbbed and pulsated with eager melody. Old Tilly listened to the song to its close, then swung round suddenly. His face was like father's when he got up from his knees at family prayers. "That bird seems singing, 'Holy, holy, holy,'" Old Tilly said softly. "Can't you hear?" "Yes, I hear," murmured Jot. The little white house they picked out sat back from the highway in a nest of lilac bushes. It reminded the boys a very little of home. "Stop over night? Away from home, be ye? Why, yes, I guess me an' pa can take you in. One, two--dear land! there's three of ye, ain't there? Yes, yes, come right in! I couldn't turn three boys away--not three!" The sweet-faced old woman in the doorway held out both hands welcomingly. She seemed to get at the history of the three young knights by some instinctive mind-reading of her own--the boys themselves said so little. It was the little old lady's sweet voice that ran on without periods, piecing Old Tilly's brief explanatory words together skillfully. "Havin' a holiday, be you? I see. Well, young folks has to have their outin's. When they git as old as me an' pa, they'll be all innin's!" she ran on. Suddenly she stooped and surveyed them with a placid attempt at sternness. "I hope you've all be'n to meetin'?" she cried. Jot's face twisted oddly. "Yes," Old Tilly answered, subduedly, "we've been to church." "I thought so--I thought so. Now come in an' see pa--poor pa' He was took again yesterday. He's frettin' dretfully about the hay. Pa--" Her voice went on ahead and heralded their coming. "Here's three boys come to stop over night with us--three, pa. You're glad there's three of 'em, ain't you? I knew you'd be. When I'd counted 'em up, I didn't hesitate any longer! The littlest one looks a little mite like our Joey, pa--only Joey was handsome," she added innocently. Kent nudged Jot delightedly. They were entering a quaint, old-fashioned room, and at the further end on a hair-cloth settle lay a withered morsel of an old man. His sun-browned face made a shriveled spot of color against the pillows. "That's pa," the little old lady said, by way of introduction. "He was took yesterday, out in the field. It was dretful hot--an' the hay 'most in, too. He's frettin' because he couldn't 've waited a little mite longer, ain't you, pa? I tell him if the boys was here--" She broke off with a quiver in her thin, clear voice. Pa, on the couch, put out his hand feebly and smoothed her skirt. "We had three boys--ma an' me," he explained quietly. "That's why ma was so quick to take you in, I guess. They was all little shavers like you be." "Yes, jest little shavers," said ma, softly. "They hadn't got where I couldn't make over 'em an' tuck 'em in nights, when they was took away-- all in one week. You wouldn't have thought 'twould have be'n all in one week--three boys--would you? Not three! I tell pa the Lord didn't give us time enough to bid 'em all good-by. It takes so long to give up three!" Old Tilly and the others stood by in odd embarrassment. Jot was bothered with a strange sensation in his throat. But the old lady's sorrowing face brightened presently. She bustled about the room busily, getting out chairs and setting straight things crooked in her zeal. "I guess you're hungry, ain't you? Boys always is--an' three boys! Dear! how hungry three boys can be! I'm goin' out to get supper. Pa, you must do the entertainin'." The bread was "just like mother's"--white with a delicious crust--and the butter yellow as gold, and Jot helped himself plentifully. "Ma," behind the tea urn, watched him with a beaming face. "That's right!--I love to see boys eat! I tell pa sometimes I can just see our three boys settin' at this table eatin' one of ma's good meals o' victuals. You must have some of this custard, Joey." A faint essence of added tenderness crept into the wistful old voice at that name. The boys knew that Joey had been the little old lady's baby. "Joey was a great hand for custard. Joey was a master hearty boy." After supper, the boys wandered out around the tiny farm. It was at best a rocky, uneven place, but there were evidences of "pa's" hard work on it. Most of the grass had been mowed and carried into the barn, but there was one small field still dotted over with cocks of overripe hay. Old Tilly strode over and examined it with an air of wisdom. "Too ripe," he commented. "I guess it won't be worth getting in, if it stays out here much longer." "He meant to have it all in yesterday--she said he did. I mean that little old lady said so," Jot remarked. "Well, if it isn't all in to-morrow, it's a goner," Old Tilly said decisively. "Now, boys, there's lots o' good water out in the cistern," the old lady said, when they came back. "I've put the towels handy in the shed. It may be you'll sleep sounder if you have a nice sponge off." Only too glad, the boys took to the shed, and then followed their guide to the airy room waiting. How the pillows fitted a fellow's head! as Jot said luxuriously. And the beds, how good they felt after those hard church pews! They were sound asleep in a moment. The little old lady stole in to look at them. She held the lamp high in one hand and gazed down with wistful eyes into the three healthy brown faces. When she went back to pa, her face was wet with a rain of tears. "They look so good, pa, lyin' there!" she said brokenly. "An' you'd ought to see how much like Joey the littlest one throws up his arm!" The old man could not sleep. He kept asking if it looked like rain and kept fretting because he could not move his legs about freely. "I've got to move 'em, ma," he groaned.-"I've got to practice before to-morrer, so's to get the hay in. I've got to get the hay in, ma!" It was Jot, for a wonder, who slept the longest. He woke with a start of surprise at his strange surroundings. Then he sat up in bed, blinking his eyes open wider. The room was a large one with two beds in it. He and Kent had slept in one, and Old Tilly in the other. It was just before sunrise, and in the east a wide swathe of pink was banding the sky. Outside the window, a crowd of little birds were tuning up for a concert. Jot rubbed his eyes again. There was no one else in the room. The other boys had vanished completely. He leaped out of bed with a queer sense of fright. Then he made a discovery. CHAPTER VI. "Come on--haying's begun," the note read. It was in Kent's angular, boyish hand, and Jot found it pinned conspicuously to the looking-glass frame. "Old Till and I are at it. Come on out." So that was it? They were getting in the poor little morsel of an old man's hay. Jot jumped into his clothes with a leap and was out in the hay-field with them. He was inclined to be cross at being left dozing while the work began. "I call that shabby mean," he protested. "Why couldn't you wake a fellow up? I guess I'd like a hand in helping the old man out, as well as either of you." "Wake you up!" laughed Kent. "Didn't I tickle the soles of your feet? Didn't I pinch you? What more do you want?" "You wouldn't wake up, Jot," Old Tilly said cheerfully. "I took a hand at it myself, but nothing this side of a brass band would 've done it this morning. We couldn't bring that in, you know, for fear of waking the folks. So Kent wrote you a letter." The work went on splendidly. They were all in fine haying trim, and the cocks in the rough little field were tossed briskly into the rack. There were three loads, and the last one was safely stowed in the haymow before the little old lady in the house had stirred up her breakfast cake. [Illustration: They were all in fine haying trim.] "I hope she won't discover anything before we get away," Old Tilly said. "It would be such fun to have it a reg'lar surprise!" "Wouldn't it!" cried Jot. "But she might think somebody'd come along in the night and stole it, don't you see?" Kent objected. "No, sir, I don't see. I guess she'd see our trail. And besides, look up there in the mow! It doesn't look just exactly as it did before we began!" A few minutes after the boys had glided away on their wheels, the little old lady hurried into "pa's" room. "Pa, pa, it's all in, jest as nice as a new pin! Every spear's in!" she cried delightedly. "Them three boys did it before breakfast. I knew what they was up to, but I wasn't goin' to spoil their little surprise! I guess I know how boys like surprises. Don't you remember how Hilary an' Eben got the potatoes all dug that time an' surprised you? How innocent their little faces looked when you said, 'Hum-suz-a-day! how it makes my back ache thinkin' o' those potatoes!' Joey was a tittle thing in kilts, but he helped. He tugged 'em in, in his own little basket--I can see jest how proud he looked! But I evened up a little on the surprise. I guess when they come to open them bicycle baskets they'll see some things in the way of apple-pie that was not there earlier!" All the morning the boys wondered at the stream of wagons traveling their way. Then just at noon they found out what it meant. They came round a sharp curve in the road upon a beautiful grove on the shore of a lake. It was gay with flags and the bright dresses of women and children. Here and there an awning or tent dotted the green spaces. People were bustling about in all directions, laughing and shouting to each other, and every few minutes there were new arrivals. "Hark! there's a band o' music! It's a circus!" cried Kent, excitedly. Jot had disappeared somewhere in the crowd. "No-o, not a circus," Old Tilly said doubtfully. "It's some kind of a big picnic. See, there's a kind of a track laid out over there where that flag is. They're going to have some kind of athletics." "Foot-races and hurdles and things! Oh, I say, can't we stay and see 'em?" Kent cried eagerly. At that instant appeared Jot, waving his cap in great excitement. "Come on--we're invited!" he shouted. "There's going to be lots of fun, I tell you! We can buy ice-cream, too, over in that striped tent, and there are boats we can hire to row out in, and--everything." "Hold on a minute!" demanded Old Tilly with the sternness of authority. "How did you get your invitation? and what is it that's going on, anyway?" "Tell quick, Jot--hurry! They're getting ready for a foot-race," fidgeted Kent. "It's a Grangers' picnic, that's what. And a big jolly Granger invited us to stop to it. He asked if we weren't farmer boys, and said he thought so by our cut when I said, yes sir-ee. He wants us to stop. He said so. He says his folks have got bushels of truck for dinner, and we can join in with them and welcome." "And thanking him kindly, I'll stop!" laughed Kent, in high feather. "Come on over there, Jot, and see 'em race." And the three young knights were presently in the midst of the gay crowd, as gay as anybody. The afternoon was full of fun for them. They made plenty of acquaintances among the other brown-faced farmer boys, and entered into the spirit of the occasion with the hearty zest of boys out holidaying. They were a little careful about not being too free with their spending-money. "'Cause we're out on a long run, you know," Old Tilly said. But what they did spend went for their share of the entertainment given so freely to them by the big Granger who had taken them in tow. It was a day filled with a round of pleasure, as Jot had predicted. The athletic contests on the primitive little race-track proved the greatest attraction of all. There were bicycle races after the foot-racing and hammer-throwing and high jumping. Jot longed to vault into his own wheel and whirl round the track dizzily, like the rest of them. He and Kent stood together close to the turning-point. They had somehow drifted away from Old Tilly. A new race began, and up at the starting-place there seemed to be a good deal of hilarity. The hearty laughs were tantalizing. "What is it? Why don't they come on and give us fellows a chance to laugh, too?" exclaimed Jot, impatiently. Kent was peering sharply between his hands. He suddenly began to laugh. "It's a slow race!" he cried. "They're trying to see who can get behind! Come on up further where we can see. It'll be great!" "Come along, then--hurry!" shouted Jot. "It's a free-for-all. Anybody can compete," somebody was saying as they passed. "But they've got to be slower than Old Tilly!" "Can't do it!" whispered Jot. "Old Tilly can sit still on his bike." "I hope he'll see the race," Kent panted. "It would be mean if he missed. Here's a good place--there they come. Look at 'em crawling along like snails! There's one chap clear behind. Yes, sir, he's standing still!" Jot gave one look and uttered a shout: "It's Old Tilly!" "Jotham Eddy--no!" "Look for yourself and see--ain't it?" "Of course--no--yes, sir, it's Old Till, for a fact." "And he's 'way behind--I told you there wasn't anybody slower'n Old Tilly! He's beating as fast as anything." "As slow as anything. Come on! Let's cheer him, Jot." They caught off their caps and cheered wildly. Every-body else joined in, catching at the name and laughing over it as a good joke. "Hurrah--hurrah for Old Tilly!" "Hip, hip, 'n' a tiger for Old Til-ly!" The time-keeper called time, and Old Tilly descended from his victorious wheel and bowed profoundly to his cheerers. He walked away to join the other boys with the exaggerated air of a great victor, and the people shouted again. "Oh, I say, that was rich, Old Till," gasped Jot. "That was worth a farm!" "What made you think of entering?" Kent laughed. "Oh, I thought I would--I knew I could beat 'em," Old Tilly said modestly. Sunset ended the festivities in the grove, and the boys mounted and rode away with the other tired people. Gradually they fell behind. "Don't--rush--so; I've got to keep up my reputation!" said Old Tilly. "Besides, I'm tired." "Me, too." "Same here. Let's camp out to-night in the woods. Why didn't we stay there and camp in that grove?" "Well, we might have, but we won't go back," answered Old Tilly. "Come on, let's make for that pretty little brown house. Maybe we can buy our supper there." But the little brown house was shut up tight. The curtains were all pulled down, and a general air of "not at home" pervaded even the clapboards and the morning-glory vine over the door. Only the neat little barn looked hospitable. Its doors stood open wide. A distant rumble of thunder suddenly sounded, and the sky darkened with ominous swiftness. "Going to rain," Kent said. "Sure," added Jot. "Look at those clouds, will you? We'd better get into a hole somewhere." "We'll go into the barn," decided Old Tilly, after a minute's thought, "and if it rains all night, we'll stay there. We can't do any harm." It rained all night. Shower after shower burst over them heavily, and there was a continual boom of thunder in their ears. A slight respite at midnight was followed by the most terrific shower of all. The boys huddled together in the hay, with awe-struck faces, but unafraid. They could not sleep in such a magnificent tumult of nature. Suddenly there was a blinding flash of lightning, then a crash. The whole universe seemed tottering about them. Dizzy and stunned, they gazed at each other, unable to move for an instant. Then it was Jot who sprang up in tremulous haste. "I smell smoke--we're afire!" he exclaimed. "Yes," Old Tilly cried, striving to be calm, "it struck this barn." CHAPTER VII. They darted away in search of the fire. The glare of the lightning showed them their way, and presently they came into the glare of the flames. The bolt had descended through the harness room. "Quick! Cattle first!" shouted Old Tilly, clearly. "We must save the cattle, anyway!" "You go to them, you two--I'm going to the pump," called back Kent, decisively. He remembered there was a pump just outside the barn, and he was sure he had seen two or three pails standing about near it--yes, there they were! He caught them up with a sweep as he leaped by. It was the work of a moment to fill two pails and a moment more to dash them down by the floor in one corner where the scattered hay was burning. Again and again he made flying leaps to the pump and back. Meanwhile the other two boys were releasing the frantic cattle. It was no simple thing to do--the poor creatures were so terrified. There were two steers and a gentle-faced heifer. The boys had made acquaintance with them the night before, and the poor things greeted them now with piteous lows of appeal. "So, boss--so boss--so-o!" soothed Jot at the heifer's head. His trembling fingers caressed the smooth, fawn-colored nose, as, with the other hand, he untied her. She crouched back at first and refused to pass that terrible flaming something on the way to safety outside. But Jot pulled her along, talking to her all the way. In less time than it takes to tell of it, the cattle were out of danger. "Now the hens--hurry, hurry, Jot! I'm going to help Kent. It mustn't get to the hay upstairs!" Thanks to Kent's steady, tireless work, there was little danger of that now. Already the flames were greatly subdued, and only sputtered aimlessly under the regular showers of water that fell upon them. The two boys toiled over them patiently till just a blackened corner told that they had been there in the trig little barn. It had been a short, sharp battle. A moment's indecision, a very little less determined effort and presence of mind, and nothing but a miracle could have saved the barn. And then the house! It stood so near--what could have saved it? It was an hour or more before Old Tilly would allow the live stock brought back into the barn. They hovered anxiously over the blackened embers, for fear they might spring into life again. But at last there seemed no danger, and presently the building settled back to quiet again, and the tired rescuers tried to snatch a little sleep in the hay. Jot woke the others in the first dim daylight. "Fire! Fire!" he screamed. "Where? Where is it?" cried Kent, springing to his feet. "Put--it--o-ut," mumbled Old Tilly. It was only a nightmare, but the boys could not doze again after it. It was just as the sun was rising clear and beautiful that the boys came out from the barn, and as they caught sight of each other's blackened faces in the dazzling light, they each gave way to a roar of laughter. "Well, we all seem to be in the same boat," said Kent, making for the pump and filling the pails one after the other. "Here's a pail apiece; that ought to do it for us." Then he went to one of the wheel baskets and brought back a crash towel and a generous piece of soap. "Now lay to on yourselves, boys, and then we will see what we can scare up for breakfast. I suppose there's no getting into the house, so we'll have to depend on ourselves." But here Kent noticed how particularly quiet Old Tilly was. "What's up, lad?" he said, as he plunged his face down into one of the dripping pails, and then after scrubbing and sputtering for a while he reached out blindly for a, towel, which one of the others tossed into his hands. When his eyes were free, he drew a long breath, saying, "Water fixes a fellow all right." But as he did this he noticed something that made him exclaim sharply. It was the sight of Old Tilly washing himself with one hand, while around the wrist of the other a grimy handkerchief was bound. "Why didn't you say you were hurt?" he said, coming over to Old Tilly's side. "What is it, anyway?" "Oh, it's nothing," said Old Tilly, with an impatient nod of his head. "Maybe it's where the lightning ran down," he said, with a laugh. "Lightning!--not much! Come, out with it. What is it?" "Oh, it's just a tear on an old nail. One of those steers got a little ugly, and I jumped back too suddenly. It's nothing." "We'll have to take your word for it," said Kent. But he very soberly turned to the lunch baskets. It was just as they had packed up everything neatly and were mounting their wheels to ride away, that a wagon came rumbling down the grassy road and turned in to the farmyard. A young man with a limp felt hat was on the seat with a woman wearing a brown straw hat, while a tiny girl in a pink sunbonnet was nestled down between them. "Halloo!" said the man, as he saw the boys. "Just leavin'?" "Yes, sir," said Old Tilly, respectfully. "We took the liberty of sleeping in your barn last night. You see the storm kept us there all night." "Well, the storm kept us, too," said the young farmer, reaching for the little child and setting her down by the pump, and then helping the woman to alight. The young woman gave a relieved look around, first at the barn and then at the house, and said delightedly: "Oh, Jim, how good it does seem to see everything safe! I can't believe my eyes hardly." And she added, turning to the boys with a slightly embarrassed laugh, "I never was very good to stay away from home nights, and we didn't mean to stay last night, but the rain kept us. It just seemed to me that with every clap of thunder we'd find everything burned to ashes, and the whole place gone." Tears came into her eyes, as she turned and gave her hand to the little child. "Well, I'm going in to get breakfast," she said, a glad, tremulous light showing across her face. "You better bring these boys in to breakfast, Jim. If they've just slept in the barn they must be hungry." Then turning back again with a heartier laugh, "I feel that glad to see everything, even to the chickens, just as we left them, that I wouldn't object to asking the President of the United States to breakfast. You ain't from around here, are you?" she asked, looking at the boys. "I thought not. And you're hungry, I'll wager," she said, as she bustled away with the little girl tugging at her skirts, not waiting for the boys to disaffirm, as they most assuredly would have done had a chance been given them, for they were not in the least hungry. But then, what was a cold luncheon taken from a bicycle basket compared with a warm breakfast that might include ham and eggs? "She's awfully nervous, Nancy is," said the young farmer, a trifle apologetically; "she would have it at brother Ed's that she was being burned out of house and home. We oughtn't to have stayed, but brother Ed urged us to go home with him. She's always that way when she's away. We've ridden nineteen miles since daybreak, and she believed every mile that we were going to see a burned-down house at the end." "Well," said Old Tilly in a quiet way, so as not to alarm the young farmer, "I guess she was about right this time. If we hadn't happened here--" Then he slipped back into the barn, and the young farmer followed after, and Old Tilly pointed to the blackened corner, while the other two drew near interestedly. "You see how it struck," Old Tilly said quietly, "but we put it out after a while. It is well we happened to be right here." The young farmer was gazing at the burned place, with his jaw dropped and a look of terror coming into his blue eyes. "It did strike! I should say it did!" he cried excitedly. "What will Nancy say?" [Illustration: "I should say it did strike!" he cried, excitedly.] Then as a realization came to him that it was owing to the boys that they had a roof over their heads, he turned first to one lad and then to the other, and shook their hands heartily. There were tears in his eyes, but he did not seem conscious of them. "I don't know what Nancy 'll say," he reiterated, as he shook one hand after the other up and down like a pump handle. "We'll have to be everlastingly obliged to you for the rest of our days," he said, trying to laugh a little. But his voice choked, and he turned away to hide his emotion. Then he dropped down upon a corn-cutter and insisted on hearing the story from beginning to end, although Old Tilly declared time and again, with the other two joining in, that "It was nothing." "You call it nothing? Well, you wait until you've worked half a lifetime, as Nancy and me have done, to get a place, and then see what you think about it. I guess Nancy 'll believe it's something." Then he stopped as a clear call, "Breakfast! Breakfast!" came ringing out to them from the open door beyond the pump. "Perhaps we'd better not say anything about it until after breakfast. She's had a powerful uneasy night, and it's been a good bit of a ride over, too." To this the boys assented, and the four walked across the yard to the kitchen door, where the little girl was shyly waiting for them. "Ain't you the young chap that beat in the bicycle slow race?" asked Nancy, when she caught a sight of Tilly's face as he removed his hat. The other two boys laughed, and the farmer, looking squarely at his visitor, said: "Well, I thought I'd seen you somewhere." And then they settled down to breakfast in the happiest frame of mind, evidently, that could be imagined. But all the time Old Tilly kept one hand down at his side, a little out of sight, and the boys noticed that he took upon his plate only such things as he could very easily manage with one hand. The breakfast, for a hurried one, was very satisfactory indeed. Jot and Kent ate with full appreciation of it. But had they watched closely, they would have seen how Old Tilly's face now flushed and then grew pale, and that occasionally he brought his lips together as though striving to control himself. But, all unmindful of what the boy was undergoing, Nancy presided merrily over the table, and kept prompting Jim to fill up the plates as they needed it, and pressed this and that upon the boys' attention. "I don't feel as if I should ever want to go away again," she cried. "It's so good to be at home. I've been through every room in the house and taken a view of them all." And then she said laughingly, turning to the boys, "Not that there are so very many of 'em, but they're all we've got, you know. After breakfast we're going out to the barn, ain't we, Polly?" she added. But now Kent noticed that Jot's face had suddenly sobered; he was looking at Old Tilly anxiously; he had seen. His hand come up from beneath the table, and he was sure that the handkerchief was spotted with red. "I say--Old Tilly--" Jot got to his feet hastily. But Old Tilly's face was white, and he was swaying from side to side. Old Tilly was fainting away. CHAPTER VIII. "I--I'm awake now. What's the matter? Who's sick?" Old Tilly sat up dizzily. He had lost consciousness only for a moment, but his face seemed to be growing whiter and whiter. Jot and Kent hovered over him anxiously. "You got kind of faint, Old Till--just for a minute. You're all right now," Kent said. "Of course I'm all right!--I always was! I don't see what you're making such a fuss about!" But the pale face belied his words. Kent lifted the clumsily bandaged hand and unwound the handkerchief. It was stained with blood. "Oh, what have you done, Kent! You shouldn't have taken the bandage off!" exclaimed Jot, in fright. "See how the blood is dripping from the cloth!" "It's nothing, I tell you!" growled Old Tilly. "Wind the thing up again! It's only a nail tear!" Old Tilly was swaying again, and they forced him gently back. The little woman looked up startled. "What is it, Jim? How did it happen?" she quavered. Jim's face looked very sober. "I guess I better fetch the doctor," he said. "He hurt it on a nail, he says. I won't stop to harness up--Old Betty's used to bein' rode bareback." He hurried away, followed by his wife. Jot was examining the torn wrist tenderly. Some new, untried strength seemed to spring into the brown, boyish face. It took on the lines of a man's. "It's an artery, Kentie. I know, because the blood leaps up so when the handkerchief is off. It can't have been bleeding all night. I don't understand." "It bled some last night," said Old Tilly, "but I stopped it. I guess I hit it someway just now against the table. It began again worse than ever. Cover it up, can't you? It's--all--right!" "It isn't all right! Get me a little stick, quick, Kentie! No, that fork'll do. Hand it here. This bleeding's got to stop." It seemed odd that it should be Jot--little, wild, scatter-brained Jot-- who should take the lead in that calm, determined way. What had come to the boy? With pale face and set teeth he quietly bound the handkerchief tightly above the wrist, and, inserting the fork handle in the knot, twisted it about. The bleeding lessened--stopped. "There! Now, if I keep a good grip on it--oh, I say, Kentie, wasn't I afraid I couldn't work it!" he said, breathing hard. "I don't see how you did work it! I don't see how you ever thought of it, Jot Eddy!" "Well, I did. I read how it was done, up in the consultery. Father may laugh, but I'm going to be a doctor!" Kent's face was full of new-born respect. He suddenly remembered that it was Jot who had set "Rover's broken leg and nursed the little sick calf that father set such store by. "I guess father won't laugh." Kent said soberly. Jot was sitting on the edge of the lounge holding the fork in a firm grasp. Old Tilly opened his eyes and nodded approvingly. "That's what I tried to do myself with the handkerchief--bind it tight. It wasn't very bad at first, but I jerked it or something. I didn't want you fellows' good time spoiled." "That's just like you!" burst out Kent. "You never tell when you get hurt, for fear other folks'll be bothered." The little woman crept back into the kitchen and went quietly about her work. The doctor soon came, and in a brief time the artery was taken up and the hand deftly bandaged. "Which of you fellows made that tourniquet with the fork?" the doctor asked brusquely. Kent pointed proudly to Jot. "Oh, it was you, was it? Well, you did a mighty good thing for your brother there. He'd have lost plenty of blood before I got here if you hadn't." The whole of that day and the next night the boys remained at "Jim's." The doctor had positively objected to Old Tilly's going on without a day's quiet. And the little woman--the little woman would not hear of anything else but their staying! She had been out to the barn with Jim and seen the blackened corner. After that she hovered over the three boys like a hen over her chickens. "For--to think, Jim!--it was saving our home he got hurt!" she cried. The boys talked things over together, and Kent and Jot were for turning about and going straight home. But not so Old Tilly. "I guess! No, sir; we'll go right ahead and have our holiday out. It's great fun cruising round like this!" "But your hand, Old Tilly--the doctor said--" "To keep it quiet. He didn't say to sit down in a rocking-chair and sing it to sleep. I guess if I can't ride a wheel with one hand, my name isn't Nathan Eddy!" "It isn't'" laughed Kent. "It's Old Tilly Eddy!" But in the middle of the night a ghost appeared suddenly over Old Tilly. The pale moonlight introduced it timidly as Jot, in his white shirt. He sat down on the bed. "I'm going home," he announced in a whisper. "You other fellows can do as you like. Of course you can ride all right with one hand, if you're bound to. But I sha'n't ride with three hands any further from home! I'm going home! I--I feel as if I must!" Old Tilly sat up in bed. "You sick, Jotham Eddy?" he cried. "No--o, not sick--not reg'lar built! But I tell you I'm going home. It's no use saying anything--I've said it." "I believe you're sick; you're keeping something back, Jot." "Well, what if I am? Didn't you keep something back yourself, till you fainted away doing it? I'm going--you and Kentie needn't, of course. I tell you I feel as if I must." "He's sick, Kentie," Old Tilly said next morning. "There's something the matter with him, sure, or he wouldn't be so set. Don't you think he LOOKS kind of pale-ish?" "Pale-ish!" scoffed Kent. "Well, something's up. Mother put him in my care, and I'm going to take him home. I'd never forgive myself, and mother'd never forgive me, if anything happened to Jot away from home. I'm sorry on your account, Kentie." "Oh, go ahead! I'm all right," rejoined Kent, cheerfully. "I'd just as soon. We've had a jolly good time of it so far, and we can take the rest of it out in going fishing or camping at home." "Well, then we'll go right back home--on Jot's account. I feet as if I must take him to mother." Poor Jot! It was hard to be taken home that way, when all the while wasn't he taking wounded Old Tilly home to mother? It was the only way he had been able to work it out, lying awake and worrying over the torn wrist. Something must be done to get Old Tilly home. "I told the truth--I said I was keeping something back," thought Jot. "I said I wasn't sick, didn't I? And Old Till's got to go home. The doctor told me the sooner the better." But it was a distinct sacrifice to Jot's pride to be "taken home to mother." He bore it remarkably well because of the love and anxiety in his sturdy little heart. He would do a good deal for Old Till. They returned by a more direct route than they had come. On the way, they discussed their adventures. Jot counted them up on his fingers. "Hand-organs, old churches, little old man's hay--pshaw! that wasn't an adventure!" Jot blushed hotly, as if caught in some misdeed. "No, skip that," Old Tilly said quietly. "That just happened. Begin over again." "Hand-organs, old churches (two adventures there, you know), picnics, slow races--" "Skip that!" cried Old Tilly. "No, sir! Slow races, burning barns, arteries--" "Oh, I say! I'll do the counting up myself! Besides, you left out the very first adventure, didn't you?" "The very first one?" "Yes, of course--losing all our money before we started!" "Quits!" cried Jot, laughing. He did not appear sick at all. All the way home he watched Old Tilly with almost professional care. And Old Tilly, unknown to Jot, watched him. "Say, Jot," he said that night, when they had gone upstairs to their own beds once more, "don't you feel a little better?" His face was white and tired, and he nestled in the pillows gratefully. It was good to be at home. "Don't you feel a good deal better?" "Me?" asked innocent Jot. "I feel jolly! Never felt--oh, er--I mean-- that is--" "You're a rascal!" laughed Old Tilly, comfortably. "That's what you mean. Think I didn't surmise a thing or two? Well, honest, I didn't, at first. But on the way home I found out what you were up to. You looked altogether too healthy!" There was a moment's silence, then Jot spoke meekly. "I felt sort of mean, but I couldn't help it, honest. And I told the truth, now, didn't I? I was going to own up to-morrow." He went away into the next room and crept into bed beside Kent. "Jot! Jot, I say!" called Old Tilly, presently. "Hope you don't think I'm mad. I don't mind. I--I like it." There was an indistinct mumble of relief from Jot's quarter, followed by another silence. Then again Old Tilly's contented voice crept through the dark. "Say, Jot, you asleep?" "Yes, you?" "Sound! It feels mighty good to be home, doesn't it?" "Prime!" "Good-night, old chap!" "Same here!" Then silence, unbroken. By and by Mother Eddy stole upstairs to her boys. "Good boys, every one of them. God bless them!" she murmured. "Home isn't home without them. But young things must have their holidaying. And I guess from what they tell, they've made good use of theirs. And it isn't everyone does that; some of them just waste it. But this one's held something in it. I don't know just what. But every one of them seems--well, sort o' more manly-like. I'm glad their pa let them go. But home ain't home without boys in it. That's sure." And she turned and went softly down the stairs. 
15507	----	CHARLES DURAN: OR, THE CAREER OF A BAD BOY. BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE WALDOS." [Illustration: CHARLES ON HIS DEATH BED.--SEE PAGE 52.] New-York: PUBLISHED BY CARLTON & PORTER, SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, 200 MULBERRY-STREET. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by LANE & SCOTT, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New-York. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I THE HOMESTEAD. The house--Court-yards--Garden--The well--"Oaken bucket"--The fields--Flocks--River--Fish--Forest--Church CHAPTER II. THE BIRTH OF CHARLES. Effects on the parents--The Joneses--Parental expectations--An instance of disappointment--Ann's prophecy CHAPTER III. HIS EARLY TRAINING. Opinions--The Durans indulgent--The sulks--They produce blindness--"I will"--"I won't"--Faults of parents CHAPTER IV. CHARLES DURAN AT SCHOOL. Good children at home are good in school--Conduct--Inattention to studies--Unkind to his school-mates--Samuel Howard--Helen Fay--John and Louisa--Severe whipping--Mr. Spicer--Charles expelled from school CHAPTER V. CHARLES'S HABITS. Good habits--Proverbs of the Rabbins--Charles not improved--Idleness--Fishing and hunting--No idle boy can be good--Shooting--Roughness of manners--One vice is followed by another--Lying--Sabbath-breaking--Intemperance--A standard of wickedness CHAPTER VI. THE FATAL NIGHT. Village balls--Description--Culpability of parents--Demand for money--Fit--House stoned--Windows broken in--Mr. Duran with the bag--Charles's wrath appeased--The ball--Charles intoxicated--Falls to the floor--Brought home speechless--Laid upon his death-bed CHAPTER VII SICKNESS AND DEATH. Sufferings from the debauch--Crisis--Favorable change--Hopes of recovery cut off--Consumption--Contrivance to change his position--State of mind--The minister visits him--No evidence of penitence--The dying scene CHAPTER VIII. THE CONCLUSION. The way of transgressors hard--Disobedience to parents a fearful sin--Parental restraint--Pleasures of parental approbation--Disobedience in scholars--Reflections--Sporting habits in children not to be encouraged--Importance of early religious training--History of young Duran a warning to Sabbath-breakers, &c.--Beware of the first sin--The End CHARLES DURAN. CHAPTER I. THE DURAN HOMESTEAD. Before giving the history of Charles Duran's birth, life, and early death, I will partially describe his father's residence. It was situated in the town of ----, in the State of Connecticut, and about six miles from the west bank of the beautiful Connecticut river. The house stood on a level road, running north and south, and was about one mile from the centre of the town. Mr. Duran's house was large and commodious. It was built of wood, two stories high, and painted a deep yellow. In the front was a fine court-yard. In this yard were lilacs of a large growth, roses of various kinds, and flowering almonds. These shrubs blossomed early in the spring, and sent forth their fragrance to perfume the air. On the south was a rich and well-cultivated garden, producing an abundance of vegetables, gooseberries, currants, and raspberries. The borders of the main alley were decked with pionies, pinks, and sweet-williams. Between the garden and the house was the well. A long sweep, resting on the top of a high post, with a pole fastened to the upper end, was the rude contrivance for drawing water. To the lower end of the pole was attached a bucket. How many of New-England's sons remember with delight the "old oaken bucket that hung in the well!" On the north side of the house was a small orchard. In the rear were the barn, sheds, crib, and other out-buildings. The grounds in the immediate neighborhood were level or slightly undulated. On the north and east were beautiful meadows. On the south and west were excellent tillage and pasture lands. The season that I spent there was one of nature's bountifulness. The tall herd's-grass, the rustling corn, and the whitened grain waved in the summer's breeze, and bespoke the plenty that followed the toil and industry of the husbandman. The herds were feeding in the fields. The innocent lambs, free from care, were leaping and frisking about--some in the sun and some in the shade--while their more sober dames were either grazing, or quietly masticating the food they had previously collected. Half encircling these premises was a fine stream of water, varying from three to seven yards in width. It was supplied with dace, trout, roach, and perch. Its plaintive, monotonous murmur sometimes impressed the mind with sadness. This was soon dispelled, however, by the twittering, the glee, and the sweet notes of the birds, that hopped from spray to spray, or quietly perched themselves on the overhanging branches. Some little distance to the northwest of Mr. Duran's house was a forest of thrifty growth, covered with a varied and beautiful foliage. Its shady bowers and pleasant walks made it a delightful place of resort,--especially toward the time of sunsetting. Nature seemed to lend to it then peculiar charms. In the centre of the town stood the old church, antiquated in its appearance, but venerable and holy in its associations. In that old-fashioned church have been settled three successive ministers of the gospel. In those high-backed, square pews were other generations wont to sit. Those pastors and their flocks now sleep in the grave. Their sons occupy their places in the sanctuary, and another herald of the cross proclaims to them the word of life. It was in this pleasant place, which I have briefly described, that Charles Duran was born. CHAPTER II. THE BIRTH OF CHARLES. The birth of Charles was an occasion of great joy in Mr. Duran's family. Blessings long withheld are frequently more highly prized when at length received. Mr. Duran had no children, and was now past the meridian of life. To him this child seemed like one born out of due time. It was amusing to see the effect produced on the parents by this, till recently, unexpected event. "Well, Molly," said Mr. Jones,--a neighbor of Mr. Duran, whose wife had just been to see the strange visitant, and who had reared a large family of children,--"how do Mr. and Mrs. Duran act with the boy?" "Act? why just like two grown-up children. And they think it is the most wonderful child that ever was born. But they don't know what it may live to be!" These last words were spoken in a tone of voice which told of hidden springs of sorrow. One of Mrs. Jones' own dear children, a promising, lovely boy, had early become intemperate, and was now sleeping in a drunkard's grave! Having passed through the ordinary nursery incidents of the first months of infancy, Charley--for so he was familiarly called--became a fine fat child. "Sweet boy," said his mother, as she rather clumsily patted his cheeks, and felt of his tender limbs, "you will be a comfort to your parents in their old age." "I was just thinking of that," added the father. "What a blessing he will be to us! He will manage the farm--administer to our comfort, and inherit our estate." Many a bright sunny morning has been followed by a dark cloudy evening. Our supposed blessings often prove to us a source of disappointment and sorrow. I have seen the mother clasp her lovely infant to her breast, and fondly and dotingly caress it, and press its little hands and feet, soft as velvet, with her lips. And I have seen that child, the rainbow of promise, and the cause of so much joy, bring down that mother's head, ere it was gray, with sorrow to the grave. Thoughts like these, however, never crossed the minds of Mr. and Mrs. Duran. They dreamed not that sickness and death might blast their hopes, and leave them more lonely than they were before. So staid and uniform had been their own life, that they never once supposed that Charles, if he should grow up, could pursue any other course. Every day little Charles became more and more the object of cherished hopes and affections. The hearts of the parents were bound up in him. He became their idol. His wants, real and imaginary, were all met. His danger was of being spoiled by too much indulgence. "I believe they will kill him with kindness," was the remark of Ann, a colored woman, who had long lived in the family. "It is just the way Mr. Parsons used to do with his Jim, who never amounted to anything." CHAPTER III. HIS EARLY TRAINING. "Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old he will not depart from it." Prov. xxii, 6. The proper training of children is of the utmost importance. Upon it to a great extent depend their usefulness and happiness in the world. And as the happiness of parents is so intimately connected with the course of conduct pursued by their children, it should be with them a constant study how they may promote the well-being of their offspring. On this subject much has been said and written. Some recommend indulgence as the surest way to give a child a good disposition, and to lead to the formation of correct habits. Others urge the necessity of restraint and uncompromising obedience, on the part of children, to the commands of their parents. There may be extremes in both. Children should be taught to fear and love their parents, and to respect their wishes. The government of children should be strictly parental. The parent's will should be the law of the child. Proper indulgence should be allowed; entire obedience enforced. Parents and children should both remember the words of the apostle: "Children, obey your parents in all things: for this is well pleasing unto the Lord. Fathers, provoke not your children to anger, lest they be discouraged." Col. iii, 20, 21. Mr. and Mrs. Duran were very indulgent to their only child. His wants were met with a liberal hand, and his wishes, as far as possible, gratified. If his desires were not immediately granted, he soon learned that a little crying would accomplish his object. Improper indulgence begets unlawful desires. Unlawful desires can never be fully satisfied. So it was with Charles Duran: everything he saw, he wanted. When he was not indulged, as he could not be always, he soon showed his bad spirit. Sometimes he pouted out his lips, and had a long fit of the sulks. Perhaps my readers never saw a child affected with the sulks. I will briefly describe them. First, the eyes begin to roll rapidly in their sockets, and the sight turns upward. The chin falls down a little, and the corners of the mouth are slightly drawn back. The lower lip then rolls down nearly to the chin. Soon a whining commences, which grows louder and louder, and becomes disagreeable to every person present. At the same time the eyes turn red, the face gets out of shape, and the child becomes _blind!_ I saw a little boy once have the sulks so badly that when his mother sent him into his room to get his apron, before sitting down to dinner, he could not find it, though it was in plain sight! Before he was two years old, Charles showed a very bad disposition. This, instead of being corrected, was fostered by the training which he received. To the domestics in the family he was insolent and unkind; and even to his parents, _"I will"_ and _"I won't"_ were said with fearful frequency. Still the doting parents would merely say to him, "You should not do so, Charles! You should say, 'I don't want to,' or, 'I do want to,'" as the case might be. Thus they indirectly taught him disobedience, which he was learning fast enough without such assistance. In this way did these parents, with cruel kindness, help on the ruin of their child! Charles Duran, with all his faults, was a bright, active boy. What he needed was training,--_parental training_. His parents committed two very common errors: they promised him correction for his disobedience, without inflicting the punishment; and they often repeated his sayings, and spoke of his doings, to others, in his presence. Parents should always keep good faith with their children; and, while they encourage them, when they are alone, by suitable and well-timed praise, they should rarely repeat what they have said, or speak of what they have done, to others, in their presence. This is injurious to the child, betrays vanity in the parents, and is not very edifying to others. The singing of a young raven may be music to its parents, but to us it is like the cawing of a crow. CHAPTER IV. CHARLES DURAN AT SCHOOL. Charles was now old enough to go to school. He was accordingly sent to the district school, not far from his father's house. Teachers say that they can tell whether children are good and obedient at home by their conduct in school. Those children who mind their parents will generally obey their teachers; and those scholars that are obedient generally learn well. How was it with Charles Duran at school? Did he obey his teacher? At first, as all things in the school were new and strange to him, he was somewhat restrained. He soon, however, became acquainted with his teacher and the scholars, and as soon learned to break the rules of the school. He became disrespectful to his teacher, and caused him much trouble. Charles was also very inattentive to his books. The teacher did the best he could to make him learn; but his lessons were never more than half learned, and the greater part of the time they were not studied at all: and, though naturally he was a bright, smart boy, he seemed determined to grow up a blockhead. The next thing I notice in the school history of this boy is the unkindness which he showed his school-fellows. If he played with them, he was quite sure to get offended before the play was through. He was surly, self-willed, and disposed always to have his own way in everything. One day Samuel Howard, a boy smaller than himself, was flying his kite. There was a fine breeze, and the kite floated beautifully in the air. Charles seized the twine, and began to pull in the kite. Samuel remonstrated with him; but the more he remonstrated the more ugly was Charles. He pulled in the kite, tore it all to pieces, and broke and snarled the twine. Samuel cried at the loss of his pretty kite, and Charles Duran was mean enough to mimic the boy whom he had thus injured. At another time, a little girl, whose name was Helen Fay, was returning from school: Charles threw a stone, and hit her on the cheek-bone. It cut a great gash in her face, and made the blood run freely. Had the stone struck a little higher, it would probably have put out her eye; as it was, her face was badly scarred. A poor widow lady lived some distance beyond Mr. Duran's house. She had two dear little children, John and Louisa, whom she sent to school. This poor mother was industrious and very neat, and her children were always dressed in neat, clean clothes. Charles Duran, who was out of his element when he was not in mischief, seemed to take delight in tormenting these little children. On their way from school one day, when they had on their nice clothes, he covered them from head to foot with dirt and mud. In that sad plight John and Louisa went home crying. Their mother felt as badly as they did, when she saw the ugliness of her neighbor's spoiled child. So constantly was Charles injuring the smaller boys and girls in the school that none of them loved him. If he got hurt, none of them pitied him. The whole school seemed glad, one day, when he had shoved a little girl into a mud-puddle, and upset an inkstand on a boy's writing-book, and spoiled it, to see the master give him a severe whipping,--such as he deserved. It is not agreeable to dwell longer upon the conduct of this boy in school. He became so quarrelsome and disagreeable that no one was willing to sit next to him. He was always spoken of as the worst boy in school. Mr. Spicer was now his teacher, and he had borne with him till he could bear with him no longer. He had pretty much made up his mind that he would turn him out of his school. Before doing that, however, he was desirous of knowing the minds of his scholars. He called the school to order, and then told Charles what he had thought of doing; reminded him of his disobedience, of his unkindness to his school-mates, and of his general neglect of his studies. He told him if he did not do differently he would grow up without friends, and, in all probability, in consequence of his sins, come down to an early grave. Mr. Spicer then addressed the scholars, and said, "All of you who think Charles Duran ought to be expelled from the school for continued bad conduct, raise your right hands." In a moment every right hand was raised up! Then Mr. Spicer said, in a solemn and affecting manner, _"Charles Duran, with the voice of all your school-mates, you are expelled from this school, for bad conduct."_ CHAPTER V. CHARLES'S HABITS. Good habits are of the greatest importance. If they are cultivated by the young, they become fixed and permanent. Evil habits, unless they are corrected, will increase in number and strength. The young should beware of the first evil habit. A boy does not become a bad boy all at once: he gives way to one bad habit, and then to another. One small sin prepares the way for another and a greater one. Dr. Clarke says, "Sin is a small matter in its commencement; but by indulgence it grows great, and multiplies itself beyond all calculation." The old rabbins used to say it was like a spider's web at first, and that it increased till it was like a cart-rope. This is seen in the case of Charles Duran. His expulsion from school did not improve him: he grew up in the indulgence of his bad temper, and, instead of being a lovely, industrious boy, fond of his studies, and attentive to his various duties, he was idle, lazy, and vicious. When he ought to have been in school, he was fishing, and idling away his time along the margins of the brooks and rivers. He soon learned to use a gun, and much of his time was spent in the woods, hunting birds, squirrels, and rabbits. Idle habits are very dangerous. A boy or man that is habitually idle cannot be good,--mark that. The devil will always find mischief for such persons, and he will be very sure to get them into it. [Illustration: CHARLES HUNTING.] Charles had, what many boys desire, a gun, and was very fond of shooting. Besides shooting squirrels and birds, he would shoot at marks on his father's out-buildings and fences. There was not a door, not a board, not a post, and scarcely a rail, in all the out-buildings and fences, that was not full of shot-holes. This kind of shooting was a dangerous practice. I wondered, when I examined the premises, that the barn and sheds had not taken fire from the burning wads. It was dangerous also to the poultry and cattle. But he thought nothing of these things; from day to day it was shoot! shoot! shoot! Pursuing this course, it is not strange that Charles should grow up rough in his manners, and coarse in his language. Gentleness is lovely always, wherever found; but it appears most lovely in children and youth. It indicates a good heart, and good training. It helps young persons into the best society, and secures them warm and valuable friends. Roughness of manner drives our friends from us, and prevents many from becoming friends. This fact is illustrated in the history of this spoiled boy. He might have had a large circle of friends, but now few, very few indeed, loved or esteemed him. One vice does not long remain alone. Idleness begets vice. Viciousness shows itself in various forms: in lying, Sabbath-breaking, theft, swearing, and intemperance. Charles grew worse and worse,--adding sin to sin. He became greatly addicted to swearing. He frequently spent the Sabbath in wandering about the fields, instead of attending church. He found, as the depraved always do, kindred spirits, with whom he associated. With these he learned to drink to excess, and was not unfrequently under the influence of strong drink. There is a standard in vice as well as in virtue. While some are held up as models of virtue, others may be regarded as the very personification of evil. We should learn to profit by both,--be encouraged by one, and warned by the other. The unfortunate boy whose history I am detailing finally became a proverb in his native town. Good mothers often exhorted their children not to be like Charles Duran! Who of my little readers would like such a distinction as this? Try to live so that parents may point you out as good examples for their children to follow. CHAPTER VI. THE FATAL NIGHT. In country villages, as well as in larger cities, parties often meet for dancing; and balls are frequently held, especially in the winter season. Many young people, whose thoughts and time are not better occupied, seem to derive a great deal of pleasure from such amusements. These gatherings frequently embrace a large number of the young of both sexes, from the towns in which they are held, and often many from neighboring towns. They are usually held at some tavern where rum is sold. The parties arrive in the forepart of the evening, and the dance commences at eight, or from eight to nine o'clock, according to arrangement. Wine, cordials, and other stimulating drinks, are freely furnished, and freely used. Toward midnight, when chaste young ladies and sober young men should be at home, the ball-supper is served up. Rich viands and sparkling drinks are on the table. One becomes drunken, and another surfeited. The sound of the viol is again heard, and the merry dance is kept up till near morning light. The parties then gradually retire. Some of the young ladies, from over excitement in the ball-chamber, and subsequent exposure to the night air, take severe colds, become speedily consumptive, and from the place of rioting and mirth are carried to the grave! In this country, where consumption is so prevalent, and accomplishes its work so rapidly, the distance from the midnight ball-room to the grave is very short. Most young men who attend balls go home inflamed with wine. I say _most_ of them. It is not unfrequently the case, however, that some of them cannot get home. They have to stay behind until they have, in a measure, slept off the fumes of strong drink: and then, with bloodshot eyes, fetid breath, and staggering gait, they reach their homes. Such young men have received a new impetus in the way that leads to destruction, and such are the common fruits of a village ball. Why do fathers and mothers,--and some of them professedly Christian parents, too,--allow their daughters to mingle in these scenes, and expose themselves to the contaminating influence of such associations? How any well-disposed _mother_ can do this I am at a loss to determine. Such a ball as I have described was to be held in the town of ----. Young men and young ladies impatiently waited for the time appointed to arrive. Among those who designed to attend this ball was Charles Duran, then in his eighteenth year. Notwithstanding his habits and character, the position and respectability of his parents prevented him from being entirely excluded from society. He was still further aided in gaining admission to such parties by always having money. While some despised him in their heart, they were quite willing, for the sake of his purse, to have him in their company. The anxiously looked for day arrived. The preparations were made. At night the ball was to come off. After dinner, Charles asked his father for money to bear the expenses of the evening. Mr. Duran gave him what he thought would be sufficient for the occasion. The amount did not satisfy him: more was asked. It was refused; and Charles, not having forgotten his early habits, immediately went into a fit of rage. More money he wanted, and more he would have. He went out, and arming himself with stones and blocks, soon commenced a regular assault upon the house. The weather-boards were battered, one window was smashed in, panes in the others were broken, and the fragments rattled on the floor and on the ground. The aged parents trembled for their safety; while the son, raving as a madman, seemed bent on their destruction. Stooping somewhat with age, and in great fear, Mr. Duran went to the door, with a bag in his hand, containing a quantity of specie:-- "Here, Charles," said the feeble old man, "come and get what money you want, and don't stone the house any more." Thus appeased, the demon became quiet. Charles helped himself to as much money as he wanted, and was ready for the ball in the evening. Alas, what degradation for a parent! and what persevering depravity in a son! [Illustration: CHARLES TAKING MONEY FOR THE BALL.] The evening came. Parties began to assemble. Arrangements had been made for a great ball. The saloon was tastefully decorated. The kitchen gave evidence that a sumptuous repast was in preparation. The bar was fully supplied with all kinds of sparkling liquors. As the new-comers arrived, they met a smiling host, an attentive and ready bar-tender, and obsequious waiters and servants. Fancy the scene. Groups of persons, gayly dressed, are in conversation in different parts of the ball-chamber. More are constantly coming in. The musicians, who for some time have been tuning their instruments, enter, and take their place. Partners are selected, the circle is formed, and the dancing begins. A scene of hilarity ensues. During the intervals, the merry laugh is heard, wine is drunk, and the glee becomes general. Sparkling eyes are made more sparkling by strong drink; and, under the influence of multiplied potations, the coarse jest is now and then uttered. In this scene of gayety and mirth Charles Duran mingled,--a prominent actor. A young and inexperienced girl had accompanied him to the place. Round and round went the dance, and round and round went Charles's head. He was flush with money, and many a friend did he treat at the bar. Long ere the festivities closed he was unable to walk steadily. Still, stimulated by the excitement of the occasion, and urged on by unprincipled comrades, he poured down the deadly poison. His brain reeled under its influence. He alternately roared and laughed as a maniac. "Another drink! another drink!" he said. His youthful system could endure it no longer: he uttered a moaning, sepulchral groan, and sunk to the floor! The ball was over, and the night was nearly gone. A friend took charge of the thoughtless young girl that had accompanied Charles to the dance. Two young men, his companions in riot, undertook to convey him to his father's house. The stars were just beginning to fade away as they reached the threshold. Speechless, and almost lifeless, they laid him upon his bed. _It proved his death-bed!_ CHAPTER VII. SICKNESS AND DEATH. The debauch of the previous night laid the foundation of disease, from which Charles never recovered. On the following day he seemed at times wild, and partially deranged. A violent fever set in, and for many days he was confined to his bed. His sufferings were extreme; so high did his fever rise that it seemed as though the fire within would consume him. His physician watched the progress of his disease, and did all in his power to restore his health. The fever ran its course, and the crisis came. There was a change for the better. It was thought that he would get up. The hopes of his parents were revived; and many were the wishes that, with restored health, there might be a reformation of manners. Of this, however, there was little prospect. These hopes of a recovery were soon cut off. Charles's disease assumed a new form. He was taken with a cough, and night-sweats followed. His eyes were a little sunken, but full of expression. His countenance was pale, and, slightly tinged with blue, gave evidence that consumption had marked him for its victim, and that the grave must soon swallow him up: he was rapidly sinking into the arms of death. Toward the latter part of his sickness, a rude contrivance was adopted to change his position in bed. Two hooks were driven into the ceiling, over the foot of the bedstead. To these pulleys were attached. These pulleys were rigged with cords, one end of which was made fast to the upper part of the bed. By hoisting on these cords he could be raised to any desired angle; and, instead of being bolstered up, he hung as if in a hammock. [See Frontispiece.] During his illness Charles gave little evidence of any change in his feelings. No sorrow was expressed for anything in his past conduct. He was still fretful, still obstinate. He appeared like one early sold to sin. The minister of the parish came in to pray with him. He found him ignorant of spiritual things. He talked to him on the subject of religion,--urged him to prepare to meet God. He offered prayer by his bed-side. He left him, however, showing very little evidence of penitence, and entertaining for him very little hope. Charles lingered along till early in March. The day of his departure came. The father and mother bent over his bed: they saw that the hopes which they entertained at his birth were now to perish. Instead of his closing their eyes in death, they were now to perform that office for him. He spoke not. Oppressive stillness reigned in the room. Not a sound was heard, save the rattling in the throat of the dying youth. The last breath was drawn; life, for a moment, quivered upon his lip. The spirit took its flight; and the poor mother, in anguish of soul, exclaimed, _"He is dead!"_ CHAPTER VIII. CONCLUSION. The way of transgressors is hard. Early did Charles Duran indulge in habits of disobedience,--early was he forgetful of God,--early did he run into the paths of vice and intemperance, and early did he go down to his grave. Disobedience to parents is a fearful sin! Children think they know what is best for themselves. Parental restraint sometimes seems irksome to them; but God has wisely ordained that in our youth we should be under the instruction and control of our parents. Children, instead of feeling that parental control is oppressive to them, should learn to be thankful for it. It is enough for well-instructed and well-disposed children, generally, to know what the wishes of their parents are. Much of their happiness is derived from compliance with those wishes. The approbation of their parents will afford such children far more pleasure than all their forbidden indulgences. The school history of Charles Duran will not fail, I trust, to make a suitable impression upon the minds of my youthful readers. Scholars sometimes think that it is not a great offense for them to violate the rules of their school, neglect their books, or be unkind even to some of their school-associates. So this boy thought. The result of his course is before us. All such children should know that by such a course of conduct they are laying the foundation for a bad character. They may, for awhile, escape punishment; they may not be expelled from school; they may possibly retain their places in their class; but they are acquiring those habits which, if not corrected, will bring ruin upon them by and by. This boy's sporting habits ought not to be lightly passed over. He was exceedingly fond of a gun. The indulgence of this passion led him into habits of idleness and cruelty. Boys should rarely, if ever, be allowed the use of fire-arms: they are always dangerous. The habits and associations to which their use leads are generally objectionable. Boys that are constantly around the brooks after little fishes, and in the woods in pursuit of little birds, had better be at their books. We always fear that idle boys will make idle men. We see from the history of Charles Duran the importance of early religious training. Had his parents pursued a different course with him, he might have grown up to be a blessing to them, and a useful member of society: "Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old he will not depart from it." Prov. xxii, 6. When, O when will parents lay this to heart! How many fathers and mothers have been brought down to the grave with sorrow, by neglecting this important duty! The history of Charles Duran is a warning to all boys who are inclined to indulge in Sabbath-breaking; to form bad associations; to tipple; or to visit places of improper amusement. See his dreadful end! Mark that fatal night! Remember that he had been preparing for that season of riot and debauch by previous indulgence. He came not to his wretched condition all at once. He was preparing for it in his early disobedience,--in his neglect of instruction,--in his unkindness to his school-mates,--in delighting to injure those who were smaller and weaker than himself,--in his idle sporting habits,--in the indulgence of his bad temper,--in ministering to his perverse will,--in his Sunday rambling,--in associating with the vile,--in his tippling habits,--and, finally, in throwing off all parental regard and restraint. He had now come to the verge of the whirlpool of destruction, and, in a frenzied moment, he threw himself into the awful vortex! _Beware of the first sin!_ "Enter not into the paths of the wicked, and go not in the way of evil men. Avoid it, pass not by it, turn from it, and pass away." Prov. iv, 14, 15. THE END. ADVERTISEMENTS BOOKS FOR SUNDAY-SCHOOLS, 200 Mulberry-street, New York. LIFE OF ADAM CLARKE. An Account of the Religious and Literary Life of Rev. Adam Clarke, LL.D. 18mo., pp. 223. 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17126	----	[Illustration: Front cover] [Illustration: Frontispiece] FIVE HAPPY WEEKS. BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER. _American Tract Society_, 150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK. ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by THE AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. FIVE HAPPY WEEKS. CHAPTER I. "GOOD-BY, MAMMA!" "I don't see how I can do such a thing," said mamma, shading her eyes with a hand so white and thin that you could almost see through it. "I never, never can go away, for five weeks, and leave these children; I should not have a moment's peace." "But, my darling," said papa, "the doctor says it is the only thing that will restore your health. The children will be nicely taken care of, and I am sure they will be as good and obedient as possible while you are gone." "You are going too, William; you seem to forget that. And we have never been away from them before. What if Edith or Mabel should be sick, or Johnnie should fall and break his arm, or--" "Don't conjure up dreadful possibilities, Helen," said papa; "I'll tell you how we will manage it. This house shall be shut, and we'll take grandma and the children with us as far as Norfolk, and leave them there with your Aunt Maria, while we make our trip. And we will stop for them on our way home. What do you think of that plan?" "Well," said mamma, with a faint smile, "I think I'll leave it to you. It tires me to have to reason things out. Auntie would be kind to them, I know, and I should feel easier if this house were shut up altogether." Mrs. Evans had been ailing all the long cold winter, and as Spring began to approach, she drooped more and more, until her husband and her friends feared she would die. Then Dr. Phelps advised a short journey to Florida and Mexico. He said she needed sea-air, and change, and flowers. So it was settled that she should attempt it. The children were having a frolic in the play-room while this talk had been going on. Johnnie and Mabel had been arranging a little basket of fruit for their mother, oranges, apples and grapes, and now they were disputing as to which should present it to her. "I ought to, I'm the oldest," said Johnnie. "I'm the biggest and the strongest, and I will take it in to mamma myself." "The bigger and the stronger ought to yield to the smaller and the weaker," said a sweet voice. The children looked round, and saw a little lady whom they all liked. She was Miss Simms, the dressmaker. Her face was as round as an apple, she had two bright black eyes, and when she laughed the dimples seemed to chase each other over her cheeks. "I'm so glad you've come," said Mabel, running away from the fruit to put her two fat arms as far round Miss Simms as they would reach. "I am glad, too; it's jolly," said Johnnie. "But I'd like to know why you think the bigger ought to give up to the littler. That's what I can't understand. In the history books they never do it. The strong always whip the weak." "Well," said Miss Simms, "I'm not much of a scholar, and I've never read many history books, as you call them, Master Johnnie; but I've read my Bible, and I get my learning out of that. I'll tell you some of my verses, and you can see what you make of them. "'Give to him that asketh thee, and from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away.' "'Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.' "'Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.' "'All things whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them, for this is the law and the prophets.' "There," finished Miss Simms, "if that is the law and the prophets, Johnnie, oughtn't you to give up to Mabel and Edith, once in a while?" "I don't ask him to very often," said Edith. "Well, I do!" said Mabel. "Yes, Miss Simms, I believe I ought to, more'n I have," said Johnnie, quite earnestly. "I'm bound to be a gentleman; and a gentleman is always polite to the ladies. I've seen that with father and mother many a time. So, Mabel, you take mamma her fruit;" and with that, Johnnie handed her the basket, and made a low bow. Miss Simms seated herself in the window, took out her scissors and a great roll of patterns, and then said, "Edith, dearie, will you ask your grandma or Aunt Catharine, if they know where the merino is for your new dresses?" "Are we to have new dresses?" said Edith; "it's the first I've heard of it." "Oh, children don't know everything in _this_ house," said Miss Simms, laughing. Grandma came bustling in with bundles nearly as big as herself. "You had better measure Edie first, as she is on the spot; and then I'll help sew on her skirt, while you are cutting out for Mabel." "I'm glad I'm not a girl," said Johnnie, "always having to bother with new frocks." "Mrs. Evans is wise to go South now," said Miss Simms to grandma. "I've been hoping she would, it's far too bleak for her here." Edith opened her blue eyes very wide, and then they filled with tears. She hid her head in her grandma's bosom. "Why, child, you little goose, it is to make your dear mother well. And you three small folks are going part way with her." At this Edith's sudden tears dried up very quickly, and her face made itself into a question mark. "You three children, and I myself, are going to see your Aunt Maria, in Virginia." Johnnie began to turn somersaults to show his delight at the news. He ran off for further information, and came back saying, "I never heard anything so splendid in my life. We are to start a week from to-day Edith. Mamma's going South to get well, and we're going South too, to get acquainted with our Aunt Maria." The children thought they must pack up their treasures at once; and as everybody was just then too busy to notice them very much, they made a remarkable collection. Edith brought out her Paris doll, and its wardrobe, her baby carriage hung with blue satin, and its pillows trimmed and ruffled with lace, her favorite books, and her best china tea-set. "I could not travel in comfort without Miss Josephine," she said with much dignity, as she seated herself in the parlor, with her treasures around her. "I could not stir a step without her." Mabel brought her Maltese kitten, and her Spitz dog, and tied a cherry ribbon round Fido's neck, and a blue one round Queenie's. "Now I am ready to go!" she said. As for Johnnie, he had so large a collection of must-haves, and can't-do-withouts, that he went to ask his father's advice. Mr. Evans came into the parlor, and laughed as he looked at his little girls, and their anxious faces. "My dears," he said, "we are not to be off for a week yet, and when we start we cannot carry much baggage. The old Romans called baggage _impedimenta_, because it hindered them on their way; and that is just what it is, a hinderance. We must leave all our treasures at home." "Even Queenie and Fido? They will break their hearts," said Mabel. "Even Miss Josephine?" said Edith. "She will pale away and die without me!" "If I could take my wheelbarrow and my box of tools, I would be satisfied," exclaimed Johnnie. "Now, children," Mr. Evans explained, "you are going to see a good many new things; and if you leave your property at home, it will be safe, and will seem new and delightful when you get back. Fido and Queenie will go to Aunt Catharine's and pay a visit too." "I don't believe the week will ever come to an end," sighed Edith, and she repeated the sigh a dozen times that busy week. But it did. Miss Simms cut and basted and fitted. Friends came to help. The furniture was covered. The house was securely fastened. At last they all went on board the Richmond steamer, on which they spent two very sea-sick nights and a day. After that it stopped at the Norfolk wharf. It lay there some hours, but before it started again, Aunt Maria came with a great roomy carriage, and took away the children. At the last moment grandma had decided not to go, so the brother and sisters felt rather forlorn when they went away with the strange auntie. "Good-by, mamma!" cried three brave little voices, however, and three handkerchiefs were waved, as they saw mamma smiling back cheerfully to them from the deck of the "Old Dominion." "In five weeks we'll see her again. It seems like for ever," said Edith to Johnnie. "Five weeks," said Aunt Maria, "is a very short while, when people are having a really happy time. Just make up your minds to make each other as happy as you can, my dears; you are going to see my family pretty soon." "There's the thea-thickness going back," little Mabel murmured. "Never cross a bridge till you come to it, Mabel. It's a poor way to fret over troubles that are five weeks off. I have known people who were very sea-sick coming, and not in the least so going back. It may be that way with you, little one; so look on the bright side." CHAPTER II. AUNT MARIA'S FAMILY. But where were Aunt Maria's family? The carriage, when it left the wharf, had been driven up a long narrow street, quite different from any the children had ever seen before. On either side irregularly built houses, most of them old and dingy, stood close together. Here and there was a new one, which had the air of having dropped down by mistake. They left this street, and turning into another, crossed a bridge, which spanned an arm of the river that ran through part of the town. Now the houses began to be large and stately, and were surrounded by ample gardens, and walls of brick or iron railings separated them from each other and the street. Aunt Maria's coachman drove on and on, and the children began to think he was going to drive into the river, for he seemed to be approaching nearer and nearer to it. They looked out and saw a broad sheet of water, over which many sloops and schooners, and many little row-boats were moving. The light of the setting sun was touching the white sails and the waves with a rosy glow. At the very water's edge they stopped, and Aunt Maria led the way into her house. It was a large mansion. One side of it was covered with ivy, and an immense live-oak tree stood in the garden. Two or three tall magnolias, and a number of fig-trees were scattered through the yard. Though it was still wintry and cold at home, here the trees were in leaf, and there were flowers in bloom. A colored woman, with a red and yellow turban on her head, and a blue and white checked dress on, came forward to receive the children. Their trunks were carried up stairs, and opened, and they took off their travelling dresses, and proceeded to get ready for dinner. "Aunt Chloe will help you dress," Mrs. MacLain said. But Edith and Mabel were unused to colored servants, and stood in great awe of her. They were glad when she left the room to get some wood. [Illustration] "It too cold for missy without any fire," said she, as she went away. "O Edith," Mabel whispered, "if we were only at home! I don't like it here, I just hate it!" "Never mind, it won't last always," said Edith. "I wish I had asked mamma what to wear. Do you think we ought to put on our best frocks the first day?" "We're company, and company always _do_ put on their goodest things," said Mabel. "But not when they've come to stay so long. I suppose mamma would say, 'Use your own judgment,' but I haven't any judgment, I'll ask Aunt Chloe." "La, honey, _I_ don't know," said she. "Reckon I'll 'quire o' Miss Mariar." Aunt Maria came back with her, looked over the children's wardrobe, and told them to put on a crimson delaine dress, and a white apron. It was what they usually wore afternoons at home. Johnnie had had no such trouble. His clothing was to him of no great importance, so long as it had buttons and strings on. But where was Aunt Maria's family? The table was only spread for four. The children looked at each other, but were too polite to ask questions. "Bring Lucifer Matches," said Aunt Maria to Henry the waiter. As it was broad daylight, the children wondered why she asked for matches. Henry came back soon, followed by a funny little Scotch terrier, who bounded up to his mistress, and looked at her with intelligent eyes. "Lucifer Matches," said Mrs. MacLain, "is my special and particular pet. I call him Luce for short. Johnnie, you may play with him as much as you like." "Come in, you angel!" the lady then exclaimed, as if to encourage somebody who was hesitating at the door. Six eyes followed hers. The angel was a huge black cat, with green eyes, that shone like emeralds. Mabel felt like getting down to pet her, and Edith who did not admire cats, felt a cold chill creep down her back. So, you see, the dog, the cat, the horses, the geese, the cow, and the chickens, with the people who took care of them, composed Aunt Maria's family. After dinner, they had family worship. "We will have family prayers before you are all tired and sleepy," their aunt said. The servants all came in, and Mrs. MacLain read a chapter from John, and gave out a hymn, which everybody sang. It was the beautiful hymn, "Dear refuge of my weary soul, On Thee, when sorrows rise, On Thee, when storms of trouble roll, My fainting hope relies." It was a great comfort to Edith to sing this, for it was one of her mamma's favorites. After the singing they all knelt in prayer and Aunt Maria asked God to take care of this family that was divided for the present. "Be with the sick mother, and make her well," she prayed, "and bless these dear little ones under this roof." So the children felt safe, and at home. It makes everybody feel safe and at home even in a strange house, if there is prayer in it, and Jesus is loved and worshipped there. Bright and early next morning, Mabel was dressed and out of doors, with a piece of corn-bread in her hand to feed the chickens and geese. She felt the least bit of terror when the geese craned their long necks and hissed at her, but they soon stopped this and became very friendly. Folks talk about dumb creatures, but they are not very dumb, are they, children? though they have not the gift of speech. They soon learn to know who love them, and they testify their affection in many pleasant ways. Now Luce was not a dog to strike up friendships with everybody, but he and Johnnie seemed to like each other at first sight. Of course, the very first evening, bedtime came early, and weary eyes were very glad to shut. But before noon the next day Johnnie had discovered that his new companion could perform ever so many tricks: he could shoulder arms, stand on his hind feet, pretend to smoke a pipe, carry a basket, and beg in the most enchanting manner. Johnnie played soldier with Luce for flag-bearer, for nearly an hour, till his auntie called him in. "I think, dear," she said, "that I must have you read a while every morning. Edie has promised to practise an hour a day, and Mabel is going to sit by me and crochet. All work and no play would never do, but all play and no work would make you all wish you had never seen Locust Hall." "Now, Aunt Maria, how can you say that! I am sure I should be perfectly happy if I could play with Luce and do nothing else all day long." "Well, I'll let you try it, some day, on this condition: you will promise, as an honorable boy, that no matter how tired you get, you will keep to your part of the bargain." Johnnie was about to promise, when Edith called out: "Better think about it first, Johnnie. I once tried playing a whole day, and it was tiresome enough, I can tell you, before I got through with it. It was _dreadful_." [Illustration] "If we agree to do it, I'll keep to my part, Aunt Maria; but as Edith says, I'll think about it first." So Johnnie went off to the library, and took down a volume of stories about the Revolutionary war. CHAPTER III. VIOLETS AND ROSES. A few days passed by, and there came a letter from papa saying that mamma was feeling better. This was very delightful to the little girls and Johnnie, though they had had a talk before it came about the duty of being sorrowful under the circumstances. It happened this way: they were outdoors playing May Queen. "I never saw anything so sweet as these violets," cried Edith, in a rapture. They were as sweet as they could be, little English violets, white as snow, and perfuming the air. The flowers had come to Virginia early in the new spring, and already there were early roses, slender lilies of the valley, with tiny cups to catch the dewdrops, and the fragrant yellow jasmine flinging its golden bells over every roadside fence and tree. Old Uncle Moses had taken the children to the woods, and there they had seen the jasmine in its glory, and the white stars of the dogwood shining through the green branches far and near. "'Pears like," said Uncle Moses, after one of these expeditions, "'pears like God must love posies, de way he scatter dem roun' dis yer land." For all that Miss Josephine had been left at home, the little girls had not been obliged to live without a doll. Kind Aunt Maria had given them each one soon after their arrival. Out in the garden, then, with the dollies, Luce full of enthusiasm, and barking and rolling like an animated puff-ball, or else sitting up as straight as a judge, they were playing queen. Mabel had just fastened the wreath on Edith's head, when Johnnie very gravely observed, "I think we are heartless wretches." "Johnnie, where _do_ you learn those big words?" "Well, we're having such nice times, and never thinking of poor mamma. We ought to be miserable, if we had any feeling. I heard Aunt Chloe the other day say, 'Pore things, dey a'n't ole 'nuff to know what dey'd lose, if dey done lose dere mudder.'" [Illustration] Mabel's ready tears began to flow. "O dear! O dear!" she sobbed, "mamma is going to die! What shall we do?" "Hush, Mabel!" said Edith. "If we ought not to play, why we'll stop; but there isn't any use in crying so. Do please hush this instant." A quick step came down the walk. The children, looking up, saw the young lady who lived in the next house. She had a sunbonnet on her head, and a light shawl was thrown around her, and in her hand was a pretty little bark canoe, in which was her knitting-work. "O Miss Rose, beautiful Miss Rose!" exclaimed Edith, "you're the very person we wanted to see." "Mith Rothe, when thith canoe geth too old for you, you'll give it to me, won't you?" said Mabel, putting her hands lovingly up towards the fanciful basket. "Mabel," Johnny said in a tone of reproof, "how often has mamma told you never to ask for things in that way?" "Never mind your little sister, Johnnie," the young lady said, "but sit down and let me hear why you were all looking so serious when I came up. What lovely garlands you have made, and what a charming morning this is! God is very good to give us so many bright days, and so much joy in them, isn't he?" Before any one could reply, a servant came up, with a request that the children would go to their Aunt Maria on the porch, and hear a message from their mother. "Good! good!" Johnnie said, clapping his hands; but Edith and Mabel went more soberly. Miss Rose seated herself in a favorite spot of hers, a rustic chair under the oak-tree, and waited their return. She was fond of children, and since the little visitors had been there, she had often gone in with her knitting to talk and play with them. After they had heard the letter, they were dismissed by Mrs. MacLain, who had her key-basket on her arm, and was very busy with her housekeeping. They trooped back to their friend Miss Rose, and grouped themselves around her, and the little girls began to weave a wreath for her hair, while Johnnie made her a bouquet. "The question is, Miss Rose, whether we ought to be happy while we are away from mamma and papa." "And while mamma is sick." "And perhaps might die." Miss Rose put her work down on her lap, and with one soft hand smoothed away the thick curls that had a way of falling over and shading Johnnie's forehead and eyes. She thought to herself, "What a pretty boy he is! How noble and open and candid those eyes and that brow!" Johnnie was a very truthful little fellow, and though he had faults, he would have scorned to tell a lie or do anything mean. At this moment Charlie Hill, Aunt Chloe's boy, passed by with his fishing-rod and line. So Johnnie could not stay to hear Miss Rose then. He caught up his straw hat, seized his shrimp-net, and ran off, without even saying, "Excuse me." "That wath very imperlite," observed Mabel. "And Johnnie began asking the questions too! He ithn't very thad." "Dear children," said Miss Rose, "you are only little and young, to be sure, but you may as well learn that God never wants you to _try_ to be miserable. He means you to be as merry and happy as you can be. Consider a minute. Have you ever been very unhappy when you have been good?" "No," said Edith. "I have," said Mabel, "when I've had the teethache." Miss Rose laughed. "Well, that was a pretty good cause; but generally, when children are not naughty, they are happy. You would only vex your dear mamma, and make her feel badly, if you were moping and fretting here, where she sent you to be with your auntie. Then you would spoil auntie's pleasure if, instead of laughing and singing, you were crying and sitting in the corner. She would say, 'O dear, what queer children these are! I'll be glad when they're gone away.'" "That would be dreadful! to have Aunt Maria think that," said Edith. "But tell us your opinion about it." "My opinion is, that it is every one's duty to be as cheerful as he can be all the time. If things vex us and trouble us, let us say, 'Never mind.' If it rains to-day, it will be clear to-morrow. If we pray to our Father, about everything, we will never need to be sorrowful long." Then Miss Rose taught them a pretty little verse: "Casting all your care upon Him, for He careth for you." Kneeling that night by her little white bed, Edith said her prayers as usual, and then added another petition: "Dear Lord Jesus, make me happy every night and day, so that I shall love everybody, and everybody love me." Edith was already one of those children whose lives are like "a little light, within the world to shine." CHAPTER IV. CHERRIES ARE RIPE. Faster and faster flew the May days by, and all the world was beautiful. The strawberries grew red and sweet upon the vines, and the children went out with the pickers to gather them, but they didn't work very steadily at this, for the sun was hot, and picking berries is apt to make the back ache. But the cherries most delighted them, and when Aunt Maria told them that they could have just as many cherries to eat as they wanted, and gave them one tree all to themselves, they hardly knew how to express their joy. It was not only in eating the cherries, that they had pleasure, for Aunt Maria let them have a tea-party, and said they might choose their guests. "They don't know anybody but the Lesters and the Randolphs," she said complacently to Miss Rose. "I shouldn't be a bit surprised if Edith and Johnnie invited a lot of little ragamuffins from Wood's Alley," replied Miss Rose. Wood's Alley was one of those wretched neighborhoods, which in cities have a way of setting themselves down near rich people's doors. It was the short cut to Main street, and when the people near Aunt Maria's were in haste, they often took it, rather than go a long way round. The windows in Wood's Alley were broken and dingy, and the interiors--which means all you could see as you passed by, looking at open doors--were dirty, smoky, and uninviting. Children fairly swarmed there, black and white, and as ragged as they could be. Mabel had made Aunt Maria very angry one day, by taking off her best hat, and giving it to a little beggar girl from Wood's Alley, who had been lingering near the gate, and casting admiring looks at it. "She ought to have known better than to take it from you," Aunt Maria said. "She is nothing but a little thief, and you are a very improvident child. To-morrow I'll take you to church in your old hat." This did not trouble Mabel much. Mabel did not yet care enough for her clothes, and more than once she had given her things away before. Her mother had been trying to teach her discretion in giving, for some time. "Well, Rose," said Aunt Maria, "if I thought they would do that, I would tell them to have a picnic out-doors, for I don't want Wood's Alley in my dining-room. Those children are just as like their mother as they can be." "Auntie," said Johnnie, "there's a splendid boy named Jim Cutts. He's been fishing with Charlie and me. Can he come to the party?" "Jim Cutts!" echoed Mrs. MacLain with a sigh. Then she answered, "Yes, dear, have whom you please; but let your table be out under the trees, on the lawn." "That'll be splendid!" said Johnnie, running off. They had ten or twelve little children at their party, and Dinah brought them sandwiches, cakes, and milk, and they had all the cherries they could eat. Edith taught them one of her Sunday-school hymns, and Johnnie made Luce perform all his most cunning tricks for their entertainment. Mabel lent her new doll to the poorest girl, to take home for the night, on the promise that it should surely come home next morning. The promise was kept. When the company had gone, Aunt Maria called them in, and made them take a thorough bath, and put on clean clothes all the way through. Then she bade each sit down, in the room with her, and read a chapter in the Bible. As Mabel could not read, she gave her a picture Bible to look at. She sat by, with so grave a face, and had so little to say, that they all began to feel uncomfortable, and wished themselves somewhere else. Edith's face was covered with blushes, Mabel began to swallow a lump in her throat, and Johnnie at last, growing angry, determined to stand it no longer. He shut up his Bible, and marched to Aunt Maria, who looked at him through her spectacles, and said: "Well, sir? Who told you to shut up your book?" "It does no good to read the Bible when anybody's mad with you," said Johnnie. "What have we done, Aunt Maria?" "I did not _say_ you had done anything." "But you look so cross, and sit up so straight, and--who ever heard of reading the Bible, in the middle of the afternoon, on a week day?" said Johnnie with an air of assurance. "Well, Johnnie, to tell the truth, I did _not_ like your bringing all the riff-raff of the town to eat my nice cherries." "But you said we might do it." "I should think, Johnnie, you would have liked better to have such friends as Percival Lester and Reginold Randolph, or Maggie and Clara Vale, to play with. I fear you have low tastes, child." At this charge, little Johnnie colored up, but he stood his ground. "The reason we asked them was because they couldn't buy any fruit, if they wanted it ever so much; and we thought it would please them and make them happy." Edith had been thoughtfully turning over the leaves of her Bible, and now she said: "Auntie, here are some verses I once read to mamma: "'When thou makest a dinner or a supper, call not thy friends, nor thy brethren, neither thy kinsmen, nor thy rich neighbors, lest they also bid thee again, and a recompense be made thee. "'But when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind; and thou shalt be blessed, for they cannot recompense thee, for thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just.'" "There," said Johnnie, "haven't we made a Bible feast?" "Yes, my dears," Aunt Maria replied, "and I beg your pardon. The truth is, I have not been very much displeased with you, but thought I would try you a little. Now as you have had a good rest, you may all go out and play." "I think Aunt Maria ith a naughty woman," said Mabel in a very low voice to Edith, as they left the room. Rose, who had been present all the while, heard her, and so did Aunt Maria, but neither said a word, till the children were out of hearing. Then Rose said, "I'm afraid I agree with little Mabel. Dear Mrs. MacLain, what made you pretend to be vexed, if you were not?" "I am not obliged to explain my actions to every one, am I, Rose?" said the lady. "Children are a sort of a puzzle to me, never having had any of my own; and I don't believe I know how to bring them up. But these of Helen's are pretty good, especially Johnnie." Aunt Maria had some very stylish friends who occasionally visited her. They sent word beforehand concerning their coming, and great preparations were made. On the day of their arrival, the little folks were arrayed in their very best, and Edith and Mabel took their dolls, and were seated in the parlor, that they might not get into the least disorder. "Mrs. Featherfew is very particular," said Aunt Maria. "She will be sure to take notice, if you don't behave splendidly." "I'll be glad when she's been and gone," remarked Johnnie. Mrs. Featherfew however was quite different from what the children had been led to expect. She was a slender pretty looking lady, who seemed to float down the long parlor, she walked so lightly and gracefully, her long silk dress trailing behind her. The next day the two little girls amused themselves by playing "Mrs. Featherfew," Edith putting on a long gown of her aunt's for the purpose. Two very elegant children came with Mrs. Featherfew, Wilhelmine and Victorine. They spoke very primly and politely, and seemed to our little folks like grown-up ladies cut down short. But when after dinner they all went out into the grounds to play, Mine and Rine, as they called each other, could play as merrily as the others. The little girl to whom the dolly had been lent happened to be looking through the palings, just when the fun was at its height. She had rather a dirty face, and a very torn dress. "Do look at that impertinent creature actually staring at us, as if she belonged here!" exclaimed Victorine, with amazement. "Go right away, child," said Wilhelmine. Now as these little girls were guests themselves, they were taking too much responsibility in ordering anybody off. Edith's face flushed, and she felt vexed. She would have preferred, after all her Aunt Maria had said about it, to have the Alley children keep a little more distance; but she could not let anybody hurt their feelings. "That little girl is a friend of mine, Wilhelmine," spoke out the loyal little soul bravely. It was not in Edith, to be ashamed of any friend, no matter how humble. Wilhelmine looked surprised, and Johnnie went on to tell how they had gotten acquainted. Before he had finished, the little visitors were so interested in the ragged girl, that they each gave her a bright five-cent piece. So Edith did good by her fearlessness. We never know how much good we may do, by speaking according to our conscience. The Featherfew girls had a very nice time, and went away well pleased; but they told their mamma that the Evans children were very droll. "It's the way they have been brought up, I imagine," said Mrs. Featherfew. Two or three days after that, the children were in a part of the garden, in which was a bridge over a darling little brook, as Edith called it. They were expecting their parents by the first steamer, and Johnnie had been gathering a basket of the ripest and reddest cherries he could find, to have them all ready for offering to mamma on her arrival. As he was running lightly over the bridge, his foot slipped, and he came near falling in, but Edith and Mabel flew to the rescue, and held him up by his cap, and his curls, and his arm, till he recovered his balance. One foot was very wet. It had gone "way, way in," and in that condition, splashed and barefoot, for he pulled off the wet boot and stocking, he went back to the house with the girls. Just as they reached the front door, a carriage drove up. A gentleman sprang out, and lifted a lady next, and the servants began to take off the bags and trunks. Could that be mamma? It needed only a glance to satisfy the eager children, and in a moment all three were rapturously hugging and kissing her and their father. [Illustration] Mamma had grown quite plump and rosy. She was ever so much better, and Johnnie asked, the first thing, whether she could bear a noise now. "A little noise, dear, I hope," she said smiling. It had been a great trial to Johnnie to keep so still as had been necessary when they were at home. "She is not so very strong yet, Master John," said Mr. Evans. "I'm afraid an earthquake or a volcano would use her up. We'll have to take care of her yet awhile." But the children found that they had gotten their old mamma back. She was a great deal nicer than anybody else, they thought. That night, when it grew almost bedtime, and Chloe appeared as usual at the parlor door, with the candles on a silver tray, and the great silver snuffers, ready to light the young folks up stairs, they went and kissed their father and mother and Aunt Maria for good night. But when they were undressed, and the little dresses and skirts were hung smoothly over the chairs, the little shoes and stockings set side by side on the floor, and the little nightgowns on, somebody came quietly in, somebody who sat down in the rocking-chair, and with one little white-robed figure in her lap, and another with an arm thrown around her neck, and another on a footstool at her feet, heard their hymns, and told them a little story, and listened while each prayed to the dear Saviour. The three little hearts were satisfied that night, because they had had their mother to comfort them and bless them again. A few days after that, they bade good-by to the beautiful seaside home, and to Luce, and the black cat, and the horses and cow, the geese and the chickens. To Miss Rose and Aunt Maria they gave a very warm invitation to come and see them in their own home. Fido and Queenie had been well taken care of at Aunt Catharine's house, but they seemed very glad indeed to have their little mistress back. Johnnie declared that Fido couldn't hold a candle to Luce, and he and Mabel had several disputes over it. Indeed one day they became so angry at each other, that Mrs. Evans sent the little brother to his own room and the little sister to hers, to stay until they were ready to ask each other's pardon. Edith, serene and peaceful, kept out of all such troubles. "Miss Simms," said Johnnie one day, "what is the reason nobody ever is angry with Edith? She seems to please people without trying to." "I think Edith has found out a great secret very early in her life," Miss Simms answered. "I wish I knew it, then; I'm always being scolded, and I try to be as good as the other fellows. But it isn't of any use, that I can see. To-day I had been perfect all day in school, you know, Miss Simms, and just a minute before recess, I spoke; and Miss Clark was mean enough to make me stay in. She read off the boys' names who had violated any rule, this way: "'Willie Simpson, late; "'Thomas Miller, missed his geography; "'Johnnie Evans, whispering. "'These little boys must spend this recess in the school-room.' I leave it to you, Miss Simms, if that wasn't mean." "Was it the rule that you must lose your recess, if you spoke?" "Yes, if we spoke without permission." "And you knew all about it?" "Oh! yes!" "Well, _I_ don't see how Miss Clark could help herself or you, if you disobeyed. You were both bound by the rule, you see, Johnnie." "That's only one thing. I forget to hang up my hat on the nail, and I bring mud in on my boots, and I lose my speller, and I lose my temper too, and I'm just tired of trying any more." Johnnie stood like a little "knight of the rueful countenance," hat in hand. Miss Simms measured two breadths of silk; "snip, snip," went her shining scissors, and she threaded her needle. "Dear me, what a hard needle to thread; my eyes are beginning to fail me," she said. "I'll thread it for you, let me. My eyes are bright and sharp," said Johnnie. "Thank you," she said. "Now, Johnnie, don't you want to know Edith's secret. It is a word of four letters, LOVE. Love to God, and love to everybody else. That makes Edie's good time." "How can I get it too?" said Johnnie. "I must tell you some of my verses, I think: "'Ask, and ye shall receive. "'Seek, and ye shall find. "'Knock, and it shall be opened to you. "'For every one that asketh receiveth. "'And he that seeketh findeth. "'And to him that knocketh, it shall be opened.'" "I'll ask," said Johnnie. These five happy weeks were long spoken of as "the time when we stayed at Aunt Maria's house," and their memory has not yet faded away from the children's minds. They are expecting a visit soon from Aunt Maria, Miss Rose, and Chloe; and Lucifer Matches is coming too. 
23478	----	SELF-DENIAL; OR, ALICE WOOD, AND HER MISSIONARY SOCIETY. [Illustration] The village school-house was situated on a pretty green, and surrounded by old elm-trees, and at a short distance and in full sight was a candy-shop, kept by an old woman, whom the children called Mother Grimes. Mother Grimes knew how to make the very best candies and cakes that ever were eaten, and almost every day she displayed in her shop-window some new kind of cake, or some new variety of candy, to excite the curiosity or tempt the palates of her little customers, who found it a very difficult matter to pass Mother Grimes's shop on their way from school. One day, just after the school-bell rang to give notice of the recess, a pretty little girl, by the name of Alice Wood, was seen very busily running about among the school-girls and whispering to one and another. Her object was to induce them to remain a little while after the school, as she had something to propose to them. Alice was a great favourite, as she was always willing to put herself to any inconvenience for the sake of giving any one else pleasure. So they all readily consented to stay, if it were only to please her. After school was out and the teacher had left, Alice collected the girls together and told them her plan. "Girls," said she, "last night I went to the missionary meeting, and some of you were there too. We heard a missionary speak, who has just come back from India, and he told us of the millions of poor degraded and ignorant people there, who have never heard of God or the Bible, and who worship idol gods of wood and stone, and sacrifice their children and themselves to these dumb idols; and he told us of millions in other countries who are just as ignorant and degraded, besides the multitudes in our own land who know nothing of the Bible or the way of salvation. I knew all this before, to be sure, for I have often heard it; but I never _felt_ it as I did last night; and when the missionary called upon us children and told us that we could do something to save these immortal souls, I felt, for the first time in my life, that it was my duty, by denying myself some gratifications and by trying to save money in other ways, to do all that I could to send the word of God to those who are perishing. Girls," said she, with earnestness, "I could hardly sleep last night, for I was all the time going over in my mind the different ways in which I might earn or save something, and I thought if all our school were to feel as I did, and join me in this, we might collect a great many dollars a year." Here some of the older girls began to whisper to each other that they had no money to spare, and that their parents could not give them money every day to send to the heathen. "Now stop a little while, girls, if you please," said Alice, "till I just tell you what I want to have done. In the first place, I think it will be so pleasant to form a sewing Society, to meet on Saturday afternoons, and make bags and needle-cases and collars and many other things to sell; and I know my father will be delighted to have us put a box, with these things, in his store. Then, while we sew, I propose that one reads aloud from some interesting book or paper about missions and benevolent societies, and thus we shall all become interested in the intelligence, and be more willing to work and save to help the needy." Alice then, with a great deal of tact, proposed the names of those who should be President, Secretary, and Treasurer of their Society, selecting the very ones who had been opposed to her plan. One large girl was still dissatisfied, and declared she would not join them, till Alice moved that she should be appointed reader. This delighted her very much, as she read remarkably well; and now all were pleased, and Alice went on with her plan. "Now, about our laying up money, girls," said she. "I believe our parents are none of them very rich, and yet we contrive to get a great many pennies, in one way or another, to spend for our own gratification. How many pennies do you think go, in a year, from our school into Mother Grimes's pocket? Why enough to send a great many Bibles to the destitute. Perhaps enough to support a missionary, or educate a heathen child, or give a library or two to a poor Sunday-school. Just think of it, girls! Now I, for one, spend certainly a penny a day for candy. How many will that be in a year, Susy?" "Three hundred and sixty-five," answered little Susy Barnes. "Yes; three dollars and sixty-five cents will buy a great many Bibles and good books," said Alice; "and then my father gives me a penny a week for slate pencils. Now I am going to ask him to continue the penny a week; and then I am going to see how long I can keep a pencil, for I have been very careless in losing them. And in these, and other ways, I hope I can save quite a sum of money in a year. Now, girls, will you all think, between this time and tomorrow noon, how much you can save, and then we will put it all down together, and see how much we can hope to collect in a year?" The girls readily promised, and then, as they had stayed a long time, they all set off in haste for their homes, full of the new project of the Missionary Society. PART II. The next day, as soon as school was out, the little girls, of their own accord, crowded around Alice, who stood with a pencil and piece of paper in her hand, ready to put down their names, and the sums they each thought she could save. Several of them thought they could save a penny a day, instead of giving it to Mother Grimes; some a penny a week, and some a penny a month. Alice told them, that if some of them could only give a penny a year, she would gladly take that; and then, that they might not be ashamed of giving so little, she read to them the story of the "widow's mite." And when the girls laughed, because one little girl, whose mother was very poor, said, "She would bring a penny _if she could ever get one_," Alice kissed her, and said, "Perhaps, Kitty, your penny will be as acceptable, and do more good, than hundreds of dollars from some very rich man who does not miss it at all. At any rate you shall come into our Society and help us sew." Rachel Brown said "she was sure _she_ did not spend much money for candy." "No! and why not, Miss Sugar-tooth?" said little Susy Barnes; "because you always keep close to Alice Wood, as you go home from school, and you know that the one that is nearest to her will always have half of her candy." "Hush, Susy," said Alice, "I can tell you that no one will have half of my candy after this, as I do not intend to buy any; and I am sure Rachel can save a good deal if she chooses, for our Society." Clara Hall said, her father had promised her a quarter of a dollar if she would have an ugly double tooth drawn, that had ached for some time. "But," said Clara, "the provoking thing aches the worst at night, and then I think I will certainly have it out in the morning, but when the morning comes it is sure to stop aching." Once or twice she said she had gone to the dentist's door, but her courage failed. "But," said she, "Alice, the very next time it aches as hard in the day as it does sometimes in the night, I shall come with the tooth in one hand, and the quarter of a dollar in the other, for the Society." Sally Bright said, their next neighbour had cut her hand very badly, and had promised her a penny a day, for milking her cow for her, as long as her hand continued lame; and those pennies should all come to Alice. Charlotte Green said, her father had promised her half a dollar if she would leave off biting her nails. "And now," said she, "I mean to try in earnest to break myself of this habit, that I may have something too to give." "Well, girls," said Jane Prime, "my father, you know, keeps a large nursery, and he gives me three cents a quart for peach stones and plum stones; and he says he will pay that for as many as are brought to him. So here is a fine way for any of you that choose to make money, as long as fruit lasts." Alice Wood now reckoned up the promised sums, and said, "I think, girls, if we all keep the resolutions we have formed, that by only saving the money that we should spend in other ways, and giving it to the society, we can pledge ourselves to give altogether fifty dollars a year; and with our Sewing Society, and the many other ways that have been mentioned of earning a little money, I should not be surprised if we should raise it to one hundred dollars a year. Just think what a sum that would be, and how much good it may do, if we give it in a right spirit, and with prayers for the blessing of God to accompany it. For you know the missionary said the other evening, that we might give a great deal of money, merely for the sake of having it published, or from some other improper motive, and if it should do good to others, it would not do any to ourselves; but that even a little given from a right motive, and with fervent prayer for the Divine blessing, might accomplish great things, and would return in mercy upon the head of the giver. For, said he, (and these words are from the Bible,) 'He that hath pity upon the poor, _lendeth_ unto the Lord, and that which he hath given, _will he pay him again_.' And, 'The liberal soul shall be made fat, and he that watereth, shall _himself be watered_.'" As the girls went home, they all kept on the side of the road opposite to Mother Grimes's shop; for the old woman had a bad temper, and a very loud voice, and they were all afraid of hearing from her if they passed her shop without stopping to buy something. "What on earth is the matter with the children?" said old Mother Grimes to herself. "Here, these two or three days past, hardly a soul of them has been near the shop, and my candies are getting quite old." And Mother Grimes went to work, and cracked nuts, and boiled new molasses, and made nicer candies than ever; but all to no purpose. Rachel Brown did say to Alice Wood one day, "See, Alice, what beautiful candy Mother Grimes has put in her shop-window to day." But Alice only said, "Rachel, we have now a better use for our money; let us waste nothing, but save all we can, so that we shall not feel, when we meet our fellow-creatures at the last day, that any of them have perished through our neglect, or because we were so selfish that we could not deny ourselves a small gratification for the sake of supplying their need." One day a knot of little girls were so bold as to pass directly by the candy shop. The old woman stood in the door, and called out to them as they passed, and asked them why they never stopped now. "See," said she, "all my nice candies melting in the sun; and nobody but the flies to eat them." "We have found something better to do with our pennies, Mother Grimes," answered little Susy Barnes, who was the leader of the party, "than to spend them in getting the tooth-ache, and making ourselves sick; and we have all made up our minds that we will not buy any more candy." The old woman flew into a passion, and talked so loud, that some of the little girls were for running off, but Susy stood her ground undaunted. "I'll tell you what, Mother Grimes," said she, "if you will give up selling candy, and keep slates, and pencils, and pens, and sponges, and all such useful things for sale, we shall all be much more likely to stop here, than to go all the way round to the booksellers." But Mother Grimes's wrath only increased the more, and as she showed some signs of coming out after them, Susy was glad to join the retreating party; and they all darted off without looking behind them, and did not consider themselves perfectly safe, till they were seated at their desks in the schoolroom. Mother Grimes soon found that it was useless to try to tempt the little school-children any more, so she determined to move off to some other place, "where," as she said, "the children had no such foolish notions in their heads." And now the Sewing Society was started; and such a cutting and fixing, and bustle as there was, till enough work was prepared to give them all something to do! And then, when the one appointed began to read to them the interesting accounts from the papers, even those that at first felt no interest, but joined merely for the sake of being made officers in the Society, became so much interested, that they too were willing to practise great self-denial for the sake of aiding in sending the gospel to the destitute. And now who can estimate the good that one such little Society may accomplish? It is like casting a little pebble into the smooth water; at first small circles are formed about the spot, but they widen and increase, till we cannot see where the influence of that little pebble upon the water ends. So it may be with this little Society, but we shall never know, till the secrets of the last great day are disclosed, how much good such an association may have accomplished; how many souls the Bibles thus sent forth may have converted; and then, too, how much good these converts may have done in teaching the way of life to others, and these again to hundreds and thousands more! Children, is it not worth while to try and see if you cannot yourselves do something, and induce others to join you, and see how much money you can save, and make in the coming year? Do not ask your parents for money just to throw into a box, but give that which you would have spent in some other way. And then see if you have not ingenuity enough to find out some plan of earning money for the sake of doing good with it. Depend upon it, your interest in benevolent objects will increase from the very moment that you deny yourself for the sake of giving to others. Think what it would be to have even _one soul_ saved from among the poor benighted heathen, to rise up in the last great day, and call you, yes _you_, my little reader, blessed. Try it, and with daily prayers for the blessing of God upon your efforts, see what you can do for the heathen; remembering, that "he that converteth a _single_ sinner from the error of his way, shall save a _soul from death_, and shall hide a multitude of sins." [Illustration] _Good Resolutions._ Though I'm now in younger days, Nor can tell what shall befall me, I'll prepare for every place Where my growing age shall call me. Should I e'er be rich or great, Others shall partake my goodness: I'll supply the poor with meat, Never showing scorn nor rudeness. Where I see the blind or lame, Deaf or dumb, I'll kindly treat them; I deserve to feel the same, If I mock, or hurt, or cheat them. If I meet with railing tongues, Why should I return them railing? Since I best revenge my wrongs By my patience never failing. When I hear them telling lies, Talking foolish, cursing, swearing, First I'll try to make them wise Or I'll soon go out of hearing. What though I be low and mean, I'll engage the rich to love me; While I'm modest, neat, and clean, And submit when they reprove me. If I should be poor and sick, I shall meet, I hope, with pity; Since I love to help the weak, Though they're neither fair nor witty. I'll not willingly offend, Nor be easily offended; What's amiss I'll strive to mend, And endure what can't be mended. May I be so watchful still O'er my humours and my passion, As to speak, and do no ill, Though it should be all the fashion. Wicked fashions lead to hell, Ne'er may I be found complying But in life behave so well, Not to be afraid of dying. [Illustration] * * * * * Transcriber's Note: Obvious punctuation errors were repaired. 
25415	----	None 
36582	----	[Illustration] ADVICE TO _Sunday School_ CHILDREN. PUBLISHED BY THE _NEW-YORK_ Religious Tract Society, And sold at their Depository, No. 142 Broadway. D. Fanshaw, Print. 1 Murray-St. SERIES II. NO. XV. ADVICE TO SUNDAY SCHOOL CHILDREN [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] Published by the New-York Religious Tract Society, and for sale at their Depository, (Wilder and Campbell's Book-store,) 142 Broadway, and by the principal Booksellers in the United States. D. Fanshaw, Printer, No. 1 Murray-street [Illustration] ADVICE TO SUNDAY SCHOOL CHILDREN. MY DEAR CHILDREN; When our blessed Saviour was upon earth, little children were brought to him, and he kindly took them in his arms, laid his hands upon them, and blessed them. You have read this pleasing account in the New Testament, and you have been taught that this kind Saviour came down from heaven, and was called Jesus, because he should save his people from their sins; you have learned that God Almighty will punish all wicked people after death, by sending them into a dreadful place. Now, consider, children, that you are all sinners, and though you are young, be sure, that unless you repent, and put your trust in Jesus Christ, God will cast you off for ever, and then you must be miserable. But Jesus Christ loves little children who come to him; he was nailed to the cross, and died to save them; and he will bless them, while they live; and when they die, he will take their souls up to heaven to himself, where they will be happy with the blessed angels for ever. Now, if you love him, my dear children, you will try and do what he says, and that is what we mean by your duty. Out of love, therefore, to you, we give you this little book, which sets before you some of the good instructions which are so kindly given you by your friends in the Sunday School: you must take care to keep in mind these things, if you would behave like children who love their Saviour, and hope to go to heaven. Read, therefore, this affectionate admonition, consider it well, and pray to God for grace, that you may profit by it. [Illustration] 1. _Be early and constant in your attendance at School._ Many naughty children come perhaps on one Sunday, and then are absent for two or three following ones; this shows that they have no desire to learn; if they loved our Saviour, they would not do so. Let not trifles keep you away; do not mind a little cold or a little rain, but hasten to school, and if you are there before your teachers, they will be pleased with you, and welcome you with a smile; they will also be encouraged to take pains with such good children, and you will go on regularly, and will not forget your former lessons, and be obliged to learn them over again, as foolish and idle children must often do. Such early attendance will prevent your class being thrown into confusion; and your teachers will be delighted to find that you are always ready for them as soon as they are ready for you. 2. _Be very attentive to instruction._ If instead of minding what is said to you, you gaze about the school, and look at the other children, you will still remain ignorant. When your teachers are explaining what you have been reading, listen, and try to understand them. When you are learning your lesson, keep your eyes fixed upon your book, and take as much pains as you can, that you may repeat it quite perfectly. 3. _Be silent in your Class._ Do not whisper and talk with those who sit next you; you have much to learn, and little time for the purpose; make it not less by your own carelessness. 4. _Be thankful to your Teachers._ They seek your welfare; you hear them pray for you, and they often do so when you are not with them. Their hearts' desire and prayer to God for you, is, that you may be saved; they would bring you to Jesus Christ, that you may be delivered from the wrath of God and endless misery, through his precious blood shed for you; that you may be saved from your sins, by repentance and faith in him; that you may be taught to pray to God through him; and that, by his grace, you may learn and obey his holy commandments, forsake all sin, do his will all the days of your life, and when you die, may inherit the kingdom of heaven. Whenever, therefore, they admonish, take heed to their words, fix your eyes upon them, and your thoughts on what they say; it is for your good that they take pains with you; they are seeking your salvation, and your endless happiness. How unkind will it be if you do not love them! How insensible must you be, if you do not profit by their instruction! How dreadful will your case be, if, in the day of judgment, they should be obliged to bear witness against you, that they taught you, and laboured to bring you to salvation, but you would not! On the contrary, how joyful will it be for both, if you are placed together at the right hand of our blessed Saviour, and hear him say, "Come, ye blessed children of my Father, receive the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world." 5. _Honour and obey your parents._ Remember, this is God's commandment. Consider this when you repeat the fifth commandment; grieve them not by impertinence and obstinacy; dare not to answer them with passion or disrespect; never speak evil of them, nor let others do so in your hearing; be always gentle, humble, and dutiful, in your manner; never frown, or be perverse, or idle, when they require you to work, but show that you are willing and industrious; be a comfort to them, attend on them in sickness, read your books to them, and tell them what your teachers say to you; and strive, as much as in you lies, to be the staff of their old age, like good Joseph in the Scripture. So God and they will bless you; and you will be like our blessed Saviour, who was subject to his parents in his childhood, and cared and provided for his aged mother even while he hung upon the cross. [Illustration] 6. _Love your Brothers and Sisters._ Be kind in your behaviour to each other, and show your love by actions as well as words. Do all in your power to make them happy; let brothers especially behave with gentleness to their sisters; they are by nature more weak and defenceless, and therefore brothers should treat them with peculiar tenderness. If your brothers or sisters displease you, do not speak angrily to them, but be patient, and forgive them, as you hope our blessed Saviour will forgive you. If they rail at you, rail not again; but pray for them; let them see that you love them still, and they will be ashamed of themselves, or, even if they are not, our Saviour will be pleased with you; for when he was reviled, he reviled not again. It is a sad thing when brothers and sisters quarrel, and dreadful when they strike each other; but a good and pleasant thing when brethren dwell together in unity and love. "Birds in their little nests agree, "And 'tis a shameful sight, "When children of one family "Fall out, and chide, and fight." 7. _Reverence the Lord's day._ It is appointed for the worship of God; and all its hours should be employed in his service. On this holy day you must give up your amusements, and have as little as possible to do with worldly things; on this day you are taught to read the word of God, and you go with your school-fellows to worship him in his house; there you are to join with the congregation in prayer and praise, and to hear the minister of God preach the gospel, which is to make men wise unto salvation through faith which is in Christ Jesus. Let your behaviour be very serious when you are thus engaged; listen to every word which the minister speaks; he is the messenger of God Almighty, and speaks as if Christ Jesus besought you, by him, to be reconciled to God. Pray to God that his word may prove a blessing to you, and try to understand all you hear; good children will not only endeavour to recollect the text and part of the sermon, but will also repeat them to their parents and teachers. Those who are idle, careless, or sleepy, in the house of God, act as if there was no fear of God before their eyes. 8. _Read daily in the Bible._ It is the word of God himself; it points out the way of salvation by our Saviour Jesus Christ; if you love him, you will delight in reading about him in the Bible. God's word is given for a light unto your feet, and a lamp unto your path: you know the use of a lamp in a dark night; such is the Bible, a light to guide us in this dark world. Ignorance and wickedness are the darkness of the world: Jesus is the light, and the Bible is to instruct you in the knowledge and love of him. Obey its commands, avoid what it forbids, follow its directions; and when you read it, pray to God to give you understanding, and a heart to receive its truths, that by his grace and blessing you may profit by them. 9. _Pray to God constantly._ What a mercy it is that-- "God will lend a gracious ear, "To what a child can say!" [Illustration] God is your heavenly Father, who loves you; and though you cannot see him, he can both see and hear you; and he _will_ hear you at all times. Confess all your sins to him, and think upon the love of our blessed Saviour, who died for your sins, and pray to God to prosper you, for his name sake. My dear children, he is very merciful; and if you are sorry for your sins, and afraid you shall be cast into the wicked place for them, you must tell him your fears, and he will be gracious to you, and teach you so to believe on our Lord Jesus Christ, that your sins will certainly be all forgiven; and then, oh, how must you love him! When you are tempted to be naughty, and disobedient, or ill-tempered, or idle, pray to him to give you a new heart and a right spirit; and do not give over praying for it till you find a better mind in yourselves; for he will give you the Holy Spirit, if you ask for it. Praise him also for all his mercies to you, especially for raising up such good friends to teach you the way of salvation. 10. _Take a cheerful part in the praises of God._ You learn hymns, in order to sing those praises. What beautiful hymns they are! I hope you will not merely please yourselves with the tunes, but study the meaning of the words, that your hearts may make melody to the Lord. How sweetly Moses, and the children of Israel, sang upon the banks of the Red Sea, when God had delivered them from the wicked Egyptians! Exodus, xv. How sweetly David sang to his harp and other instruments of music, as you read in the Book of Psalms! Our blessed Saviour sang a hymn with his disciples before he suffered; Matt. xxvi. 30. and Paul and Silas sang the praises of God when they were in prison, at dark midnight, and their feet were made fast in the stocks. Acts, xvi. 25. Oh, may you, dear children, sing his praises in the same blessed spirit, and it will be as sweet incense before his throne. [Illustration] 11. _Abhor Swearing._ What! a Sunday School child swear! Awful thought! And yet there are some who do! Such wicked children are taking the broad road which leads to hell. And what will be _your_ feelings, if _you_ are cast into that dreadful place, after all the pains which have been taken to lead you to heaven! Your case will be far more dreadful than that of others, who are left to perish in ignorance and sin. Never take the sacred name of God in vain! Never use it but with fear and reverence, and when it is necessary to use it. When careless children call upon the name of God in their common conversation, as many do, exclaiming, Oh, Lord! Oh, God! Lord, have mercy! and the like, it proves that they are very wicked, or at least very thoughtless. Reverence his name, and tremble at the thought of mentioning it lightly. 12. _Avoid bad company._ Remember the Bible says, "A companion of fools shall be destroyed." "Therefore, come out from among them, and be separate, and I will be a father unto you, and ye shall be my sons and daughters, saith the Lord Almighty." Shun all places of public amusement, particularly taverns and play-houses. Many people call them harmless, and their diversions innocent; but do not believe them; all sorts of wickedness and folly are practised there--gluttony, drunkenness, indecency, swearing, and sins of almost every kind; if you go to them, you will soon become as bad as the rest of those who frequent them; do not mind the scorn of those who may despise you, because you will not run to the same excess of riot as they. If they are your relations, or your acquaintance, endeavour to persuade them to go to the house of God on the Lord's day, and on every other day to keep out of the path of temptation. If they will not be persuaded to do so, at least go not with them into any sinful course. They may endeavour to persuade you, but withstand their entreaties; call to mind the words of Solomon, "My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not!" They may entice, but they cannot compel you; and as evil communications corrupt good manners, so, if you join their company, you will be in danger of following these wicked examples. If, my dear children, you hope to meet our Saviour at the last, and to spend eternity in heaven with holy angels, and the spirits of just men made perfect, how can you bear to be in company with those wicked people upon earth, who are, every day, making themselves more fit for the company of the devil and his angels in the outer darkness, "where there shall be weeping, and wailing, and gnashing of teeth?" And now I commend you unto God, and to the word of his grace, which is able to give you an inheritance among them that are sanctified. We love you, we care for you, we pray for you! Oh, may God turn your hearts by the Holy Spirit to himself, that you may be his dear children; and may he bless this little book to you, and give you grace to read, to mark, to understand, and to practise its directions; may you walk in the path of duty while you live on earth, and at last join the assembly of his people before his throne in heaven, share in their happiness, and unite in their praises, to all eternity. [Illustration] CHILDREN'S BOOKS PUBLISHED BY THE NEW-YORK Religious Tract Society. 2d SERIES. 1. Address to a Child. 2. Goodness of Providence. 3. The Vine. 4. The Orphan. 5. Elizabeth Loveless. 6. Little Susan and her Lamb. 7. Wonderful cure of Naaman. 8. Happy Cottager. 9. Mary Jones. 10. Ann Walsh, the Irish Girl. 11. Sally of the Sunday-School. 12. Destructive consequences of Vice, Dissipation, &c. 13. Mischief its own Punishment. 14. Louisa and the Little Birds. 15. Advice to Sunday S. Children. 16. Bread the Staff of Life. 17. Affectionate Daughter. 18. Happy Negro. 19. S. Butler, & Passionate Boy. [Illustration] Transcriber's Note * Punctuation errors have been corrected. 
37508	----	[Illustration: Cover] 1102 THE COCHINEAL. New York: General Protestant Episcopal Sunday School Union; Depository, Press Buildings, No. 46 Lumber-Street, in rear of Trinity Church. _Printed at the Protestant Episcopal Press, No. 46 Lumber-Street._ THE COCHINEAL. As I was one day studying in the same room with my little son, a child of ten years old, he turned towards me, and pointed to a little insect which was crawling on a sheet of paper. "Look, papa," said he, "look at that insect; how small it is! See how it moves its feet--how wonderful that GOD should have made this little creature!" _Father._ It is a little cochineal.[A]--Wait; I will bring my microscope, and we shall see many more wonderful things. _Child._ Make haste, or it will fly away. I put the insect between two glasses, and thus prevented it from escaping, without restraining it from moving its limbs. To the naked eye, it did not look at all remarkable: its back was of a brown colour, spotted with black and white, and the under part of its body was gray. But no sooner had I placed it in the focus of the microscope, than I was filled with wonder and admiration. The back, which before appeared unworthy of notice, now displayed the most perfect and beautiful appearance. The colour, which appeared brown to the naked eye, now presented a variety of feathers or scales of the same size and shape, polished, brilliant, distinct, and arranged in far more exact order than the tiles on the best built roof. The ground was formed of beautiful white scales, surrounded by a border of polished black and blue scales of the same description. A black line divided the back into two equal parts. "How marvellously wise and powerful is the LORD!" exclaimed I. "Who would believe that so many beauties, and such a variety of exquisite workmanship, had been bestowed on this little, despicable insect? Oh, how great is our GOD!" The child was impatient to judge for himself. He approached the microscope, and gazed in silence for some moments. At length, raising his head, and fixing his eyes upon me with an expression of wonder and astonishment--"Oh! papa," exclaimed he, "is not this beautiful? How beautiful!" repeated he, raising his hands. "How powerful GOD must be to give this little insect, which attracts so little attention, such a beautiful coat! Did you see its scales, its neck, its head, and its glittering horns? It looks like glass on polished gold. How beautiful! how beautiful!" _Father._ My dear boy, since our heavenly Father is so great, so powerful, and so wise; since he takes such care of this little insect which crawls upon the ground; think how great must be his care of his own children, whom he loved so much as to give his well-beloved SON to die for them, that they might be saved, from eternal death! _Child._ Yes; our Saviour himself says that his children 'are of more value than many sparrows;' so they must be of more value than this little insect: and since it has received, and does all the while receive from GOD, its food and its rich and beautiful clothing, surely the same GOD will feed and clothe us also! My dear papa, are we not very happy in having seen this insect, since it has shown us the power and goodness of the LORD? _Papa._ Yes, my dear; let us thank GOD for thus enlarging our views of his goodness and infinite wisdom. How good GOD is, thus to fill our hearts with confidence, to assure us of his guardian care, and to teach us that he sees, protects, and preserves us! I now turned the microscope, that we might examine the cochineal on the other side; it was equally beautiful and perfect. The side legs, which were so disposed as to balance the body, and make its motions easy, were partly covered with scales, like those on the back; but they were much smaller and more flexible. There were no scales near the joints, and the legs were fastened to the body with such exactness that it was impossible to perceive the smallest defect, even by means of the strongest lens. Its light and delicate limbs moved with the greatest ease, and with most astonishing regularity. "How wonderful is even one of its legs!" said I; "could the most skilful artist or human mechanic imitate it, even in the clumsiest manner? Could the most learned man give motion and life to this little creature?" _Child._ And yet some people say that all this is done by chance; is this possible, papa? _Father._ My dear, there is no such thing as _chance_. GOD made the world, and all that it contains. He alone is the Creator and Preserver of all. Those that say that this insect was made by chance, show that they have never examined it; and thus they cannot have seen the powerful hand of GOD. _Child._ And what do those mean who say that _nature_ created animals and plants? _Father._ Those who speak so are generally irreligious and ignorant persons, who, instead of glorifying and blessing GOD as their Creator and Preserver, never mention his name in their works or conversation; and thus, instead of saying, 'GOD made this or that,' they say 'Nature made' such things. _Child._ GOD then made every thing? _Father._ Yes, every thing, except what is bad. _Child._ This must be true: GOD created us, and preserves us every moment. Yet few think of him, or speak of him. How does this happen, papa? _Father._ My dear child, our hearts are naturally turned away from GOD. Sin is the cause of this sad state: it separates our hearts from our Father and Creator. We do not wish to own that he preserves and takes care of us--supplies our wants, and gives us all things we enjoy. _Child._ Oh, papa! how few love GOD, and trust in him as they ought! _Father._ The true children of GOD alone really love him, desire to please him, and sincerely trust in his goodness. Yes, my child, till we are true Christians, till we are renewed and changed by the SPIRIT OF GOD, we are like this little insect. We receive life, motion, food, and clothing from him, but we seldom think of him; and we do not even thank him for all his gifts. _Child._ I think, papa, that those who forget GOD are not even so good as this little insect; for it at least does nothing wrong, while they are wicked, obstinate, proud, and ungrateful. _Father._ You are right, my dear child. The sinner is not so good as this insect. How thankful should we then be that our Saviour has redeemed us from sin, and has made us children of GOD, by uniting us for ever to himself? _Child._ Yes, we know that GOD is our Father, and that he loves us. I am sure he takes care of me, since he has given his SON to save me. What a good Father! what a kind Saviour! _Father._ Continue to love this good Saviour, my dear child; and always remember the words of St. Paul:--"He who spared not his own Son, but gave him up to the death for us all, shall he not with him also freely give us all things?" Remember the cochineal, which is so wonderfully formed by the LORD, and seek, above all things, the blessing of the all-wise, powerful, and good GOD, who never forgets you, and who is, through JESUS CHRIST, your heavenly Father. [Illustration] THE GREAT AND GOOD GOD. How wonderful this rolling ball Of earth, that bears me now! And, O! thou mighty GOD of all, How wonderful art Thou! (And what is this vast world to thee, With all its sea and land? Just what a pebble is _to me_, Or e'en a grain of sand.) And may a simple child address So great and high a King? And will he notice, will he bless So mean a little thing? And may I hope his love to win, Before his face to stand, Who holds this spacious world within The hollow of his hand? O yes! for though he is so high, He makes e'en worms his care; He will not scorn an infant's cry, A sinful infant's pray'r. Footnote: [Footnote A: Perhaps the young reader would know it better by its more common name of _lady bird_.] 
13539	----	Team DR. SCUDDER'S TALES FOR LITTLE READERS, ABOUT THE HEATHEN. 1849 The following work, so far as the Hindoos are concerned, is principally a compilation from the writings of Duff, Dubois, and others. Should the eyes of any Christian father or mother rest upon it, I would ask them if they have not a son or a daughter to dedicate to the _missionary_ work. The duty of devoting themselves to this work of Christ, or at least, of consecrating to it their money, their efforts, and their prayers, is the great duty to be perseveringly and prayerfully impressed on the minds of our children. A generation thus trained would, with aid from on high, soon effect the moral revolution of the world. Blessed will be that father, blessed will be that mother, who shall take any part in such a training. And I would add, too, blessed will be that pastor, and blessed will be that Sabbath-school teacher, who shall come up to their help. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. General Remarks CHAPTER II. The Color and Ornaments of the Hindoos CHAPTER III. Dress, Houses, Eating, and Salutation of the Hindoos CHAPTER IV. Marriage among the Hindoos CHAPTER V. Death and Funerals among the Hindoos CHAPTER VI. The Gods of the Hindoos CHAPTER VII. The Three Hundred and Thirty Millions of the Gods of the Hindoos--The Creation of the Universe--The Transmigration of Souls--The different Hells CHAPTER VIII. Hindoo Castes CHAPTER IX. Hindoo Temples--Cars--Procession of Idols CHAPTER X. Festivals of the Hindoos CHAPTER XI. The worship of the Serpent CHAPTER XII. The River Ganges CHAPTER XIII. The Goddess Durga CHAPTER XIV. The Goddess Karle CHAPTER XV. Self-tortures of the Hindoos Chapter XVI. The Suttee, or Burning of Widows CHAPTER XVII. The revengeful Nature of the Hindoo Religion CHAPTER XVIII. The Deception of the Hindoos CHAPTER XIX. Superstition of the Hindoos CHAPTER XX. Burmah, China, etc., etc. CHAPTER XXI. The duty of Praying and Contributing for the Spread of the Gospel CHAPTER XXII. Personal Labors among the Heathen CHAPTER XXIII. Success of the Gospel in India and Ceylon DR. SCUDDER'S TALES FOR LITTLE READERS, ABOUT THE HEATHEN. CHAPTER I. GENERAL REMARKS My dear children--When I was a little boy, my dear mother taught me, with the exception of the last line, the following prayer: "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take; And this I ask for Jesus' sake." Though I am now more than fifty years old, I often like to say this prayer before I go to sleep. Have you ever learned it, my dear children? If you have not, I hope that you will learn it _now_; and I hope, too, that when you say your other prayers at night, you will also say this. I think that you would be glad to see how this prayer looks in the Tamul language--the language in which I am now preaching the Gospel, and in which I hope that some of you will hereafter tell the heathen of the Saviour. The following is a translation of it: [Illustration: The Lord's Prayer in Tamul] I wish that all the little heathen children knew this prayer; but their fathers and mothers do not teach it to them. Their fathers and mothers teach them to pray to gods of gold, or brass, or stone. They take them, while they are very young, to their temples, and teach them to put up their hands before an idol, and say, "Swammie." Swammie means Lord. As idolatry is the root of all sin, these children, as you may suppose, in early life become very wicked. They disobey their parents, speak bad words, call ill names, swear, steal, and tell lies. They also throw themselves on the ground in anger, and in their rage they tear their hair, or throw dirt over their heads, and do many other wicked things. Let me give you an instance, to show you how they will speak bad words. A few months ago, a little girl about twelve years of age was brought to me, with two tumors in her back. To cut them out, I had to make an incision about eight inches in length; and as one of these tumors had extended under the shoulder-blade she suffered much before the operation was finished. While I was operating she cried out, "I will pull out my eyes." "I will pull out my tongue." "Kurn kertta tayvun." The translation of this is, "The blind-eyed god." By this expression, she meant to say, "What kind of a god are you, not to look upon me, and help me in my distress?" If this little girl had had a Christian father to teach her to love the Saviour, she would not have used such bad language. But this father was even more wicked than his daughter, inasmuch as those who grow old in sin, are worse than those who have not sinned so long. I never saw a more hard-hearted parent. That he was so, will appear from his conduct after the operation was finished. He left his daughter, and went off to his home, about forty miles distant. Before going, he said to his wife, or to one who came with her, "If the child gets well, bring her home; if she dies, take her away and bury her." I hope, my dear children, that when you think of the wicked little girl just mentioned, you will be warned never to speak bad words. God will be very angry with you, if you do. Did you never read what is said in 2 Kings, 2d chapter and 23d verse, about the little children who mocked the prophet Elijah, and spoke bad words to him. O, how sorry must they have felt for their conduct, when they saw the paws of those great bears lifted up to tear them in pieces, and which did tear them in pieces. Besides all this, little children who speak bad words can never go to heaven. God will cast them into the great fire. Have you ever spoken bad words? If so, God is angry with you, and he will not forgive you unless you are sorry that you have done so, and seek his forgiveness through the blood of his dear Son. CHAPTER II. THE COLOR AND ORNAMENTS OF THE HINDOOS. My dear children--If you will take a piece of mahogany in your hands, and view its different shades, you will have a pretty good representation of the color of a large class of this heathen people--I say, of a large class, for there is a great variety of colors. Some appear to be almost of a bronze color. Some are quite black. It is difficult to account for the different colors which we often see in the same family. For instance, one child will be of the reddish hue to which I just referred; another will be quite dark. When I was in Ceylon, two sisters of this description joined my church. One was called Sevappe, or the red one; the other was called Karappe, or the black one. This people very much resemble the English and Americans in their features. Many of them are very beautiful. This remark will apply particularly to children, and more especially to the children of Brahmins and others, who are delicately brought up. But however beautiful any of this people may be, they try to make themselves appear more so, by the ornaments which they wear. These ornaments are of very different kinds, and are made of gold, silver, brass, precious stones, or glass. All are fond of ear-rings. Sometimes four or five are worn in each ear, consisting of solid gold, the lower one being the largest, and the upper one the smallest. Some men wear a gold ornament attached to the middle of the ear, in which a precious stone is inserted. Sometimes they wear very large circular ear-rings, made of the wire of copper, around which gold is twisted so as to cover every part of it. These are frequently ornamented with precious stones. The females, in addition to ear-rings, have an ornament which passes through the rim of the ear, near the head, half of it being seen above the rim, and half of it below it. An ornamental chain is sometimes attached to this, which goes some distance back, when it is lost in the hair. They sometimes also wear a jewel in the middle of the rim of the ear, and another on that little forward point which strikes your finger when you attempt to put it into the ear. Nose jewels also are worn. Sometimes three are worn at the same time. Holes are made through each side of the lower part of the nose, and through the cartilage, or that substance which divides the nostrils, through which they are suspended. The higher and wealthier females wear a profusion of ornaments of gold and pearls around the neck. A very pretty ornament, about three inches in diameter, having the appearance of gold, is also frequently worn by them on that part of the head where the females in America put up their hair in a knot. In addition to this, the little girls sometimes wear one or two similar but smaller ornaments below this, as well as an ornament at the end of the long braid of hair which hangs down over the middle of their backs. Occasionally the whole, or the greater part of this braid is covered with an ornament of the same materials with those just described. They also wear an ornament extending from the crown of the head to the forehead, just in that spot where the little girls to whom I am writing part their hair. Attached to this, I have seen a circular piece of gold filled with rubies. Rings are worn on the toes as well as on the fingers, and bracelets of gold or silver on the wrists. Anklets similar to bracelets, and tinkling ornaments are worn on the ankles. The poor, who cannot afford to wear gold or silver bracelets, have them made of glass stained with different colors. I have seen nearly a dozen on each wrist. The little boys wear gold or silver bracelets; also gold or silver anklets. I just alluded to finger-rings. I have seen a dozen on the same hand. In this part of the country, the little opening which is made in the ears of the children is gradually distended until it becomes very large. At first, the opening is only large enough to admit a wire. After this has been worn for a short time, a knife is introduced into the ear in the direction of the opening, and an incision made large enough to admit a little cotton. This is succeeded by a roll of oiled cloth, and by a peculiar shrub, the English name of which, if it has any, I do not know. When the hole becomes sufficiently large, a heavy ring of lead, about an inch in diameter, is introduced. This soon increases the size of the opening to such an extent, that a second, and afterwards a third, a fourth, and a fifth ring are added. By these weights, the lower parts of the ear are drawn down sometimes very nearly, or quite to the shoulders. Not unfrequently the little girls, when they run, are obliged to catch hold of these rings to prevent the injury which they would receive by their striking against their necks. I need hardly say, that in due time, these rings are removed, and ornamented rings are substituted. A different plan is pursued with the Mohammedan little girls. They have their ears bored from the top to the bottom of the ear. The openings which are at first made are small, and are never enlarged. A ring is inserted in each of these openings. I have seen a little girl to-day in whose ears I counted twenty-four rings. Flowers in great profusion are sometimes used to add to the adornment of the jewels. I cannot conclude my account of the jewels of the little girls, without giving you a description of the appearance of a little patient of mine who came here a few days ago, loaded with trinkets. I will give it in the words of my daughter, which she wrote in part while the girl was here. "On the 17th, a little dancing-girl came to see us. She was adorned with many jewels, some of which were very beautiful. The jewel in the top of the ear was a circle, nearly the size of a dollar. It was set with rubies. Nine pearls were suspended from it. In the middle of the ear was a jewel of a diamond shape, set with rubies and pearls. The lowest jewel in the ear was shaped like a bell. It was set with rubies, and from it hung a row of pearls. Close by the ear, suspended from the hair, was a jewel which reached below her ear. It consisted of six bells of gold, one above the other. Around each was a small row of pearls, which reached nearly to the bell below, thus forming a jewel resembling very many drops of pearls. It is the most beautiful jewel that I ever saw. In the right side of her nose was a white stone, set with gold, in the shape of a star. From it hung a large pearl. There was a hole bored in the partition between the nostrils. This hole had a jewel in it, about an inch in length, in the middle of which was a white stone with a ruby on each side. It also had a ruby on the top. From the white stone hung another, of a similar color, attached to it by a piece of gold. In the left side of the nose was a jewel about an inch in diameter. It was somewhat in the shape of a half-moon, and was set with rubies, pearls, emeralds, etc. etc. This jewel hung below her mouth. On the back of her head was a large, round gold piece, three inches in diameter. Another piece about two inches in diameter, hung below this. Her hair was braided in one braid, and hung down her back. At the bottom of this were three large tassels of silk, mounted with gold. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were painted with black. Her neck was covered with jewels of such beauty, and of such a variety, that it is impossible for me to describe them. Around her ankles were large rings which looked like braided silver. To these were attached very many little bells, which rung as she walked. I believe all dancing-girls wear these rings. We felt very sad when we thought that she was dedicated to a life of infamy and shame." There is an ornament worn by the followers of the god Siva, on their arms, or necks, or in their hair. It is called the _lingum_. The nature of this is so utterly abominable, that I cannot tell you a word about it. Married women wear an ornament peculiar to themselves. It is called the tahly. It is a piece of gold, on which is engraven the image of some one of their gods. This is fastened around the neck by a short yellow string, containing one hundred and eight threads of great fineness. Various ceremonies are performed before it is applied, and the gods, of whom I will tell you something by and by, with their wives, are called upon to give their blessing. When these ceremonies are finished, the tahly is brought on a waiter, ornamented with sweet-smelling flowers, and is tied by the bridegroom to the neck of the bride. This ornament is never taken off, unless her husband dies. In such a case she is deprived of it, to wear it no more for ever--deprived of it, after various ceremonies, by her nearest female relative, who cuts the thread by which it is suspended, and removes it. After this a barber is called, who shaves her head, and she becomes, in the eyes of the people, a _despised_ widow--no more to wear any ornament about her neck but a plain one--no more to stain her face with yellow water, nor to wear on her forehead those marks which are considered by the natives as among their chief ornaments. I have now told you something about the jewels of this people. I hope that you will never be disposed to imitate them, and load your bodies with such useless things. They are not only useless, but tend to encourage pride and vanity. All that you need is, the "Pearl of great price," even Jesus. Adorn yourself with this Pearl, and you will be beautiful indeed--beautiful even in the sight of your heavenly Father. Have you this Pearl of great price, my dear children? Tell me, have you this Pearl of great price? If you have not, what have you? I just now alluded to those marks which the natives consider among their chief ornaments. These are different among different sects. The followers of Siva rub ashes on their foreheads. These ashes are generally prepared by burning what in the Tamul language is called [Tamul:] _chaarne._ They also apply these ashes in streaks, generally three together, on their breasts, and on their arms. Some besmear their whole bodies with them. The followers of Vrishnoo wear a very different ornament from that just described. It consists of a perpendicular line drawn on the forehead, generally of a red or yellow color, and a white line on each side of it, which unite at the bottom with the middle line, and form a trident. Another ornament consists of a small circle, which is called pottu. This is stamped in the middle of the forehead. Sometimes it is red, sometimes yellow or black. Large numbers of women, in this part of the country, wash their faces with a yellow water, made so by dissolving in it a paste made of a yellow root and common shell-lime. The Brahmins frequently instead of rubbing ashes, draw a horizontal line over the middle of their foreheads, to show that they have bathed and are pure. Sometimes the people ornament themselves with a paste of sandal-wood. They rub themselves from head to foot with it. This has a very odoriferous smell. When the people are loaded with jewels, and covered with the marks which I have just described they think themselves to be highly ornamented But after all, "they are like unto whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men's bones, and of all uncleanness." The "Pearl of great price," to which I before alluded, the only Pearl which is of any value in the sight of Him who looketh at the heart, and not at the outward appearance, they possess not. Millions in this Eastern world have never even heard of it. O how incessantly ought you to pray that they may come into possession of it. How gladly should you give your money to send it to them. I wish, in this place, to ask you one question. Who of you expect, by and by, to become missionaries to this land, to tell this people of the Pearl of great price? CHAPTER III. DRESS, HOUSES, EATING, AND SALUTATION OF THE HINDOOS. My dear Children--The dress of the Hindoos is very simple. A single piece of cloth uncut, about three yards in length and one in width, wrapped round the loins, with a shawl thrown over the shoulders, constitutes the usual apparel of the people of respectability. These garments are often fringed with red silk or gold. The native ladies frequently almost encase themselves in cloth or silk. Under such circumstances, their cloths are perhaps twenty yards in length. Most of the native gentlemen now wear turbans, an ornament which they have borrowed from the Mohammedans This consists of a long piece of very fine stuff, sometimes twenty yards in length and one in breadth. With this they encircle the head in many folds. Those who are employed by European or Mohammedan princes, wear a long robe of muslin, or very fine cloth. This also, is in imitation of the Mohammedans, and was formerly unknown in the country. The houses of the Hindoos are generally very plainly built. In the country, they are commonly made of earth, and thatched with straw. In the cities, they are covered with tiles. The kitchen is situated in the most retired part of the house. In the houses of the Brahmins, the kitchen-door is always barred, to prevent strangers from looking upon their earthen vessels; for if they should happen to see them, their look would pollute them to such a degree that they must be broken to pieces. The hearth is generally placed on the south-west side, which is said to be the side of the _god of fire_, because they say that this god actually dwells there. The domestic customs of this people are very different from ours. The men and women do not eat together. The husband first eats, then the wife. The wife waits upon the husband After she has cooked the rice, she brings a brass plate, if they are possessors of one; or if not, a piece of a plantain-leaf, and puts it down on the mat before him. She then bails out the rice, places it upon the leaf, and afterwards pours the currie over it. This being done, the husband proceeds to mix up the currie and the rice with his hands, and puts it into his mouth. He never uses a knife and fork, as is customary with us. The currie of which I have spoken is a sauce of a yellow color, owing to the _munchel_, a yellow root which they put in it. This and onions, kottamaly-seeds mustard, serakum, pepper, etc., constitute the ingredients of the currie. Some add to these ghea, or melted butter, and cocoa-nut milk. By the cocoa-nut milk, I do not mean the water of the cocoa-nut. This--except in the very young cocoa-nut, when it is a most delicious beverage--is never used. The milk is squeezed from the _meat_ of the cocoa-nut, after it has been reduced to a pulp by means of an indented circular iron which they use for this purpose. After the husband has eaten, the wife brings water for him to wash his hands. This being done, she supplies him with vettalay, paakku, shell-lime, and tobacco, which he puts into his mouth as his dessert. The vettalay is a very spicy leaf. Why they use paakku, I do not know. It is a nut, which they cut into small pieces, but it has not much taste. Sometimes the wife brings her husband a segar. This people, I am sorry to say, are great smokers and chewers, practices of which I hope that you, my dear children, will never be guilty. In Ceylon, it is customary for females to smoke. Frequently, after the husband has smoked for a while, he hands the segar to his wife. She then puts it into her mouth, and smokes. Several years ago, one of the schoolmasters in that island became a Christian. After he had partaken of the Lord's supper, his wife considered him so defiled, that she would not put his segar into her mouth for a month afterwards. She, however, has since become a Christian. I spoke just now of the plantain-leaf. This leaf is sometimes six feet long, and in some places a foot and a half wide. It is an unbroken leaf, with a large stem running through the middle of it. It is one of the handsomest of leaves. Pieces enough can be torn from a single leaf, to take the place of a dozen plates. When quite young, it is an excellent application to surfaces which have been blistered. When this people eat, they do not use tables and chairs. They sit down on mats, and double their legs under them, after the manner of our friends the tailors in America, when they sew. This is the way in which the natives as a general thing, sit in our churches. It is not common to have benches or pews for them. Carpenters and other tradesmen also sit down either on a board, or on the ground, or on their legs, when they work. It would divert you much to see their manoeuvring. If a carpenter, for instance, wants to make a little peg, he will take a small piece of board, and place it in an erect position between his feet, the soles of which are turned inward so as to press upon the board. He then takes his chisel in one hand, and his mallet in the other, and cuts off a small piece. Afterwards he holds the piece in one hand, and while he shapes it with his chisel with the other, he steadies it by pressing it against his great toe. [Illustration] The blacksmiths, with the exception of those who use the sledge-hammer, sit as do the carpenters while they hammer the iron. I wish you could see them at work with their simple apparatus. They have small anvils, which they place in a hole made in a log of wood which is buried in the ground. They do not use such bellows as you see in America. Theirs consist of two leather bags, about a foot wide and a foot and a half long, each having a nozzle at one end. The other end is left open to admit the air. When they wish to blow the fire, they extend these bags to let in the air. They then close them by means of the thumb on one side, and the fingers on the other, and press them down towards the nozzle of the bellows, which forces the air through them into the fire. I should have said before, that the nozzle of the bellows passes through a small semicircular mound of dried mud. I mentioned that the natives do not use tables and chairs in their houses. Neither do they, as a general thing, use bedsteads. They have no beds. They sleep on mats, which are spread down on the floor. Sometimes they use a cotton bolster for their heads. More generally their pillows are hard boards, which they put under the mat. In addition to cooking, the females have to prepare the rice for this purpose, by taking it out of the husk. This they do by beating it in a mortar about two feet high. The pestle with which they pound it, is about five feet long, made of wood, with an iron rim around the lower part of it. Three women can work at these mortars at the same time. Of course they have to be very skilful in the use of the pestle, so as not to interfere with each others' operations. Sometimes, while thus engaged, the children, who are generally at play near their mothers, put their hands on the edge of the mortars. In such cases, when the pestle happens to strike the edge, their fingers are taken off in a moment. The Hindoos have many modes of salutation. In some places they raise their right hand to the heart. In others, they simply stretch it out towards the person who is passing, if they know him, for they never salute persons with whom they are not acquainted. In many places there is no show of salutation. When they meet their acquaintances they content themselves by saying a friendly word or two in passing, and then pursue their way. They have borrowed the word _salam_ from the Mohammedans. They salute both Mohammedans and Europeans with this word, at the same time raising their hand to the forehead. When they address persons of high rank, they give them their _salam_ thrice, touching the ground as often with both hands, and then lifting them up to their foreheads. The other castes salute the Brahmins by joining the hands and elevating them to the forehead, or sometimes over the head. It is accompanied with _andamayya_, which means, Hail, respected lord. The Brahmins stretch out their hands and say, _aaseervaathum_--benediction. Another very respectful kind of salutation consists in lowering both hands to the feet of the person to be honored, or even in falling-down and embracing them. Of all the forms of salutation, the most respectful is the _shaashtaangkum_, or prostration, in which the feet, the knees, the stomach, the head, and the arms, all touch the ground. In doing this, they throw themselves at their whole length on the ground, and stretch out both arms above their heads. This is practised before priests, and in the presence of an assembly, when they appear before it to beg pardon for a crime. Relations, who have long been separated, testify their joy when they meet by chucking each other under the chin, and shedding tears of joy. I am not aware that grown persons ever kiss each other. Sometimes mothers, or other individuals, will put their noses to the cheeks of little children, and draw the air through them, just as we do when we smell any thing which is agreeable. At other times they will apply the thumb and first finger to the cheek of the child, and then apply them to their own noses, and, as it were, smell them. The women, as a mark of respect, turn their backs, or at least their faces aside, when they are in the presence of those whom they highly esteem. They are never permitted to sit in the presence of men. A married woman cannot do this, even in the presence of her husband. If a person meets another of high rank, he must leave the path, if on foot, or alight, if on horseback, and remain standing until he has passed. He must at the same time take off his slippers. He also must take off his slippers when he enters a house. Should he fail to do this, it would be considered a great impropriety. In addressing a person of note, they mast keep at a certain distance from him, and cover their mouths with their hands while they are speaking, lest their breath, or a particle of moisture, should escape to trouble him. When the Hindoos visit a person of distinction for the first time, civility requires them to take some present as a mark of respect, or to show that they come with a friendly intention; especially if they wish to ask some favor in return. When they have not the means of making large presents, they carry with them sugar, plantains, milk, and other things of this kind. In case of mourning, visits must always be made, though at a distance of a hundred miles. Letters of condolence would by no means be received as a substitute. CHAPTER IV. MARRIAGE AMONG THE HINDOOS. My dear Children--Marriage, to the Hindoos is the greatest event of their lives. In the celebration of it, many ceremonies are performed Of these I will mention some of the most important. If the father of the young girl is a Brahmin, and if he is rich and liberal, he will frequently bear all the expenses of the marriage of his daughter. To give a daughter in marriage and to sell her, are about the same thing. Almost every parent makes his daughter an article of traffic, refusing to give her up until the sum of money for which he consented to let her go, is paid. Men of distinction generally lay out this money for jewels, which they present to their daughters on their wedding-day. You will infer from what I have just said, that the parties to be married have nothing to do in the choice of each other. There are properly but four months in the year in which marriages can take place, namely March, April, May, and June. This probably arises from the circumstance that these are the hottest seasons of the year--the seasons when the people have more leisure to attend to them. From the harvest, also, which has just been gathered in, they are provided with means to perform the various ceremonies. The marriage ceremony lasts five days. The bride and bridegroom are first placed under a puntel, a kind of bower, covered with leaves, in front of the house. This is superbly adorned. The married women then come forward, and perform the ceremony called _arati_, which is as follows. Upon a plate of copper, they place a lamp made of a paste from rice flour. It is supplied with oil, and lighted. They then take hold of the plate with both hands, and raise it as high as the heads of the couple to be married, and describe a number of circles with the plate and lamp. This is to prevent the evil of any jealous looks, which certain persons might make. The Hindoos believe that great evils arise from wicked looks. They consider that even the gods themselves are not out of the reach of malicious eyes; and therefore after they have been carried through the streets, the ceremony of arati is always performed, to efface the evil which they may have suffered from these looks. It ought to have been mentioned, that before any thing is done, they place an image of Pullian under the puntel. This god is much honored because he is much feared. And although the great ugliness of his appearance has hitherto kept him without a wife, they never fail to pay him the greatest attention, lest he should in some way or other injure them. After arati and many other ceremonies are performed, the kankanan, which is merely a bit of saffron, is tied to the right wrist of the young man, and to the left wrist of the girl. This is done with great solemnity. Another remarkable ceremony succeeds this. The young man being seated with his face towards the east, his future father-in-law supposes that he beholds in him the great Vrishnoo. With this impression, he offers him a sacrifice, and then, making him put both of his feet in a new dish filled with cow-dung, he first washes them with water, then with milk, and again with water, accompanying the whole with suitable muntrums or prayers. After many other ceremonies, he takes the hand of his daughter and puts it into that of his son-in-law. He then pours water over them in honor of Vrishnoo. This is the most solemn of all the ceremonies, being the token of his resigning his daughter to the authority of the young man. She must be accompanied with three gifts, namely, one or more cows, some property in land, and a _salagrama_, which consists of some little amulet stones in high esteem among the Brahmins. This ceremony being finished, the tahly is brought to be fastened to the neck of the bride. This, as I before said, is presented on a salver, decked and garnished with sweet-smelling flowers. Incense is offered to it, and it is presented to the assistants each of whom touches it and invokes blessings upon it. The bride then turning towards the East, the bridegroom takes the tahly, repeats a muntrum or prayer aloud, and ties it around her neck. Fire is then brought in, upon which the bridegroom offers up the sacrifice of _homam_, which consists of throwing boiled rice with melted butter upon the fire. He then takes his bride by the hand, and they walk three times around it, while the incense is blazing. There is another ceremony, which, perhaps, ought to be mentioned, as it is considered by some to be one of much importance. Two baskets of bamboo are placed close together, one for the bride, the other for the bridegroom. They step into them, and two other baskets being brought, filled with ground rice, the husband takes up one with both hands and pours the contents over the head of the bride. She does the same to him. In the marriage of great princes pearls are sometimes used instead of rice. On the evening of the third day, when the constellations appear, the astrologer points out to the married pair a very small star, close to the middle or in the tail of _Ursa Major_, which he directs them to worship, and which he says is the wife of Vasestha. While the assembled guests, are dining, the bridegroom and the bride also partake, and eat together from the same plate. This is a token of the closest union. This is the only instance in which they ever eat together. After all the ceremonies are finished, a procession is made through the streets of the village It commonly takes place in the night, by torchlight, accompanied with fire-works. The newly married pair are seated in one palanquin with their faces towards each other, both richly dressed. The bride, in particular, is generally covered with jewels and precious stones. The procession moves slowly; and their friends and relations come out of their houses, as they pass; the women hailing the married couple with the ceremony of _arati_, and the men with presents of silver, fruits, sugar, and betel. I once witnessed one of these marriage processions in the streets of Madras at night, but can give you but little idea of its magnificence. The lamps used on the occasion could not be numbered. The shrubbery, which was drawn on carts or other vehicles, appeared exceedingly beautiful, in consequence of the light reflected from the lamps. Intermingled with this shrubbery, were to be seen little girls elegantly dressed, and adorned with flowers on their heads. Many elephants, with their trappings of gold and silver and red, formed a part of the procession. Fire-works were also added to make the scene more brilliant. CHAPTER V. DEATH AND FUNERALS OF THE HINDOOS. My dear Children--The death of a Hindoo is followed by many ridiculous ceremonies. I will give you a description of a few, connected with the death of one who has moved in one of the higher ranks--of a Brahmin. [Illustration] When it is evident that a Brahmin has but a little time to live, a space is prepared with earth, well spread with cow-dung, over which a cloth, that has never been worn, is spread. The dying man is placed upon this at full length. Another cloth is wrapped around his loins. This being done, the ceremony of expiating his sins is performed as follows. The chief of the funeral brings on one plate some small pieces of silver or copper coin, and on another the punchakaryam, etc. A little of this punchakaryam is then put into his mouth, and, by virtue of this nauseous draught, the body is perfectly purified. Besides this, there is a general cleansing, which is accomplished by making the dying man recite within himself, if he cannot speak, the proper muntrums, by which he is delivered from all his sins. After this, a cow is introduced with her calf. Her horns are decorated with rings of gold or brass, and her neck with garlands of flowers. A pure cloth is laid over her body. Thus decked, she is led up to the sick man, who takes hold of her tail. Prayers are now offered up that the cow may conduct him, by a blessed path, to the next world. He then makes a gift of a cow to a Brahmin. This gift is considered indispensable to enable the soul to go over the river of fire, which it is said all must pass after death. Those who have made this gift, are met by one of these favored creatures the moment they arrive at the bank of the stream, and by her help, they are enabled to pass without injury from the flames. As soon as the breath has left his body, all who are present must weep for a reasonable time, and join in lamentations together. After various ceremonies, the body is washed, and a barber is called to shave his head. He is then clad with his finest clothes and adorned with jewels. He is rubbed with sandal-wood where the body is uncovered, and the accustomed mark is put upon his forehead. Thus dressed he is placed on a kind of state bed, where he remains until he is carried to the pile. After every preparation is made to bear away the corpse, the person who is to conduct the funeral, with the assistance of some relative or friend, strips it of its clothing and jewels, and covers it with a handkerchief provided for the occasion. The corpse is then placed on a litter. Those who die in a state of marriage, have their faces left uncovered. The litter, adorned with flowers and foliage, and sometimes decked with valuable stuffs, is borne by four Brahmins. The procession is arranged as follows. The chief of the funeral marches foremost, carrying fire in a vessel. The body follows, attended by the relations and friends, without their turbans, and with nothing on their heads but a bit of cloth, in token of mourning. The women never attend the funeral, but remain in the house, where they set up a hideous cry when the corpse is taken out. While advancing on the road, the custom is to stop three times on the way, and, at each pause, to put into the mouth of the dead a morsel of unboiled rice, moistened. The object of stopping is considered to be very important. It is not without reason; for they say that persons supposed to be dead have been alive, or even when lifeless have been restored; and sometimes, also, it has happened that the gods of the infernal regions have mistaken their aim, and seized one person instead of another. In any view, it is right to afford the opportunity for correcting these mistakes, so as not to expose to the flames a person who is still alive. Hence the propriety of these pauses, each of which continues half of the quarter of an hour. Having arrived at the place for burning the dead, they dig a trench about six or seven feet in length. This is consecrated by the muntrums. It is slightly sprinkled with water to lay the dust, and a few pieces of money in gold are scattered upon it. Here the pile is erected of dried wood, on which the body is laid out at full length. Over the body a quantity of twigs are laid, which are sprinkled with punchakaryam The chief of the funeral then takes on his shoulders a pitcher of water, and goes around the pile three times, letting the water run through a hole made in it. After this he breaks the pitcher in pieces near the head of the corpse. At last the torch is brought for setting fire to the pile, and is handed to the chief of the funeral. Before he receives it, however, he is obliged to make some grimaces to prove his sorrow. He rolls about on the ground, beats his breast, and makes the air resound with his cries. The assistants also cry, or appear to cry. Fire being applied to the four corners of the pile, the crowd retire, except the four Brahmins who carried the body; they remain until the whole is consumed. The funerals of the Sudras differ in some particulars from those of the Brahmins. Deafening sounds of drums, trumpets, and other instruments of music, not in use among the Brahmins, accompany their funerals. To increase the noise, they sometimes shoot off an instrument which somewhat resembles a small cannon. I do not now think of any other particular worthy of mention. By the ceremonies which are performed at their funerals, this wretched people expect to secure the pardon of all the sins of those who have died. Alas, what a delusion! O, that Christians had sent the Gospel to this dark land in the days when they sent it to our heathen fathers. Then might the Hindoos now be seeking the expiation of their sins, through the blood of the ever-blessed Redeemer. Of this Redeemer, however, they know nothing. They enter eternity, not that their souls may be consumed as their bodies have been, but to endure the flames of divine wrath for ever and ever. Alas, alas, that it should be so! O, that the generation of Christians now living would lay these things to heart, and do what they can, through grace, to rescue those who are yet within the reach of hope from so tremendous a doom. What, my dear children, will you do for this purpose? CHAPTER VI. THE GODS OF THE HINDOOS. My dear Children--The word heathen is applied to those who worship idols, or who do not know any thing about the true God. This is the case with this people. They say that there is one supreme being, whom they call BRAHM; but he is very different from Jehovah, and is never worshipped. Generally, he is fast asleep. In the place of Brahm, they worship many gods--gods of all colors: some black, some white, some blue, some red--gods of all shapes and sizes: some in the shape of beasts, some in the shape of men; some partly in the shape of beasts, and partly in the shape of men, having four, or ten, or a hundred, or a thousand eyes, heads, and hands. They ride through the air on elephants, buffaloes, lions, sheep, deer, goats, peacocks, vultures, geese, serpents, and rats. They hold in their hands all kinds of weapons, offensive and defensive, thunderbolts javelins, spears, clubs, bows, arrows, shields, flags, and shells. They are of all employments. There are gods of the heavens above and of the earth below, gods of wisdom and of folly, gods of war and of peace, gods of good and of evil, gods of pleasure, gods of cruelty and wrath, whose thirst must be satiated with torrents of blood. These gods fight and quarrel with one another. They lie, steal, commit adultery, murder, and other crimes. They pour out their curses when they cannot succeed in their wicked plots, and invent all kinds of lying tales to hide their wickedness. There are three principal gods, who compose what is called the Hindoo triad. Their names are Brumha, Vrishnoo, and Siva. They were somehow drawn from Brahm's essence, on one occasion when he was awake. Brumha, they say, is the creator of the world, Vrishnoo the preserver, and Siva the destroyer. Brumha has no temple erected for his worship, on account of a great falsehood which he told. I will tell you what it was. Once, as it is said, there was a dispute between him and Vrishnoo, as to who is the greatest. While thus disputing, Siva appeared between the two as a fire-post and told them that he who would find the bottom or the top of the post first, would show that he is the greatest. Vrishnoo immediately changed himself into a hog, and began to root up the earth with the hope of finding the bottom of the post. Brumha changed himself into a swan, flew up towards the top of the post, and cried out, I have found it, when he had not. This, you know, my dear children, was a falsehood. For this falsehood, it is said, no temple is erected for his worship. Vrishnoo was a thief and a liar. He was once dwelling in the house of a dairyman, and he used constantly to be stealing butter and curdled milk from the dairyman's wife. She did not know, for a long time, what became of her butter and curdled milk; but at last she found out that Vrishnoo was the thief. To punish him for his theft, she tied him to a rice mortar. Siva's conduct was very bad. I will tell you but one thing about him. On one occasion he was playing at cards with his wife Parvathe. Vrishnoo was appointed to determine who was the best player. After playing for a little season Parvathe won the game. Siva then beckoned to Vrishnoo to declare that he, instead of Parvathe, had won it. This he did. In consequence of this falsehood, he was cursed by Parvathe, and changed into a snake. And now, my dear children, why do I tell you about these gods? I tell you for the purpose of making you thankful that you were born in a Christian land, where you have the Bible to teach you better things. Had you not the Bible, you would worship just such wretched beings as these poor Hindoos worship. Perhaps you know that our Saxon fathers, before they had the Bible, were as great idolaters as are this people. They worshipped Thor and Woden and other similar idols, and they were even in the habit of offering up human sacrifices Surely, if there is any thing which should make you give your hearts to your Saviour and love him above all things, it is God's gift of the Bible to you. CHAPTER VII. THE THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY MILLIONS OF THE GODS OF THE HINDOOS--THE CREATION OF THE UNIVERSE--THE TRANSMIGRATION OF SOULS--THE DIFFERENT HELLS. My dear children--I told you that in one of those seasons when Brahm was awake, Brumha, Vrishnoo, and Siva were somehow drawn from Brahm's essence. The three hundred and thirty millions of the gods of the Hindoos were also drawn from this essence; as were all the atoms which compose the earth, the sun, moon, and stars. At first, these atoms were all in disorder. For the purpose of reducing them to order, Brahm created what is called the great mundane egg. Into this egg he himself entered, under the form, of Brumha, taking with him all these atoms. After remaining in this egg four thousand three hundred millions of years, to arrange these atoms, he burst its shell and came out, with a thousand heads, a thousand eyes, and a thousand arms. With him, he brought out all those harmonized atoms, which, when separated, produced this beautiful universe that we see above and around us. The universe, as it came from the mundane egg, is generally divided into fourteen worlds: seven inferior or lower worlds, and seven superior or upper worlds. The seven lower worlds are filled with all kinds of wicked and loathsome creatures. Our earth, which is the first of the upper worlds, it is said, is flat. The following figure will give you some idea of it. [Illustration: Concentric circles with labels on each from outermost to innermost: Sea of Sweet Water. Sea of Milk. Sea of Sour Curds. Sea of Clarified Butter. Sea of Spirituous Liquors. Sea of Sugar Cane Juice. Sea of Salt Water. Earth.] That part of the earth which is inhabited consists of seven circular islands, or continents each of which is surrounded by a different ocean. The island in the centre, where we dwell, is surrounded by a sea of salt water, the second island is surrounded by a sea of sugar-cane juice, the third island is surrounded by a sea of spirituous liquors, the fourth is surrounded by a sea of clarified butter, the fifth is surrounded by a sea of sour curds, the sixth is surrounded by a sea of milk, the seventh is surrounded by a sea of sweet water. In all the worlds above ours are mansions where the gods reside. In the third is the heaven of Indra. This is the heaven to which it is said the widow goes, after she has burned herself to death on the funeral pile of her husband Its palaces are of the purest gold. And such are the quantities of diamonds, and jasper, and sapphire, and emerald, and all manner of precious stones there, that it shines with a brightness superior to that of twelve thousand suns. Its streets are of the clearest crystal, fringed with gold. In the seventh, or the highest of the upper worlds, is the heaven where Brumha chiefly resides. This far exceeds all the other heavens in point of beauty. In the inferior worlds it is stated that there are one hundred thousand hells. These are provided for such as have been great criminals. The Hindoos say, that those who have not been very wicked, can make an atonement for their sins in this world. Should they neglect to do this, they must suffer for it in another birth. They believe in what is called the transmigration of souls, or the passing of the soul, after death, into another body. The soul must suffer in the next birth, if not purified in this. Hence it is asserted, that if a man is a stealer of gold from a Brahmin, he is doomed to have whitlows on his nails; if a drinker of spirits, black teeth; if a false detractor, fetid breath; if a stealer of grain, the defect of some limb; if a stealer of clothes, leprosy; if a horse-stealer, lameness; if a stealer of a lamp, total blindness. If he steals grain in the husk, he will be born a rat; if yellow mixed metal, a gander; if money, a great stinging gnat; if fruit, an ape; if the property of a priest, a crocodile. Those persons whose sins are too great to be forgiven in this world, must be sent to one of the hells to winch I have alluded. Weeping, wailing, shrieking, they are dragged to the palace of _Yama_, the king of those doleful regions. On arriving there, they behold him clothed with terror, two hundred and forty miles in height, his eyes as large as a lake of water, his voice as loud as thunder, the hairs of his body as long as palm-trees, a flame of fire proceeding from his mouth, the noise of his breath like the roaring of a tempest, and in his right hand a terrific iron club. Sentence is passed, and the wretched beings are doomed to receive punishment according to the nature of their crimes. Some are made to tread on burning sands, or sharp-edged stones. Others are rolled among thorns and spikes and putrefying flesh. Others are dragged along the roughest places by cords passed through the tender parts of the body. Some are attacked by jackals, tigers, and elephants. Others are pierced with arrows, beaten with clubs, pricked with needles, seared with hot irons, and tormented by flies and wasps. Some are plunged into pans of liquid fire or boiling oil. Others are dashed from lofty trees, many hundred miles high. The torment of these hells does not continue for ever. After criminals have been punished for a longer or shorter time, their souls return to the earth again in the bodies of men. Here they may perform such good acts as may raise them to one of the heavens of the gods; or commit crimes, which may be the means of their being sent again to the abodes of misery. Things will go on in this way until the universe comes to an end, when every thing is to disappear, and to be swallowed up in Brahm. The Hindoos say, that it is now more than one hundred and fifty billions of years since the world was created. After it has continued about one hundred and fifty billions of years more, it is to come to an end. Then Brumha is to die, and to be swallowed up with the universe in the sole existing Brahm. By what you have heard, you will learn that the Hindoos expect, by their sufferings, to make an atonement for their sins. But there is no atonement for sin, except through the blood of Jesus Christ. We must come as lost sinners to our heavenly Father, confess our transgressions to him, and plead for his forgiveness, only through the sufferings and death which Christ endured. My dear children, have you done this? If not, do it speedily, or the regions of the lost must soon be your everlasting abode. CHAPTER VIII. HINDOO CASTES. My dear Children--The people of India are divided into castes, as they are called. Their sacred books declare, that after Brumha had peopled the heavens above and the worlds below, he created the human race, consisting of four classes or castes. From his mouth proceeded the Brahmin caste. Those of this class are the highest and noblest beings on earth, and hold the office of priests. At the same time there flowed from his mouth the _Vedas_, or sacred books, of which the Brahmins are the sole teachers To their fellow-men, they were to give such parts of these books as they thought best. From Brumha's arm proceeded the military caste. The business of this class is to defend their country when attacked by enemies. From his breast proceeded the third caste, consisting of farmers and merchants. From his feet, the member of inferiority, proceeded the Sudras, or servile caste. Carpenters, braziers, weavers, dyers, and the manual cultivators of the soil, are included in this class. Caste is not a civil, but a sacred institution. You must get some one older than yourself to explain what this means. Caste is a difference of _kind_. Hence, a man of one caste can never be changed into a man of another caste, any more than a lion can be changed into a mole, or a mole into a lion. Each caste has its laws, the breaking of which is attended with great disgrace, and even degradation below all the other castes. For instance, if a Brahmin should, by eating any forbidden thing, break his caste, he would sink below all the other castes. He would become an outcast, or pariah. For beneath the fourth, or lowest caste, there is a class of people belonging to no caste--a class of outcasts, held in the utmost abhorrence. By the system of castes, the Hindoos have been divided into so many selfish sections, each scowling on all the rest with feelings of hatred and contempt. The spirit which upholds it, is similar to that spirit which says, "Stand by thyself, for I am holier than thou," and, of course, is nothing but pride. This is one of the greatest obstacles to the spread of Christianity in this dark land, and for the exhibition of which we were lately obliged to cut off many of the members of our churches. The Brahmins, in consequence of their being of the highest caste, and of their having been taught from their infancy to regard all other classes of men with the utmost contempt, are very proud. They make great efforts to keep themselves pure, in their sense of the word, both without and within. They are exceedingly afraid of being defiled by persons of other castes. They have the utmost dread even of being touched by a pariah. For them to eat with any of these pariahs, or to go into their houses, or to drink water which they have drawn, or from vessels which they have handled, is attended with the loss of their caste. A Brahmin who should enter their houses, or permit them to enter his, would be cut off from his caste, and could not be restored without many troublesome ceremonies and great expense. The pariahs are considered to be so low, that if a Brahmin were to touch them, even with the end of a long pole, he would be looked upon as polluted In some districts they are obliged to make a long circuit, when they perceive Brahmins in the way, that their breath may not infect them, or their shadow fall upon them as they pass. In some places their very approach is sufficient to pollute a whole neighborhood. The Brahmins carry their ideas of purity very far. Should a Sudra happen to look upon the vessels in which they cook their food, they would be considered as defiled. They can never touch any kind of leather or skin, except the skin of the tiger and antelope. The most disagreeable of all American fashions, in their eyes, is that of boots and gloves. They rarely eat their food from plates; and when they do so, it is only at home. They use the leaf of the plantain or other trees as a substitute. To offer them any thing to eat on a metal or earthen plate which others have used, would be considered a great affront. For the same reason, they will neither use a spoon nor a fork when they eat; and they are astonished that any one, after having applied them to their mouths, and infected them with saliva, should repeat the act a second time. They have a great abhorrence of the toothpick, if used a second time. When they eat any thing dry, they throw it into their mouths, so that the fingers may not approach the lips. They do not drink as we do, by applying the cup to the lips. This would be considered a gross impropriety. They pour the water into their months. The reason why they do these things is, because they consider the saliva to be the most filthy secretion that comes from the body. It is on this account that no one is ever permitted to spit within doors. The use of animal food they consider to be defiling. Not only will they not eat animal food, but they will eat nothing that has the principle of life in it. On this account, they cannot eat eggs of any kind. I was once breaking an egg in my medicine-room at Panditeripo, while a Brahmin was present. He told me that, under such circumstances, he could not remain with me any longer. In his view, I was committing a great sin. To kill an ox or a cow, is considered by them as a crime which can never be atoned for, and to eat their flesh is a defilement which can never be washed away. To kill a cow is, by _Hindoo_ law, punishable with death. The touch of most animals, particularly that of the dog, defiles a Brahmin. Should a dog touch them, they would be obliged instantly to plunge into water, and wash their clothes, in order to get rid of such a stain. Notwithstanding this, the dog is one of the gods worshipped by the Hindoos. The Hindoos consider themselves to be unclean if they have assisted at a funeral. When the ceremony is over, they immediately plunge into water for the sake of purification. Even the news of the death of a relative, a hundred miles off, has the same effect. The person who hears such news is considered unclean until he has bathed. In unison with this feeling, a person is no sooner dead, than he is hastened away to be buried or burned; for, until this is done, those in the house can neither eat nor drink, nor go on with their occupations. A Brahmin who is particular in his delicacy, must be careful what he treads upon. He is obliged to wash his body or bathe, if he happens to tread on a bone, or a broken pot, a bit of rag, or a leaf from which one has been eating. He must also be careful where he sits down. Some devotees always carry their seats with them, that is, a tiger or antelope's skin, which are always held pure. Some are contented with a mat. They may sit down on the ground without defilement, provided it has been newly rubbed over with cow-dung. This last specific is used daily to purify their houses from the defilement occasioned by comers, and goers. When thus applied, diluted with water, it has unquestionably one good effect. It completely destroys the fleas and other insects, with which they are very much annoyed. There is one thing more which I wish to mention. It is, that all the high castes consider the use of intoxicating drinks to be defiling. I hope that you, my dear children, will always have the same opinion, and never touch them any sooner than you would touch arsenic or other poisons. A person may be restored to his caste, provided he has not committed an unpardonable offence. This is done as follows. After he has gained the consent of his relations to be restored he prostrates himself very humbly before them, they being assembled for that purpose, and submits to the blows or other punishment which they may think proper to inflict, or pays the fine which they may have laid upon him. Then, after shedding tears of sorrow, and making promises that, by his future conduct, he will wipe away the stain of his expulsion from caste, he makes the shaashtaangkum before the assembly. This being done, he is declared fit to be restored to his tribe. When a man has been expelled from his caste for some great offence, those who restore him sometimes slightly burn his tongue with a piece of gold made hot. They likewise apply to different parts of the body redhot iron stamps, which leave marks that remain for ever. Sometimes they compel the offender to walk on burning embers; and to complete the purification, he must drink the punchakaryam, which literally means the _five things_; these all come from the cow, and must be mixed together. The first three of these I will mention, namely, the milk, butter, and curds. The other two, for the sake of delicacy, I must not mention. After the ceremony of punchakaryam is finished the person who has been expelled from his caste must give a grand feast. This finishes all he has to do, and he is then restored to favor. There are certain offences which, when committed cut off all hope that the offender will ever be restored to his caste. For instance, should he eat the flesh of the cow, no presents which he might make, nor any fines which lie might be disposed to pay, no, not even the punchakaryam itself, would be of any avail for his restoration or purification. I will make a remark here, which I might have made before. It is, that in Christian countries, there is a spirit of pride which much resembles the spirit of caste. Many are to be found who are very proud that they have descended from rich and honorable _ancestors_, and who look down, almost with disdain, upon those in other situations. I need hardly tell you that this is a very wicked spirit, and entirely opposed to the spirit of the Gospel. No matter what may be our high thoughts of ourselves, we appear but very low in the sight of Him who created us. We are all sinners, and, as such, are offensive in his sight. If we would go to heaven, the first thing which we have to do, is to humble ourselves for the pride of our hearts, and become as little children before him. We must have that spirit of which the apostle speaks, when he says, "Let each esteem others better than themselves." With a humble spirit we may approach a holy God, with the assurance that he will, for Christ's sake, forgive all our sins. CHAPTER IX. HINDOO TEMPLES--CARS--PROCESSION OF IDOLS. My dear Children--I will proceed to give you a description of the Hindoo temples. These are very numerous. One is to be found in almost every village. They are to be found, also, in out-of-the-way places, distant from villages, in woods, on the banks and in the middle of rivers; but, above all, on mountains and steep rocks. This latter practice, of building temples on mountains, is very ancient. The Israelites were accustomed to choose a mountain when they offered up their sacrifices to the Lord. Solomon, before the building of the temple, chose Mount Gibeon on which to offer his burnt-offerings; and when the ten tribes separated themselves, in the reign of Jeroboam, they built their altars on the mountain of Samaria. This practice may have come from the circumstance, that Noah offered to God a great sacrifice of thanks on one of the highest mountains of Armenia. Probably Mount Ararat continued long to be remembered, by him and his descendants, as the scene of their deliverance. Besides the temples of the idols, there are various objects of worship, made of earth and stone. Some of the idols are carved. Some consist merely of the rough stone. These are to be seen on the high-roads, at the entrance into villages, and, above all, under lofty trees. Some of these are covered; but generally they are exposed in the open air. You will read in Genesis, 28th chap, and 18th verse, that Jacob, after his dream, rose up early in the morning and took the stone that he had put for his pillow, and set it up for a pillar, and poured oil upon the top of it. Whether it has happened from this circumstance or not, that the heathen universally pour oil over their idols, I cannot tell. All I know is, that they do it. No idol can become an object of worship until a Brahmin has said his muntrums, or prayers, for the purpose of bringing down the god to live, as it is said be does, in the image, and until he has drenched it with oil and liquid butter. The idols, in the great temples, are clothed with rich garments, and adorned with jewels, which are enriched with precious stones of immense value. Sacrifices are constantly made to these idols, consisting of boiled rice, flowers, fruits, etc., but, above all, of lamps, of which many thousands are sometimes seen burning. They feed them with butter, in preference to oil. The priests of the temples offer up sacrifices twice every day, morning and evening. They begin the ceremony by washing their idol. The water which is used is brought from a river or tank. Every morning a procession, with music, passes before our door, with this water. Every priest who offers up sacrifices, must have several lighted lamps with a bell, which he holds in his left hand. With his right hand he makes an offering to the idol, adorns it with flowers, and rubs its forehead and various parts of its body with sandal-wood and holy ashes. While all this is going on, he is alone in the temple, the door of which is closed. The unholy multitude remain without, silently waiting till he has done. What he does, they cannot know, only hearing the sound of the bell. When he has done, he comes out and distributes among the people a part of the things which have been offered to the idol. These are considered as holy. If they consist of rice and fruit, they are immediately eaten; if of flowers, the men put them in their turbans, and the girls entwine them in their hair. Next to the priests, the most important persons about the temples are the dancing girls. These are persons of the vilest character. They perform their religious duties in the temple twice a day. They also assist at the public ceremonies, and dance. At the same time they sing the most abominable and filthy songs. Of these wicked creatures, however, I must not tell you any thing further. The next order of persons employed in the temples, are players on musical instruments. Every temple of note has a band of these musicians who, as well as the dancers, are obliged to attend the temple twice a day. They are also obliged to assist at all the public festivals. Their band generally consists of wind, instruments, resembling clarionets and hautboys, to which they add cymbals and drums. They have a bass, produced by blowing into a kind of tube, widened below, and which gives an uninterrupted sound. Part of the musicians sing hymns in honor of their gods. The expenses of the temples are borne by the voluntary offerings of the people, consisting of money, jewels, cattle, provisions, and other articles. In order to induce them to make such offerings, the Brahmins use all kinds of deception. Sometimes they will put their idols in irons, chaining their hands and feet. They exhibit them in this sad condition, declaring that they have been brought into it by creditors from whom their gods had to borrow money, in times of trouble, to supply their wants. They declare that their creditors refuse to set the gods at liberty, until the money with the interest is paid. The people, seeing the deplorable condition into which they have been brought, come forward and pay off the debt; when the chains are taken off, and the god is set at liberty. Another way in which the Brahmins sometimes deceive the people, is as follows. They say that the god is afflicted with some dreadful disease, brought on by the distress which he has had, because the people do not worship him as much as they should. In such cases, the idol is sometimes placed at the door of the temple where they rub his forehead and temples with various kinds of medicine. They also set before him all sorts of medicines, pretending in this way to do all they can to cure him. But as all their efforts prove to be vain, and the disease becomes worse, the Brahmins send out persons to tell the sad news. The people, believing the report, hasten to bring in their gifts and offerings. The god, on beholding such proofs of their attachment to him, feels himself cured of his disease, and immediately returns to his throne within the temple. The Brahmins use another kind of deception, in order to procure offerings for the temples. They declare that their gods are angry with certain individuals who have offended them, and that they have sent some evil spirit or devil to take possession of their bodies and torment them. Accordingly, persons appear wandering about in different parts of the country, showing, by their dreadful convulsions, their writhings and twistings, every symptom of being possessed with the devil. The people who see them are filled with dismay, fall down before them, and offer gifts and sacrifices, for fear of being injured by them. Whatever they ask is granted. The people give them to eat and drink abundantly; and when they leave a place, accompany them with instruments of music, till they arrive at some other place, where the same deception is practised. There are various other ways in which the Brahmins deceive the people; but I have told you enough. At every large temple, there is at least yearly one grand procession. The idol is brought out from its inclosure, and placed in a great car or chariot, prepared for this express purpose. This stands upon four wheels of great strength, not made like ours, of spokes with a rim, but of three or four pieces of thick, solid timber, rounded and fitted to each other. The car is sometimes forty or fifty feet high, having upon it carved images of a most abominable nature. I must not tell you any thing about them. The car, when finished, presents somewhat the shape of a pyramid. [Illustration] On the day of the procession, it is adorned with painted cloth, garlands of flowers, green shrubbery, and precious stuffs. The idol is placed in the centre, loaded with jewels, etc., to attract the attention of the people. Having fastened ropes to this enormous car, eight or nine hundred or a thousand people catch hold of the ropes and slowly drag it along, accompanied with the awful roaring of their voices. At certain periods they stop; when the immense crowds, collected from all parts of the country, set up one universal shout, or rather yell. This, with the sound of their instruments and numerous drums, produces much uproar and confusion. Sometimes the weighty car comes to a stand, from the dampness of the ground or from the narrowness of the streets, when the tumult and noise are redoubled. [Illustration] Perhaps you know that on some occasions, when the cars are drawn, people throw themselves under the wheels, and are crushed to death. This occurs at the drawing of the car of Juggernaut, as you may learn if you will read my Sermon to Children, on the Condition of the Heathen. Here is a picture of Juggernaut, and on the last page you may see a picture of his car, and two men crushed to death under the wheels. Not long since, five persons were thus crushed to death. Many dreadful accidents also take place at the drawing of these cars. A few years ago several persons in this city had their limbs amputated, in consequence of injuries received. [Illustration] When I was in America, I showed to many of the dear children an idol called Pulliar, which was _formerly_ worshipped by Raamu, one of our native helpers, when he was a heathen. I gave a particular description, of the I manner in which he daily worshiped it, in the sermon above mentioned Here is a picture, which will give you some idea of this god. You will see that it is partly in the shape of a man, and partly in the shape of a beast. You, my dear children, would put no confidence in such vain idols; but this people do, as you may know from what I am now going to tell you. Some months ago, a woman was brought to me with a cancer in her breast. It had made sad ravages. On the morning after her arrival I took it out. Before she was brought to me, her brother went to the temple of the goddess Meenaache, to ascertain what was her will respecting his bringing her to me, or taking her to a native doctor. In order to ascertain it, he had recourse to the following expedient. He prepared several bundles of red and white flowers--the red to represent the red or Tamil man, the white to represent the white man. These flowers were carefully inclosed in leaves, so as to prevent their color being seen, and then laid down on the ground, at the entrance of the temple. After this, he called a little child to him, and then proceeded to entreat Meenaache that, if it were her will that he should bring the sick woman to me, she would direct the child to take up one of the parcels containing the white flowers. It so happened that the child took up one of these parcels. Of course, he brought her to me. Had it taken up a parcel containing the red flowers, she would have been taken to a native doctor. May we not hope that, not Meenaache, but Jehovah directed him to bring her to me, that she might hear of a very different being from her goddess, even of Jesus. Of him she has fully heard. CHAPTER X. FESTIVALS OF THE HINDOOS. My dear Children--The Hindoos have many festivals. These are all occasions of joy and gladness. On such days, the people quit their usual employments. Friends and relations unite in family parties, and give entertainments according to their means. Innocent pastimes and amusements of various kinds are resorted too to add to their happiness. There are eighteen principal festivals yearly, and no month passes without one or more of them. One of the most solemn of these ceremonies is held in the month of September, and appears to be principally in honor of Parvathe, the wife of Siva. At this time every laborer and every artisan offers sacrifices and prayers to his tools. The laborer brings his plough, hoe, and other farming utensils. He piles them together, and offers a sacrifice to them, consisting of flowers, fruit, rice, and other articles. After this, he prostrates himself before them at full length, and then returns them to their places. The mason offers the same adoration and sacrifice to his trowel, rule, and other instruments The carpenter adores his hatchet, adze, and plane. The barber collects his razors together and worships them with similar rites. The writing-master sacrifices to the iron pen or style, with which he writes upon the palm-leaf the tailor to his needles, the weaver to his loom, the butcher to his cleaver. The women, on this day, collect into a heap their baskets, rice-mill, rice-pounder, and other household utensils, and, after having offered sacrifices to them, fall down in adoration before them. Every person, in short, in this solemnity sanctifies and adores the instrument or tool by which he gains a living. The tools are considered as so many gods, to whom they present their prayers that they will continue to furnish them still with the means of getting a livelihood. This least is concluded by making an idol to represent Parvathe. It is made of the paste of grain, and being placed under a sort of canopy, is carried through the streets with great pomp, and receives the worship of the people. Another festival of great celebrity is observed in October. At this time, each person, for himself, makes offerings of boiled rice and other food, to such of their relations as have died, that they may have a good meal on that day. They afterwards offer sacrifices of burning lamps, of fruit, and of flowers, and also new articles of dress, that their ancestors may be freshly clothed. At this festival, soldiers offer sacrifices to their weapons, in order to obtain success in war. On such occasions, a ram is offered in sacrifice to their armor. In November, a festival is observed, which is called the feast of lamps. At this season, the Hindoos light lamps, and place them around the doors of their houses. This festival was established to commemorate the deliverance of the earth from a giant, who had been a great scourge to the people. He was slain by Vrishnoo, after a dreadful battle. In many places, on this day, a sacrifice is offered to the _dunghill_ which is afterwards to enrich the ground. In the villages, each one has his own heap, to which he makes his offering of burning lamps, fruit, flowers, etc. The most celebrated of all the festivals, is that which is held in the end of December. It is called the feast of Pongul, and is a season of rejoicing for two reasons: the first is, because the month of December, every day of which is unlucky, is about to end; and the other is, because it is to be followed by a month, every day of which is fortunate. For the purpose of preventing the evil effects of this month, the women every morning scour a place about two feet square before the door of the house, upon which they draw white lines, with flour. Upon these they place several little balls of cow-dung, sticking in each a flower. Each day these little balls, with their flowers, are preserved, and on the last day of the month, they are thrown into tanks or waste-places. The first day of this festival is called the Pongul of rejoicing. Near relatives are invited to a feast, which passes off with mirth and gladness. The second day is called the Pongul of the sun, and is set apart to worship that luminary. Married women, after bathing themselves, proceed to boil rice with milk, in the open air. When the milk begins to simmer, they make a loud cry, "Pongul, O Pongul." The vessel is then taken from the fire, and set before an idol. Part of this rice is offered to the image, and, after standing there for some time, it is given to the cows. The remainder is given to the people. This is the great day for visiting among friends. The salutation begins by the question, "Has the milk boiled?" To which the answer is, "It has boiled." From this, the festival takes the name of pongul, which signifies to boil. The third day is called the _Pongul of cows._ In a great vessel, filled with water, they put saffron and other things. These being well mixed, they go around the cows and oxen belonging to the house several times, sprinkling them with water. After this, the men prostrate themselves before them four times. The cows are then dressed, their horns being painted with various colors. Garlands of flowers are also put round their necks, and over their backs. To these are added strings of cocoa-nuts and other kinds of fruit, which, however, are soon shaken off, when they are in motion, and are picked up by children and others, who greedily eat what they gather, as something sacred. After being driven through the streets, they are suffered, during the day, to feed wherever they please, without a keeper. I have, however, told you enough. Are you ready to exclaim, Is it possible that a people can be guilty of such utter folly? But you, my dear children, would be guilty of just such folly, if you had not the Bible. Should not the gratitude, then, which you owe to your heavenly Father, for your distinguished mercies, constrain you to do all that you can to send this blessed book to this dark land? CHAPTER XI. THE WORSHIP OF THE SERPENT. My dear Children--If you have never heard much about the Hindoos, you will be astonished to learn how numerous are the objects of their worship. They worship many living creatures, such as the ape, the tiger, the elephant the horse, the ox, the stag, the sheep, the hog, the dog, the cat, the rat, the peacock, the eagle, the cock, the hawk, the serpent, the chameleon, the lizard, the tortoise, fishes, and even insects. Of these, some receive much more worship than others, such as the cow, the ox, and the serpent Cobra Capella. I will speak at present only of the worship of the serpent. Of all the dangerous creatures found in India, there are none that occasion so many deaths as serpents. The people are very much exposed to their bite, especially at night, when they are walking. They tread upon them, and, as they generally do not wear shoes, the snakes turn their heads, and strike their fangs into those parts of the feet which are nearest to the place where the pressure is made upon their bodies. Sometimes the bite is followed with instant death. The Cobra Capella is one of the most common snakes, and one of the most poisonous. It is said, that it has a thousand heads, one of which holds up the earth. It has a peculiar mark on its back, just behind the head. This mark very much resembles a pair of spectacles, without the handles. If you should go near it, it would raise the fore part of its body about six inches, widen out its neck, so as to be about double its common width, and prepare to strike you. The reason why the Hindoos offer sacrifices and adoration to it above all the other serpents is, because it is so frequently met with, and is so much dreaded. In order to induce the people to worship this dangerous enemy, the Hindoos have filled their books with tales concerning it. Figures of it are often to be seen in the temples, and on other buildings. They seek out their holes, which are generally to be found in the hillocks of earth which are thrown up by the white ants; and when they find one, they go from time to time and offer milk, plantains, and other good things to it. [Illustration] The Hindoos, as I before observed, have eighteen annual festivals. One of these festivals is held for the purpose of worshipping this serpent. Temples in many places are erected to it, of which there is one of great celebrity in Mysore. When the festival occurs at this temple, great crowds of people come together to offer sacrifices to this creeping god. Many serpents besides the Cobra Capella live within it, in holes made especially for them. All of these are kept and well fed by the Brahmins with milk, butter, and plantains. By such means they become very numerous, and may be seen swarming from every crevice in the temple. To injure or to kill one would be considered a great crime. Many of the natives call the Cobra Capella nulla paampu, that is, good snake. They are afraid to call it a bad snake, lest it should injure them. The following is the prayer which is offered before the image of this snake. O, divine Cobra, preserve and sustain us. O, Sheoh, partake of these offerings, and be gracious unto us. Can you think of any thing, my dear children more dishonoring to a holy God, than such worship? And what have you ever done to prevent it? Have you, every morning and evening, prayed that the Gospel might be sent to this people? Did you ever give any money to send it to them? Did you ever think whether it may not be your duty, by and by, to come to them, to tell them of this Gospel? CHAPTER XII. THE RIVER GANGES. My dear Children--If you will look at the map of Asia, and find the country of Hindostan, you will see running through it a very celebrated river--the river Ganges. It is called the Ganges, after the goddess Gunga. The Hindoos say that the goddess Gungu--who was produced from the sweat of Vrishnoo's foot, which Brumha caught and preserved in his alms-dish--came down from heaven, and divided herself into one hundred streams, which are the mouths of the river Ganges. All classes and castes worship her. The sight, the name, or the touch of the river Ganges is said to take away all sin. To die on the edge of the river, or to die partly buried in the stream, drinking its waters, while their bodies are besmeared with mud, is supposed to render them very holy. On this account, when it is expected that a person will die, he is hurried down to the river, whether willing or unwilling. Sometimes the wood which the people bring to burn their bodies after death, is piled up before their eyes. O, how inhuman is this. After it is supposed that they are dead, and they are placed on the pile of wood, if they should revive and attempt to rise, it is thought that they are possessed with the devil, and they are beaten down with a hatchet or bamboo. Were you standing on the banks of the Ganges you might, perhaps, in one place see two or three young men carrying a sick female to the river. If you should ask what they are going to do with her, perhaps they would reply, We are going to give her up to Gunga, to purify her soul, that she may go to heaven; for she is our mother. In another place you might see a father and mother sprinkling a beloved child with muddy water, endeavoring to soothe his dying agonies by saying, "It is blessed to die by Gunga, my son; to die by Gunga is blessed, my son." In another place you might see a man descending from a boat with empty water-pans tied around his neck, which pans, when filled, will drag down the poor creature to the bottom, to be seen no more. Here is murder in the name of religion. He is a devotee, and has purchased heaven, as he supposes, by this his last good deed. In another place you might see a person seated in the water, accompanied by a priest, who pours down the throat of the dying man mud and water, and cries out, "O mother Gunga, receive his soul." The dying man may be roused to sensibility by the violence. He may entreat his priest to desist; but his entreaties are drowned. He persists in pouring the mud and water down his throat, until he is gradually stifled, suffocated--suffocated in the name of humanity--suffocated in the name of religion. It happens, sometimes, in cases of sudden and violent attacks of disease, that they cannot be conveyed to the river before death. Under such circumstances, a bone is preserved, and at a convenient season is taken down and thrown into the river. This, it is believed, contributes essentially to the salvation of the deceased. Sometimes strangers are left on the banks to die, without the ceremony of drinking Ganges water. Of these, some have been seen creeping along with the flesh half eaten off their bones by the birds; others with their limbs torn by dogs and jackals, and others partly covered with insects. After a person is taken down to the river, if he should recover, it is looked upon by his friends as a great misfortune. He becomes an outcast. Even his own children will not eat with him, nor offer him the least attention. If they should happen to touch him, they must wash their bodies, to cleanse them from the pollution which has been contracted. About fifty miles north of Calcutta, are two villages inhabited entirely by these poor creatures, who have become outcasts in consequence of their recovery after having been taken down to the Ganges. At the mouth of the river Hoogly, which is one of the branches of the Ganges, is the island Sauger, which I saw as we approached Calcutta after having been at sea for one hundred and twenty-eight days. Now, my dear children, if you come out to India as missionaries, you will have to sail nearly one hundred and thirty days before you can reach it. Sauger island is the island where, formerly, hundreds of mothers were in the habit of throwing their children to the crocodiles, and where these mothers were wont to weep and cry if the crocodiles did not devour their children before their eyes. Think what a dreadful religion that must be, which makes mothers so hard-hearted. Did you ever take any corn or Indian meal and throw it to the chickens? And what did these chickens do? Did they not come around you and eat it? Well, just in this way the crocodiles would come near those mothers, and devour their children. Here is a picture of a mother throwing her child to a crocodile. [Illustration] I am glad to tell you, that the British have put a stop to the sacrifice of children at that place; but mothers continue to destroy their children elsewhere, and will continue to destroy them until Christians send the Gospel to them. It is not improbable that vast numbers of children are annually destroyed in the Ganges. Mothers sacrifice them, in consequence of vows which they have made. When the time to sacrifice them has come, they take them down to the river, and encourage them to go out so far that they are taken away by the stream, or they push them off with their own hands. I just remarked, that mothers will continue to destroy their children until the Gospel is sent to them. That the Gospel does prevent such things, the following circumstance will show. Several years ago, a missionary lady went from New England to India. As she was walking out one morning, on the banks of the Ganges, she saw a heathen mother weeping. She went up to her, sat down by her side, put her hand into hers, and asked what was the matter with her. "I have just been making a basket of flags," said she, "and putting my infant in it--pushing it off into the river, and drowning it. And my gods are very much pleased with me, because I have done it." After this missionary lady had heard all she had to say, she told her that her gods were no gods; that the only true God delights not in such sacrifices, but turns in horror from them; and that, if she would be happy here and hereafter, she must forsake her sins, and pray to Jesus Christ, who died to save sinners like herself. This conversation was the means of the conversion of that mother, and she never again destroyed any of her infants. Such is the power of the blessed Gospel. And what the Gospel has done once, it can do again. If Christians will send it to them, with the blessing of God, the time will soon come when heathen mothers will no more destroy their children. And have you nothing to do in this great work, my dear children? When you grow up, cannot you go and tell them of the Saviour? Here is a very pretty hymn about a heathen mother throwing her child to a crocodile. See that heathen mother stand Where the sacred currents flow, With her own maternal hand, 'Mid the waves her infant throw. Hark, I hear the piteous scream-- Frightful monsters seize their prey, Or the dark and bloody stream Bears the struggling child away. Fainter now, and fainter still, Breaks the cry upon the ear; But the mother's heart is steel, She unmoved that cry can hear. Send, O send the Bible there, Let its precepts reach the heart; She may then her children spare, Act the mother's tender part. I have heard of a little boy who learned this hymn. He was deeply affected by it, and wanted very much to give something to send the Gospel to India. But he had no money. He was, however, willing to labor in order to earn some. Hearing that a gentleman wanted the chips removed from the ground near his woodpile, he hired himself to him, removed the chips, got his money, and, with glistening eyes, went and delivered it up, to be sent to the heathen, repeating, as he went, Send, O send the Bible there, Let its precepts reach the heart; She may then her children spare, Act the mother's tender part. About one hundred miles above the mouth of the Hoogly is the city of Calcutta, and about five hundred miles above that city is the city of Benares. In these cities, as well as in other places, we see how much the heathen will contribute to support their wretched religion. A rich native in Calcutta has been known to spend more than one hundred thousand dollars on a single festival--the festival of the goddess Karle--and more than thirty thousand dollars every year afterwards during his life, for the same purpose. Not long since, a rich native gave at one time to his idols more than one million two hundred thousand dollars. And what have Christians ever done to honor their Saviour, which will bear a comparison with what the heathen do for their idols? Alas, alas, few Christian men or Christian women, in all the church, are willing to give even one-tenth of their annual income to the Lord. Most of those who are rich, hoard up their money, instead of spending it for the purpose of saving souls. And there are many persons who have never given a farthing to send the Gospel to the heathen. O, what will such say, when they must meet the heathen at the bar of God? CHAPTER XIII. THE GODDESS DURGA. My dear Children--From what I said, in my last chapter, about the goddess Gunga, you see that the Hindoos worship goddesses as well as gods. There is another goddess much worshipped the wife of the god Siva. She has appeared in a thousand forms, with a thousand different names. Of all these thousand forms, Durga and Karle are the most regarded by the people. I will speak of Durga first. Of all the festivals in Eastern India, hers is the most celebrated. She has ten hands, in which she holds an iron club, a trident, a battle-axe, spears, thunderbolts, etc. Thus armed, she is ever ready to fight with her enemies. Were you to be present in the city of Calcutta in the month of September, you might everywhere see the people busy in preparing for the yearly festival of this goddess. Images representing her you would find in great numbers for sale, as bread or meat is sold. In the houses of the rich, images are to be found made of gold, silver, brass, copper, crystal, stone, or mixed metal, which are daily worshipped. These are called permanent images. Besides these, multitudes of what are called temporary images are made--made merely for the occasion and then destroyed. They may be made of hay, sticks, clay, wood, or other such things. Their size varies from a few inches to twenty feet in height. If any persons are too poor to buy one of these images, they can make them for themselves. When the festival is near at hand, people are seen in every direction taking the images to their houses. After they are thus supplied, the festival commences. It lasts fifteen days. The greater part of this time is spent in preparing for the three great days of worship. Early on the morning of the first of the three great days, the Brahmins proceed to consecrate the images, or to give them, as they suppose, life and understanding. Until they are consecrated, they are not thought to be of any value. They are looked upon as senseless. A wealthy family can always receive the services of one or more Brahmins, and a few of the poor may unite and secure the services of one of them. At length the solemn hour arrives. The Brahmin, with the leaves of a sacred tree, comes near the image. With the two forefingers of his right hand he touches the breast, the two cheeks, the eyes, and the forehead of the image, at each touch saying the prayer, "Let the spirit of Durga descend and take possession of this image." By such ceremonies, and by repeating various _muntrums_, it is supposed that the Brahmins have the power to bring down the goddess to take possession of the image. Having been thus consecrated, it is believed to be a proper object of worship. Having eyes, it can now behold every act of worship which is made; having ears, it can be delighted with music and with songs; having a nose, it can smell the sweet perfumes which are offered; having a mouth, it can be delighted with the rich food which is prepared for it. After the image is consecrated, the worship begins. The devotee comes near the image, and falls down before it. He then twists himself into a great variety of shapes. Sometimes he sits on the floor, sometimes he stands, sometimes he looks in one direction, sometimes in another. Then he sprinkles the idol with holy water, rinses its mouth, washes its feet, wipes it with a dry cloth, throws flowers over it, puts jewels on it, offers perfumes to it, and finishes by performing shaashtaangkum. The worship of the idol is succeeded by a season of carousing, joy, and festivity. On this occasion, large offerings are made to the idols. A rich native has been known to offer eighty thousand pounds of sweetmeats, eighty thousand pounds of sugar, a thousand suits of cloth garments, a thousand suits of silk, a thousand offerings of rice, plantains, and other fruits. Bloody sacrifices are offered up on such occasions. The king of Nudiya, some time ago, offered a large number of sheep, goats, and buffaloes on the first day of the feast, and vowed to double the offering every day; so that the whole number sacrificed amounted to more than sixty-five thousand. You may remember that king Solomon offered up on one occasion twenty-two thousand oxen, and a hundred and twenty thousand sheep. If all the animals slain throughout Hindostan, at the festival of the goddess Durga, were collected together, they would amount to a much larger number than Solomon offered. After the worship and offerings have been continued for three days, the festival closes. As the morning of the first day was devoted to the consecration of the images, the morning of the fourth is spent in unconsecrating them. This work is done by the Brahmins. They profess, by various ceremonies, to send back the goddess to her heaven, concluding with a farewell address, in which they tell her that they expect her to accept of all their services, and return and pay them a visit again in the coming year. Then all unite in bidding her a sorrowful adieu, and many seem affected even to the shedding of tears. Soon afterwards the images are carried forth into the streets, placed on stages or platforms, and raised on men's shoulders. As the procession moves onward through the streets, accompanied with music and songs, amid clouds of dust, you might see them waving long hairy brushes to wipe off the dust, and to keep off the flies and mosquitoes, which might trouble the senseless images. But where are these processions going? To the banks of the Ganges. And for what purpose? For the purpose of casting the images into the river. When all the ceremonies connected with the occasion are finished, those who carry the images suddenly fall upon them, break them to pieces, and then throw them with violence into the river. After this the people return to their homes. I have now given you a specimen of the image-worship of the Hindoos; and how different is it from the worship which the Bible enjoins. "God is a Spirit; and they who worship him, must worship him in spirit and in truth." The very reverse of this, as you have seen, marks the worship of the heathen. They are not satisfied, unless they can have some object before them, to which they can make their offerings and their prayers. Thus daily are they engaged in a service which, above all others, is the most offensive and provoking to a holy God--a service which has caused him to declare, that idolaters shall not enter the kingdom of heaven. This, too, is the service in which every person, who has never given himself to the Saviour, is engaged; and, of course, in which you are engaged if you have not given your hearts to him. Those who think more of their money than they think of Christ, just as certainly worship the image which is stamped on a dollar or a cent, as the heathen worship their idols. Those who love their fathers and mothers, and brothers and sisters more than Christ, make these their idols. And are you, my dear children, yet out of Christ? If so, you have your idols. And what are these idols? Are they the world and its vanities? Then God is as angry with you as he is with the heathen, and unless you give up these idols, you too must be lost. In a tract of mine, published by the American Tract Society, entitled, "Knocking at the Door"--a tract which I _most earnestly_ entreat you to get and read--you will find an account of the death of a young lady, who had chosen the world and its vanities as her idols. I was her physician. After having attended her for about a month, I perceived, one morning, that her disease must soon prove fatal. I told her that she could not live. She then exclaimed, "Doctor, can I not live a month?" I informed her that she could not. Again she exclaimed, "Can I not live two weeks?" She was told that she could not live two weeks. And such a scene of horror followed as I never before witnessed, and may God be pleased to grant that I may never witness such another. Until laid upon a dying bed, I fear that she had neglected to think about her soul's concerns. Now she requested to be taken from it, and placed upon her knees, that she might call upon God to have mercy upon her. As her case excited much attention, some of the youth came to see her. These she warned, in the most solemn manner, not to put off repentance, as she had done, to a dying hour. Looking up at me, on one occasion, she exclaimed, "Doctor, cannot you save me?" Alas, what could I do for the poor sufferer. Witness, now, how anxious she was to obtain the favor of that God whom she had hitherto neglected. Yes, so anxious that she requested her friends not to allow her to sleep, that she might spend every remaining breath in calling upon God to have mercy upon her. One very affecting circumstance occurred. She requested her trunk either to be brought to her bedside, or to be opened. From this a ring, which was set with red garnets, was taken out by herself, or by another, and handed to her. She then called a young friend to her bedside, put the ring upon her finger, and said to her, "Don't you put off repentance, as I have done, until a dying hour." That ring is now in my possession. In less than forty-eight hours after I told her that she could not live, she passed into eternity. Would that I could show you that mournful countenance, which continued long after the last spark of life had become extinct; yes, even up to the moment when the lid of her coffin for ever hid it from our view. Never, never shall I forget it. It was a sad monument of the wreck within. Now, my dear children, you would not like to die as, I fear, this young lady died. Well, then, if you would die differently, you must live differently. You must live for Christ, if you would die in Christ. And are you Christ's, or are you yet gay and thoughtless--as gay and as thoughtless as this young lady was, until laid upon her dying bed? If you are so, and if you continue to remain in this sad condition, your season of sorrow too will certainly come, and it will come when you expect it not. As the little insect which flies round and round your candle is dazzled with its brightness, and feels nothing but pleasure, until it unconsciously strikes the blaze with its little wings, and is swallowed up in the flame; so you are dazzled with the pleasures of the world, thinking nothing of the flames which may swallow you up in a moment, and put a stop to all your joys for ever. O, that the death-bed scene of Miss Matthews might have a happy effect upon you. O, that the solemn warning which she gave to her young friend, not to put off repentance as she had done, until a dying hour, might continue to sound in your ears, until you would no longer delay repentance. My dear children, this young lady, though dead, yet speaketh. She speaks to you. She calls upon you from her tomb--from the eternal world, to delay repentance no longer. Will you, then, be so mad as to turn a deaf ear to this call? Will you ever take another sip from the cup of unhallowed pleasure? Will you ever direct your little feet to the ballroom, or other places of sinful amusement? Will you hereafter prefer your worldly joys to Christ? O, you must not, you must not. It will not do for you to be lost. Who, O who can lie down in everlasting burnings? Who can dwell for ever with devouring flames? CHAPTER XIV. THE GODDESS KARLE. My dear Children--In the preceding chapter I spoke of Karle. She, as I there mentioned, is the wife of Siva, and, like her husband, has the power of destruction. From the images made of her, it would appear that she is a female, of a black or dark blue color. She has four arms. In one hand she holds a sword, and in another a human head. Her hair is dishevelled, reaching down to her feet. Her countenance is most ferocious. Her tongue comes out of her mouth, and hangs over her chin. She has three eyes, red and fiery. Her lips and eyebrows are streaked with blood. She has two dead bodies for ear-rings, and wears a girdle around her loins--a girdle made of bloody hands, which she cut off from the bodies of her enemies. She has a necklace of skulls, which she took from the bodies of the giants and others killed by her. [Illustration] Of all the Hindoo divinities, this goddess is the most cruel and revengeful. Such is her thirst for blood, that being unable at one time to procure any giants for her prey, in order to quench her thirst, she cut her own throat, that the blood issuing thence might spout into her mouth. Different acts of worship are performed to appease her. If, for example, a devotee should burn his body, by applying a burning lamp to it, it would be very pleasing to her. If he should draw some of his blood and give it to her, or if he should cut off a piece of his flesh and offer it as a burnt-offering, she would be still move pleased. If he should present _whole_ burnt-offerings upon the altar, saying, "Hrang, brang, Karle, Karle! O, horrid-toothed goddess, eat, eat; destroy all the malignant: cut with this axe; bind, bind; seize, seize; drink this blood; spheng, spheng; secure, secure; salutation to Karle," she would be much delighted. It is said that she will be pleased for three months, if the people offer her the blood of a crocodile--for a thousand years, if they offer her the blood of one man, and a hundred thousand years, if they offer her the blood of three. This goddess is the patroness of thieves. To her they pay their devotions, to obtain help to carry on their wicked delights. Gangs meet together, and, after having offered bloody sacrifices, and worshipped their weapons, and having drunk some intoxicating liquor, and rubbed their bodies with oil, they go forth to rob. They have a prayer, which they offer when they worship their weapons. It is as follows: "O, instrument formed by the goddess, Karle commands thee to cut a passage into the house, to cut through stones, bones, bricks, wood, the earth, and mountains, and cause the dust thereof to be carried away by the wind." Scattered throughout India, there is a lawless set of men whose profession it is to get their food by murder. They are called Phansiagars, or Thugs. They owe their origin and laws to Karle. They say that she told them to become murderers and plunderers. They are called Phansiagars, from the name of the instrument which they use when they murder people. Phansiagar means a strangler, and they use a phansi, or noose, which they throw over the necks of those whom they intend to plunder, and strangle them. These Phansiagars are composed of all castes, Hindoos, Mahommedans, pariahs, and chandellars. This arises from the circumstance that they never destroy the children of those whom they rob and murder. These children they take care of, and bring up to their own horrible mode of life. They always murder those whom they rob, acting upon the maxim that "dead men tell no tales." A gang of these robbers varies from a dozen to sixty or seventy persons. These divide into small parties. Those whom they murder are travellers, whom they happen to meet on the road. Sometimes two or three of a gang will take up their station in a choultry, or place where the traveller stops, and while he sleeps, they rouse him from his sleep, and cast the noose over his head and kill him. It takes two persons to kill a man. One casts the noose over his head, and immediately tightens it with all his strength; the other strikes him on the joint of his knees as he rises, which causes him to fall forwards. After he has fallen, they kick him on the temples till he dies, which is usually in a minute. They never commit a murder until they have taken every precaution not to be found out. They will follow a traveller for weeks, if necessary, before they destroy him. After they have murdered him, they gash the body all over and bury it. They gash it, that it may not swell, and cause cracks to take place in the ground, which might cause the jackals to dig down to the body, and thus expose their guilt. If a dog accompanies the person, they always kill it, lest the faithful creature should lead to the discovery of his master. They think it to be a very good act to give a part of the plunder, which they get when they murder a person, to their goddess. If they fail to put him to death according to their rules, they suppose that they have made her angry, and they make offerings to her, that she may be appeased. Thus, you see that their religion teaches them to commit the blackest of crimes. The reason why this people gash and bury the bodies of those whom they murder, is as follows. They say that the goddess used to save them the trouble of burying the corpses of their victims by eating them, thus screening the murderers from all chance of being found out. Once, after the murder of a traveller, the body was, as usual, left unburied. One of the Phansiagars employed, unguardedly looking behind him, saw the goddess in the act of feasting upon it. This made her so angry, that she vowed never again to devour a body slaughtered by them; they having, by this one act of curiosity, forfeited her favor. However, as an equivalent for withdrawing her patronage, she plucked one of the fangs from her jaw, and gave it to them, saying that they might use it as a pickaxe, which would never wear out. She then opened her side and pulled out one of her ribs, which she gave them for a knife, whose edge nothing could blunt. Having done this, she stooped down and tore off the hem of her garment, which she gave to them for a noose, declaring that it would never fail to strangle any person about whose throat it might be cast. She moreover commanded them to gash and bury the bodies of those whom they destroyed. The Phansiagars bring up their children to their own profession. To learn this, the boy is placed under the care of a tutor. Sometimes his father is his teacher. By him he is taught that it is just as proper to murder a man, as it is to kill a snake which lies in his path and would bite him as he passes. He is not permitted at first to see the murders, but merely a dead body; his mind being gradually prepared for the sight. After this, the dreadful secret of his trade is, by degrees, told him. When he expresses a wish to be engaged in this horrid business, they tell him all about it. In the meantime he is allowed a small part of the plunder, in order that his desire to commit these murders may be increased; since it is only by murder that the plunder is obtained. He is from time to time allowed to assist in some things, while the murder is taking place, or allowed to be present to see how the business is managed. It is not, however, until he becomes a man, that he is permitted to apply the noose. To attain this privilege, he usually devotes eight or ten years. Before he can commit a murder, his tutor must present him with a noose. This sets him loose upon the world, as a licensed murderer. When the tutor is about to give him the noose, he takes him apart, and solemnly enjoins it upon him to use it with skill, as it is to be the means of his earning his food, and as his safety will depend upon the skill with which it is used. After he receives it, he tries his skill in strangling a person the first opportunity that offers. By the course of education which the Phansiagars undergo, they become so fond of their dreadful occupation, that nothing can induce them to quit it. Some who have been employed in the East India Company's service, have always returned to their business when an opportunity offered of a successful enterprise. When the Phansiagars become old, they do not quit the service, but act as watchers, and decoy the traveller, by some false tale of distress, into some distant place, where he is murdered. Women are sometimes admitted to the society of these plunderers, and, on some occasions, are allowed to apply the noose. They select a handsome girl, and place her in a convenient spot, where, by her beauty, or by a false story of distress, she may decoy some unsuspecting traveller, and be the means of his destruction. Should he be on horseback, she will induce him to take her up behind him; after which, when an opportunity offers, she throws the noose over his head, leaps from the horse, drags him to the ground, and strangles him. I will mention an instance. It happened that a horseman of Coorg, in the Madras presidency, was passing by a spot where one of these interesting-looking girls was stationed. She told him a piteous story of having been robbed and badly treated, and begged him to assist her. Feeling sorry for her, he offered to take her behind him, on his horse, and thus assist her a few miles on her journey. She expressed much gratitude for his kindness, and mounted. Soon afterwards she suddenly passed a noose over his head, and, drawing it with all her might, endeavored to pull him from his saddle. At this moment, a number of Phansiagars started from the neighboring thicket and surrounded him. The murderess then slipped from the horse; but the Coorg striking his heels into the horse's sides, it threw out its hind legs with great violence, and struck to the ground the girl, who immediately let go the cord. He then drew his sword, and, cutting his way through the robbers, effected his escape. He wounded two of them severely. These men were shortly afterwards taken, and, through their means, twelve others fell into the hands of the judicial officers of the king of Coorg, including the girl who attempted the murder. They were all put to death. And is it possible that such persons can go to heaven? How could such ever relish its pure joys? What would they do, could they be admitted there? My dear children, it is a charity which has no foundation, to suppose that the heathen can go to heaven. I have preached the Gospel to tens of thousands of them, but I never saw one who had the least atom of a qualification for that holy place. "They have all gone out of the way." Every crime which the apostle Paul speaks of in the latter part of the first chapter of his epistle to the Romans, they commit, and crimes of so dreadful a nature that I cannot mention them--crimes which, should they be written in the Bible, would cause the Bible to be a sealed book for ever. CHAPTER XV. SELF-TORTURES OF THE HINDOOS. My dear Children--As the heathen have no Bible to direct them, they have devised various means by which they expect to obtain the favor of their gods, and get to heaven. I will mention some of these. Some burn a lamp in a temple. They think that this is a very meritorious act. Some roll on the ground after the god, as he is carried in a great car or chariot around the temple. It is customary for the people to build very high cars or chariots, and cover them with very beautiful cloths. They also tie the cocoa-nut blossom and plantain-tree within them, and attach great ropes to them. When they are ready to drag these cars, or chariots, they bring their gods of gold or of brass from the temples, and place them on them. Then one, two, three, six, nine hundred, and even a thousand persons, when the cars are very large, catch hold of these ropes and drag them around the temple. While they are doing this, many of the heathen, to fulfil vows which they made when in sickness, and at other times of distress, throw themselves on the ground, and roll over from side to side, and frequently much injure themselves. Some swing on great hooks, which are passed through the tender parts of their backs. Sometimes they swing for half an hour; sometimes an hour. The longer they can bear the torture of the swinging, the more acceptable they suppose it will be to their goddess. It occasionally happens, that the flesh in which the hooks are fastened gives way, in which case the poor creature is dashed to the ground. When this occurs, the people hold him in the greatest abhorrence. They judge him to be a great criminal, and suppose that he has met a violent death in consequence of sins which he committed in a former birth. Not long since, I attended one of these hook-swingings, not far from the city of Madura. It took place on the morning of June 8th, 1848, just twenty-nine years after I first left America for India. It should have taken place on the preceding afternoon; but one of the axle-trees of the car, which was to support the machine on which the man was to be elevated in the air, was broken. Nothing, of course, could be done until it was repaired. The carpenters and others worked with great diligence until about eleven o'clock at night, when every thing was prepared for the swinging. I expected immediately after this to witness the ceremony. It however did not take place until the morning. While waiting for the man who was to be swung to make his appearance, I took a pencil and made a drawing of the machine to which he was to be fastened. The picture on the first page of the book will give you some idea of it. Yon have, perhaps, often seen a well-sweep. The long beam in the picture is swung in the same manner as is the well-sweep, with a single exception. In addition to its usual motion, it is made to turn horizontally. The cuts which you may have seen, in two or three of my little books, differ much from the above; of course different machines are used at different times. There are stationary swingings, as well as swingings of the kind to which I just alluded. Between six and seven o'clock in the morning, the man who was to be swung made his appearance for a few moments, and then disappeared. The hooks by which he was to be swung, as well as the iron rods with which a number of devotees were immediately to pierce their sides, were carried through the streets, and held up that they might be seen by the people. Soon afterwards the man again appeared with the hooks in his back, and went up to the end of the beam to which he was to be fastened. This, of course, was lowered. Notwithstanding the dense multitudes of people, I made my way to the same spot, determined to be satisfied whether or not there was any deception in the application of the hooks. There was no deception. They passed through the skin, on the sides of the backbone. To these hooks were attached yellow ropes, by which he was fastened to the beam, as you will perceive in the picture. This being done, the men, five or six in number, who had hold of the ropes fastened to the end of the beam which you see resting on the ground, and which was then, of course, high in the air, drew him up until the beam lay horizontally. Then, after making him perform one circular motion around the car, they elevated him, as you see in the picture. When thus elevated, it was thought that he was forty feet from the ground. All being ready, the people seized the ropes which you see in front of the car, and began to draw it. Mr. Chandler and myself accompanied it through the streets, until it came to the place from which it set out. The distance of ground passed over was at least half a mile, and the time in which the journey was accomplished exceeded an hour. Of course he was swinging more than an hour. As the car passed through the streets, the people threw plantains from the tops of the houses to the crowds below. The man who was swung was adorned with flowers and other ornaments. He had a tinselled turban on his head. His body was rubbed over with a yellow paste, made, most probably, from the sandal-wood. Around his ankles were rings, hung with little bells, which he made to tinkle, as he was swinging, by striking his legs together. He wore a dark or black pair of pantaloons, which came a little below the knees, and which had a border of gold around them. He held a handkerchief in one hand, and a knife somewhat resembling a dagger, in the other. These he kept in constant motion, by moving his arms. On one occasion, a bunch of plantains was tied to one of the long ropes which you see hanging down by the side of the swinger. These he drew up, and afterwards scattered over the people on a house opposite to him. [Illustration.] After following the car for a quarter of a mile or more, we went before it, and there witnessed another appalling sight. There were five or six men, who had the rods of iron which I just mentioned passed through the skin of their sides. They were dancing along, and, as they danced, they made these rods go backward and forward through the skin. After the car had reached the place from which it set out, the end of the beam from which the man was swinging was then lowered and he was untied. Again I looked very carefully at the hooks in the back. The people say that no blood is shed by their introduction, and consider this to be a miracle. The falsity of this assertion was shown by the blood which I saw on the side of one of the wounds. I have been long in this country, and consequently have become so familiarized with heathenism, that my feelings, though deeply wounded at this sight, were not so keenly affected as were those of my new associate, Mr. Chandler. He has been on heathen ground but a short time. When they tied the man to the beam, he was unnerved and wellnigh overcome; and he told me, that during all the time he was following the car, he felt like shedding tears. While following the car, the young men of America came into my mind. They refuse to come, said I, to help these miserable creatures. O, they will not come--they will not come. I thought, that if many of the dear children of that land--children to whom I lately preached, as well as others, could witness this poor creature swinging from the end of a long beam, far above the tops of the trees, and that, too, by hooks passing through the tender parts of his back, they would say, we will, by and by, become missionaries, and, by the help of God, proclaim to the heathen that there is a Saviour. On the evening of the day on which the swinging takes place, another act of great cruelty is practised. Devotees throw themselves from, the top of a high wall, or a scaffold of twenty or thirty feet in height, upon a bed of iron spikes, or on bags of straw with knives in them. Many are often mangled and torn. Others are quickly killed. At night, many of the devotees sit down in the open air, and pierce the skin of their foreheads, by inserting a small rod of iron. To this is suspended a lamp, which is kept burning till daylight. Sometimes bundles of thorns are collected before the temple, among which the devotees roll themselves without any covering. These thorns are then set on fire, when they briskly dance over the flames. Other devotees swing before a slow fire; some stand between two fires, as you see in this picture. [Illustration:] Some have their breasts, arms, and other parts stuck entirely full of pins, about the thickness of small nails, or packing needles. Another very cruel torture is practised. Some of the devotees make a vow. With one hand they cover their under lip with wet earth or mud. On this, with the other hand, they place some small grains, usually of mustard-seed They then stretch themselves flat on their backs, exposed to the dews of night, and the blazing and scorching sun by day. Their vow is, that from this position they will not stir, that they will not move nor turn, nor eat nor drink, till the seeds planted on their lips begin to sprout. This usually takes place on the third or fourth day. After this they arise, and then think that they are very holy. There is a class of devotees in this country called Yogis, whose object it is to root out every human feeling. Some live in holes and caves. Some drag around a heavy chain attached to them. Some make the circuit of an empire, creeping on their hands and knees. Some roll their bodies from the shores of the Indus to the Ganges. The Rev. Mr. Heyer, in one of his letters from India, says, that an Indian devotee has spent more than nine years on a journey from Benares to Cape Comorin, that is, from the 27th to the 7th degree of north latitude. The whole journey is made by rolling on the bare ground, from side to side. When he comes to a river, of course he cannot roll over it. He therefore fords it, or passes over it in a boat, and then rolls on the banks of the river just as far as the river is wide. By doing this, he supposes that his determination to roll all the way is fully carried out. [Illustration] Some devotees hold up one or both arms, until the muscles become rigid, and their limbs become shrivelled into stumps. In the above cut, you have a representation of a man with one of these shrivelled arms. See how long his finger-nails have grown. One has run through his hand and back through his arm. Some stretch themselves on beds of iron spikes. Some wear great square irons on their necks. I have seen not only a man, but a woman, with these great square irons around their necks, each nearly two feet in length and two feet in breadth. These they put on for the purpose of fulfilling some vow which they have made. For instance, if a mother has a very sick little boy, she will say, "Now, Swammie, if you will cure my little boy, I will have a square iron put on my neck, and wear it all my life." After this vow is made, if the little boy gets well, the mother thinks that her Swammie has cured him, and to fulfil her engagement she will have one of these irons put on her neck. [Illustration:] [Illustration:] Other devotees throw themselves from the tops of precipices, and are dashed to pieces; some bury themselves alive in holes, which their own relatives have dug; some bind themselves with ropes or chains to trees, until they die; some keep gazing so long and so constantly at the heavens, that the muscles of their neck become contracted, and no aliment but liquids can pass into the stomach. But I will not continue this subject. You perceive, my dear children, what a wretched religion that must be which encourages its followers to perform such acts. And how vain are all these acts--how utterly destitute are they of any merit. Those who practise them are not made better by them, and they are just as far from the kingdom of heaven after having performed them, as they were before. The Christian religion encourages no such things. It tells us to perform no pilgrimages to holy places, to inflict no self-tortures. But it has its requirements, and these are very simple, and may easily be performed by all who are willing to do their duty. These requirements are, repentance, forsaking sin, faith in Christ, and a supreme devotedness to his service. Have you, my dear children, attended to these requirements? If not, you are in a much worse condition than these poor heathen of whom you have been reading. They are not as guilty before God as you are. They know not their Master's will. Still, they must perish, unless the Gospel is sent to them. But though they perish, their punishment will be lighter than the punishment of those who refuse to love and obey the Saviour. That servant who knows his Lord's will, and prepares not himself, neither does according to his will, shall be beaten with many stripes. But he that knows not, and does commit things worthy of stripes, shall be beaten with few stripes. Should it be your sad lot to perish at last, it would be far better for you to go down to hell enveloped in all the darkness of a heathen land, than to go down to hell from a land of such gospel light and privileges as you enjoy. CHAPTER XVI. THE SUTTEE, OR BURNING OF WIDOWS. My dear children--From what I have already told you, you know that the Hindoos are a cruel people. But I have not told you of the extent to which they carry their cruelty. Perhaps it is shown to the highest degree in their practice of the suttee, or burning of widows. The British have abolished this rite throughout their dominions in India. They have also made great exertions to have it abolished in the territories of the native princes, but I am sorry to say, that in some of these territories it is still practised. Within the last three years, twenty-three of the princes just alluded to, have issued orders for its abolishment throughout their dominions. These orders have probably been issued solely in consequence of their fear of the British power, for it is a practice which is riveted in the affections of the people. This power they know that it will be dangerous to resist. In my "Sermon to Children, on the Condition of the Heathen," I mentioned, that the sacred books of the heathen encourage the suttee. I also mentioned several instances, in which widows had been burned to death with the corpses of their husbands. Even though you may have seen that book, it will be well for me to give you two or three other cases, to impress your minds more fully with the horrors of the Hindoo religion. The first took place in a village of Tanjore. A merchant having died, his wife, who was about thirty years old, determined to burn herself with his corpse. The news of what she was going to do, quickly spread in every direction, and large numbers of people collected to witness the burning. After she was adorned with jewels and dressed in her best clothing, and after her body was tinged with the yellow infusion of sandal-wood and saffron, bearers arrived to take away the corpse with the wretched woman. The body of the man was placed on a car, ornamented with costly stuffs, flowers, etc. There he was seated like a living man, elegantly decorated with all his jewels, and clothed in rich attire. The corpse being carried first, the wife followed in a rich palanquin. As she went along, the surrounding multitudes of people stretched out their hands towards her to show how much they admired her conduct. The women in particular went up to her to wish her joy, apparently desiring to receive her blessing, or at least, that she would pronounce over them some pleasing word. She tried to satisfy them all, saying to one, that she would long continue to enjoy her worldly happiness, and to another, that she would be the mother of many beautiful children. Another was informed, that she would soon arrive at great honor in the world. These, and similar expressions, she made to all who came near her, and they departed with the full belief that they would enjoy all the blessings of which she had spoken. She also distributed among them some betel-leaves, which they gladly received as relics, or something of blessed influence. During the whole procession, which was very long, her countenance was serene and even cheerful, until they came to the pile upon which she was to die. Then she suddenly became pensive. She no longer attended to what was passing around her. Her looks were wildly fixed upon the pile. Her face grew pale. She trembled with fear, and seemed ready to faint away. The Brahmins, who took the lead in this ceremony, with her relations, seeing her sad condition, ran to her, and endeavored to restore her spirits, but she seemed not to know what they said, and answered not a word. They made her quit the palanquin, and her nearest relatives took her to a pond of water which was near the pile, where they washed her. They then attended her to the pile, on which the corpse of her husband had already been laid. It was surrounded with Brahmins, each with a lighted torch in one hand, and a bowl of melted butter in the other, all ready, as soon as the poor victim was placed on the pile, to envelope her in fire. The relatives armed with muskets, sabres, and other weapons, stood closely around in a double line, for the purpose, it was said, of making her afraid, if she might wish to draw back, or of frightening any body who might pity her, and endeavor to rescue her. At length the time for firing the pile being proclaimed, the young widow was stripped of her jewels, and led on towards the pile. She was then commanded to walk three times around it, two of her nearest relations supporting her by the arms. The first round she accomplished with tottering steps; but in the second, her strength forsook her, and she fainted away in the arms of those who were holding her. They were obliged to drag her between them for the third round. Then senseless, she was thrown upon the corpse of her husband. At that instant, the multitude made the air to ring with their shouts of gladness, while the Brahmins poured the butter on the dry wood, and applied the torches. Instantly the whole pile was in a blaze. As soon as the flames began to rage, the poor woman, now in the midst of them, was called upon by name, from all sides; but as insensible as the corpse on which she lay, she made no answer. She entered eternity, suffocated at once, most probably, by the flames. The second case of suttee which I shall mention took place at the death of the rajah, or king of Tanjore. He left behind him four wives. The Brahmins having determined that two of these four should be burned with the corpse of their husband, and having selected the two whom they thought best to sacrifice, they told them of what awaited them. They received the information with apparent joy. A refusal would have been attended with their utter disgrace. One day only was necessary to get ready for the funeral ceremonies. They were conducted as follows: In a field somewhat distant from the palace, the people made a hollow, not very deep, but about twelve or fifteen feet square. Within it they made a pyramid of the sweet-smelling sandal-wood. On the middle of the pyramid, a scaffold was built in such a manner that the posts could easily be taken away, by which means the scaffold would fall at once. On the four corners of the platform, large jars were placed, filled with melted butter, to besmear the pyramid, that it might be the more easily set on fire. The following was the order of the procession. It was headed by a great number of soldiers under arms. They were followed by a multitude of musicians, chiefly trumpeters, who made the air reëcho with their melancholy sounds. Next came the body of the king upon a splendid palanquin, richly adorned. This was surrounded by the nearest relations and by the priest of the king. They were all on foot, and without their turbans in token of mourning. A large party of Brahmins formed around them as an immediate escort. The two wives who were to be burned with the corpse came next, each borne on a palanquin. During the journey they appeared calm and cheerful. The troops kept off the immense crowds who were assembled from every direction. The two queens, loaded with jewels, were attended by their favorite women, with whom they occasionally conversed, and by their relations of both sexes. To many of these they had made presents before leaving the palace. They were also accompanied by thousands of Brahmins, collected from different quarters. These were followed by an innumerable multitude of persons of both sexes. When they arrived at the ground where they were to be burned, the two victims were made to descend from their palanquins, for the purpose of performing the preparatory ceremonies. They went through the whole without showing any fear until towards the close, when their countenances began to change, and their three circuits around the pile were not performed without considerable effort to maintain calmness. In the meantime, the body of the king had been placed on the scaffold over the platform. The two queens were also laid down beside the corpse, one on the right hand, and the other on the left, and they joined hands by stretching them over the body. The astrologer having then declared that the happy moment was come for firing the pile, the Brahmins repeated several prayers in a loud voice, and sprinkled the pile with holy water. When these ceremonies were finished, a signal was given, and the pillars which supported the pyramid and the scaffold were suddenly taken away. Immediately the women were covered with the falling mass of timber, which tumbled over them with a crash. At the same instant the pile was fired in all its parts. On one side, the nearest relative of the king applied his torch, and on the other side, the priest; while the Brahmins, in every quarter, were pouring jars of melted butter on the flames, creating so intense a heat as must instantly have consumed the victims. Then the multitude shouted for joy, and the relations approaching the pile also set up a loud cry, calling them by their names. They supposed that they heard a voice in answer pronouncing _Enna?_ that is, _What_? but the fall of the platform, and the immediate bursting out of the flames, must have stifled them at once. Such was the miserable cud of these poor unhappy queens--unhappy victims of the most cruel religion that ever disgraced the earth. Not unfrequently the sons take a prominent part in destroying their mothers. This will appear from the following case. A Brahmin died, and was brought to the place of burning. His wife was fastened to the pile, and the fire was kindled, but the night was dark and rainy. When the fire began to scorch the poor woman, she contrived to disentangle herself from the dead body, and creeping from under the pile, hid herself among some brushwood. In a little time it was discovered that there was but one body on the pile. The relations immediately took the alarm, and searched for the poor creature. The son soon dragged her forth, and insisted that she should throw herself on the pile again, or drown or hang herself. She pleaded for her life at the hands of her own son, and declared that she could not embrace so horrid a death; but she pleaded in vain. He urged, that he should lose his caste if she were spared, and added, that either he or she must die. Unable to persuade her to hang or drown herself, the son and the others present tied her hands and feet, and threw her on the funeral pile, where she quickly perished. [Illustration: BURNING OF WIDOWS] I observed that the rite of suttee is riveted in the affections of this people. The following communications from two of the native princes who lately consented to put a stop to this rite, will show you that this is the case. The rajah of Oorcha declares, that "no subject of his state shall in future be permitted to become a suttee, though according to the Shasters, it is no doubt very meritorious for a widow to die of grief for the death of her husband." The rajah of Sumpthem says, "The practice of suttee is so very old, and has been countenanced and encouraged by the wise men of so many generations that I have never thought myself justified in interposing to prevent it; but my anxiety to meet the wishes of the governor-general in this and in all things, is so great, that I have waived all other considerations, and forbidden suttee." If the British were to lose their power in India, the suttee would immediately be rëestablished. Power has put it down, but power alone will never root it out of the affections of the people. Nothing but the Gospel can do this. O that Christians would think of this, and hasten, yea, with great haste, to send this blessed Gospel to them. CHAPTER XVII. THE REVENGEFUL NATURE OF THE HINDOO RELIGION. My dear Children--The sacred books of the Hindoos encourage revenge. In the Vedas, which are the most sacred books, are laid down forms of religious service, or acts of worship, which are designed to injure or destroy their enemies. When a person wishes to have his enemy destroyed, he goes to a Brahmin or priest, and secures his supposed aid. The Brahmin, before he proceeds to his work, clothes himself with a black garment. He also makes four images of the foe, and clothes these with black garments. He then kindles a sacrificial fire, and after the performance of various ceremonies, he takes pieces of some animal which has been consecrated for the purpose, and throws them into this fire. On every occasion when he makes this burnt-offering, he touches the mouth of the image of this enemy, uttering one or other of the forms of prayer which are written in the sacred books. Of these, the following are a few: "O Agni," god of fire, "thou who art the mouth of all gods, do thou destroy the wisdom of my enemy." "O Agni, fill with distraction the mind of this my enemy." "O Agni, destroy the senses of this my enemy." "O Agni, make dumb the mouth of this my enemy." "O Agni, fasten with a peg the tongue of this my enemy." "O Agni, reduce to ashes this my enemy." How different, my dear children, is the religion of Jesus from the religion of which I have been giving you a description. No precepts teach us that we may injure or destroy our enemies. On the contrary, they teach us to love them, and do them good. Let me repeat to you some of the words which our Saviour spoke on this point. "Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbor, and hate thine enemy; but I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully use you and persecute you, that ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven; for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust." One of the young Hindoos in Dr. Duff's school in Calcutta, when reading the above and similar passages, was so struck with the difference between these precepts and the precepts of his Shasters, that he could not but exclaim "O, how beautiful, how divine. Surely this is the truth--this is the truth--this is the truth." The consequence was, that he never could rest until he had thrown aside his sacred books and his idols, and embraced that Saviour whose precepts appeared to him to be so beautiful. And was this heathen so struck with the beauty of the precepts of the Bible--so struck, that he had no peace until he gave himself to his Saviour? And have you ever, my dear children, been struck with the precepts of your Saviour--so struck with them, that you could never rest until you had given up your hearts to him? If not, how great is the contrast between you and that young Hindoo. He gave his heart to the Saviour. You withhold yours. He, through grace, will dwell for ever with Christ in heaven. You, if you continue in your present awful condition, must be banished from his presence, and cast into hell, where you shall be tormented day and night for ever, with the devil and his angels. Flee, my dear children, flee to the Saviour now, if you have never yet done so. Flee to him, and then you also shall dwell for ever with him. CHAPTER XVIII. THE DECEPTION OF THE HINDOOS. My dear Children--From what I have previously stated, you are aware that the Hindoos are a very deceitful people. Let me give you another instance of their deception. A late head catechist of one of my missionary brethren was, before his conversion, the priest of a temple. A man from whom about one thousand rupees' worth of jewels and similar things had been stolen, came to this priest, and promised to reward him well, if he would detect the thief, and secure to him the restoration of his property. The priest promised to comply with his wishes; and in order to effect his purpose, he had drums beaten through the village, and proclaimed, that at a certain time he would hold a meeting and detect the thief. At the appointed time, a large concourse of people assembled, the priest appearing in the midst of them with a cocoa-nut bound around with saffron-cords. He then told them, that if, after putting down the cocoa-nut, it should move of its own accord towards him, they might know that he would be able certainly to detect the thief; and added, that after it had thus moved, it would pursue the offender, and follow him until it would break his head. He then performed certain ceremonies calculated to awaken superstitious feelings in the minds of the people, and laid the cocoa-nut down at a little distance from him. To the great amazement of all present, it began to move towards the priest, and continued to move until it reached his feet. This being done, he told the people, that they might conclude from what they had seen, that the cocoa-nut would follow the thief until it would break his head. He consented, however, to give him a little grace--to spare his life until the next day; adding his advice, that the thief, whoever he might be, had better come to him privately, and tell him where the property was. In the dead of the night, a tap was heard at the door of the priest; the thief presented himself, and delivered up the property. The priest received a present from the owner of the property, and rewarded the thief for his promptness. After this man was converted, he was asked how he contrived to make the cocoa-nut move towards him. "Why, sir," he answered, "if you will carefully divide a cocoa-nut, scoop out the kernel from one-half of it, enclose a strong, lively rat, put the parts of the cocoa-nut together, and bind the whole with saffron-cords, to prevent the crack being seen, and then place it on a declivity previously prepared, it is clear, that if you place yourself at the foot of this declivity the rat will twirl the cocoa-nut, and cause it to descend until it reaches your feet." CHAPTER XIX. SUPERSTITION OF THE HINDOOS. My dear Children--In my Sermon to Children, before alluded to, I mentioned a few particulars to prove that the people of India are very superstitious. Let me mention a few more. It is said that no act, however good it may be, if performed on Sunday, will succeed. Some will not eat at all on Sunday, until they have seen a certain bird--the bird on which the god Vrishnoo rides. If a man rubs oil on his head on Monday, and bathes, he will commit a sin equal to the sin of destroying a temple of Siva. If he has his hair out on Tuesday, he will become poor. Even to worship the gods on Wednesday, is bad. If a person takes medicine on Thursday, his sickness will be increased. Should he lend any thing on Friday, he will lose his property. If he should buy a new cloth on Saturday, take it home, and keep it there, death may be the consequence. Should he die on this day, some other member of the family will die on the following week. If the foundation of a house is laid in June, the destruction of that house will follow. Should a family enter a new house in March, some member of the family will die. If a marriage is celebrated in September, the husband and wife will fight with each other. Should a thunderbolt fall on a house, or a vulture alight on it, some evil will befall the people living in it. If a crow should strike any person on the head with its wings, some of his relations will die. Should a cat or a snake cross his path, it would be an indication of evil. In the latter case, one of his relations will die. If, when returning home, a person should meet him bearing a light, a quarrel will be the result. After a person has left his house, should he meet a single Brahmin, or a woman who has had her head shaved, or a dumb or a blind man, or a washerman or a barber, the object for which he left would not succeed. Or, when going out, should he hit his head against the top of the door-frame, or should any one ask him where he was going, or should he happen to sneeze, he would consider these things as hinderances to his going, and reënter the house. Should a son or a daughter be born on the new moon in April, they will become thieves. If a person is born under the planet Saturn, he will be slandered, his riches will be dissipated, and his wife, son, and friends will be destroyed. He will also be at variance with others, and endure many sufferings. Should he be born under the planet Mars, he will be full of anxious thoughts, be imprisoned, and oppressed with fear from robbers, fire, etc. He also will lose his lands, trees, and good name. If a person dreams that a monkey has bitten him, he will die in six months; or if he dreams that bedbugs, in large numbers, are creeping over his body to bite him, he will die in eight days. Should he dream that a dog has bitten him, he will die in three years; or should he dream that a dead person has appeared to him and spoken to him, he will die immediately. If a man has a little head, he will become rich. If he has a large head, he will be poor. If his forehead is wide, he will live a hundred years. If he has a small neck, he will be a murderer. If the second toe is long, he will be a bad man. If a woman has curly hair, she will not prosper. If her nose is long, she will have a good disposition. If her ear is wide, she will tell falsehoods. If she has a mole on her nose, she will be subject to anger; if on her lips, she will be learned; if on the eyebrows she will be cunning. I could continue to fill a number of pages with things of the same description, but it will be unnecessary. I will merely mention one instance more. On a certain night in the month of November, the people will not look at the moon. The reason assigned for this, is as follows. Once, when the elephant-faced god Pulliar was dancing before the gods, the moon happening to see him, laughed at him, and told him that he had a large stomach, an ear like a winnowing-fan, etc. This so enraged him, that he cursed her. This curse was inflicted on the night above mentioned. How does the wretchedness of a people, both in reference to the things of this world and of the world to come, show itself where the Bible is unknown. If this blessed book was not an inspired book--if it did no more than remove the temporal miseries of men, how invaluable would it be! Of how much more value then, is it, in reference to the removal of their spiritual miseries? O, why is it that Christians have not long since sent this Bible to them? Why is it that they do not send it to them _now_? This is a mystery, which we must leave to be unravelled at the judgment-seat of the last day. My dear children, you are to stand before that judgment-seat. Shall any of these heathen among whom I dwell, rise up at that awful season--stretch out their hands towards you, and say, There stand the children who might have sent us the Bible, but they did not send it; and now we must be lost--_lost for ever!_ CHAPTER XX. BURMAH, CHINA, ETC., ETC. My dear children--If you will look on your map of Asia, you will see, adjoining Hindostan, at the east, a country called Burmah. This is another land of idols. Here the "Baptist General Convention for Foreign Missions" have one of the most interesting and flourishing missions in the world. The people of Burmah are, if possible, still further removed from divine knowledge than the people of India. They are in reality atheists, or, in other words, people who do not believe in a creator or preserver of the world. But still they worship gods, who, they say, have become so by acts of religious merit. He whom they now worship is called Gaudama, or Boodh. He is reputed to be the son of the king of Benares, and, if their history be correct, was born six hundred years before Christ. The Boodhists are all idolaters. They have many temples erected to the honor of Boodh and his image. Before this image they present flowers, incense, rice, betel-nuts etc. Like all other idolatrous nations, the Burmese are very wicked. They do not respect their females as they should do. They treat them as an inferior order of beings. They often sell them. A very singular custom prevails in that country. It consists in paying a kind of homage to a white elephant. This elephant is sumptuously dressed and fed. It is provided with officers, like a second sovereign, and is made to receive presents from foreign ambassadors. It is next in rank to the king, and _superior_ to the queen. Burmah is the country in which Drs. Judson and Price, and Messrs. Hough and Wade suffered so much, during the war with England several years ago. Messrs. Hough and Wade were the first to suffer. As the ships which were to make the attack upon Rangoon approached the city, they were seized and cast into prison. Their legs were bound together with ropes, and eight or ten Burmans, armed with spears and battle-axes, were placed over them, as a guard. They were afterwards put in irons. The next morning, as the fleet approached still nearer the city, orders were sent to the guard, through the grates of their prison, that the instant the shipping should fire upon the town, they were to kill them, together with the other prisoners confined with them. The guard, on receiving these orders, began to sharpen the instruments with which they intended to kill them, and moved them about their heads to show with how much skill and pleasure they would attend to their orders. Upon the floor where they intended to butcher them, a large quantity of sand was spread to receive the blood. The gloom and silence of death reigned among the prisoners; the vast ocean of eternity seemed but a step before them. At length the fleet arrived, and the firing commenced The first ball which was thrown into the town passed, with a tremendous noise, directly over their heads. This so frightened the guard, that they seemed unable to execute their murderous orders. They shrunk away into one corner of the prison, where they remained quiet, until a broadside from one of the ships made the prison shake and tremble to its very foundation. This so alarmed them, that they burst open the doors of the prison and fled. The missionaries, with the other prisoners, were then left alone. Their danger, however, was not at an end; but as God had protected them thus far, he continued to protect them until they were set at liberty, and allowed to preach the Gospel again to those perishing heathen. Drs. Judson and Price were also imprisoned, and suffered much; but they, too, were preserved and delivered. The accounts of their sufferings are so long, that I cannot now relate them all to you. You will find them in the life of Mrs. Judson. After the war was over, the missionaries were permitted to go everywhere to proclaim the name of the Saviour; and their efforts have been very much blessed, especially among the Karens. It will be impossible for me to give you an account of their many labors, and of the many tokens which they have received of God's favor towards multitudes who have become followers of the Redeemer. Suffice it to say, that more than six thousand have been received into the Christian church. One of the native teachers not long since baptized, on one occasion, three hundred and seventy-two persons. Adjoining Burmah, is China, a country containing more than three hundred millions of people, about twenty times as many as there are in the United States of America. It is a country filled with idols. Many of the people earn their living by making and selling these idols. There are many shops where they are sold, or repaired when they become broken or defaced. The females in that country are in a very degraded state. They are the slaves of their husbands, and live and die in the greatest ignorance. Any attempt to raise themselves to the level of females in Christian lands, is considered as very wicked. The little female child is tortured from her birth. You have, perhaps, heard that the women of China have small feet. These are made small by a very cruel practice--by putting bandages of cloth so tightly around them, that they cannot grow. Many women have feet not larger than those of an American infant of one year old. Mr. Doty, missionary to China, says, that he was acquainted with a little girl whose mother had bound up her feet so tightly, that she cried two or three hours every day, on account of the great pain which she suffered. With such little feet, you may well suppose that it would be very difficult for the women to walk. It is so. They limp and hobble along, just as if their feet had been cut off, and they had to walk on stumps. The Chinese do not count their daughters among their children. Mr. Doty says, he one day asked his Chinese teacher how many children he had. He replied, that he had several. "How many of these," he then inquired, "are daughters?" "We do not count our daughters among our children," he answered. "I have three daughters, but we Chinese count our sons only as children." When this missionary was in a Chinese village where he had never been before, a man called to see him, bringing with him two pretty little girls, neatly dressed, about six and seven years old. He said that they were his daughters and that he wished to sell them. Mr. Doty refused to buy them, as it was wicked to buy and sell children; but he told him, that if he would commit them to him, he would take them home with him, and educate them, and that they might return home after they had grown. To this proposal he would not consent but said, that if he would buy them, they should be his for ever. He could have bought them both for about twenty-six dollars. The Chinese have many schools, but none for their daughters, as they do not teach them, to read. When they are about thirteen years old, they shut them up in what are called "women's apartments," where they remain until the time of their marriage. Then the parents sell them to those who wish to have wives for their sons. In this way, they are frequently married to persons whom they never before saw. Many parents in China destroy their little girls soon after they are born, or while they are very small. This they frequently do by throwing them into rivers, or into the sea, after they have wrapped them up in coarse mats. There is a little Chinese girl, named Ellen, now living in Newark, New Jersey, whose father was about to kill her when she was three weeks old. An English lady heard of his intentions, and sent a person with ten dollars to see if she could not be bought. He was offered the ten dollars, but refused to take them. She sent ten dollars more. He consented to take the twenty dollars. This little girl was brought by this English lady to America, when she was about six years old. The friends who have her under their care, are educating her with the hope that she may go back to China, to tell its females of the Saviour. Did you ever, my dear girls, think why it is that your parents love you, and educate you--why it is that they try to make you happy, instead of cramping your feet, shutting you up, and, perhaps, at last selling you? It is because they have the Bible. Then, how anxious should you be to save what money you can, to buy Bibles to send to those poor heathen. As I am now speaking of the destruction of infants, I would observe, that this crime is common in other heathen countries. It was quite common, until lately, in the island of Tahiti, and other places in the South Pacific Ocean. When the missionaries of the London Missionary Society went there, many years ago, they found the females in a very degraded situation. Mr. Nott, one of these missionaries, declared that three out of four of the children were murdered as soon as they were born. He met a woman soon after this dreadful crime had been abolished to whom he said, "How many children have you?" "This one in my arms," was her answer. "And how many did you kill?" She replied, "Eight." Another woman, who was asked the same question, said that she had destroyed _seventeen_. Infanticide, or, in other words, the destruction of infants, says the Rev. Mr. Williams, was carried to an almost incredible extent in Tahiti, and some other islands. He writes, "During the visit of the deputation, G. Bennet, Esq., was our guest for three or four days; and on one occasion, while conversing on this subject, he expressed a wish to obtain accurate knowledge of the extent to which this cruel practice had prevailed. Three women were sitting in the room at the time, making European garments, under Mrs. Williams direction; and, after replying to Mr. Bennet's inquiries, I said, 'I have no doubt but that each of these women has destroyed some of her children.' Mr. Bennet exclaimed, 'Impossible; such motherly, respectable women could never have been guilty of so great an atrocity.' 'Well,' I added, 'we will ask them.' Addressing the first, I said to her, 'Friend, how many children have you destroyed?' She was startled at my question, and at first charged me with unkindness, in harrowing up her feelings, by bringing the destruction of her babes to her remembrance; but upon learning the object of my inquiry, she replied, with a faltering voice, 'I have destroyed _nine_.' The second, with eyes suffused with tears, said, 'I have destroyed _seven_;' and the third informed us that she had destroyed _five_. Had the missionaries gone there but a few years before, with the blessing of God, they would have prevented all this. These mothers were all Christians at the time this conversation was held." "On another occasion," says Mr. Williams, "I was called to visit the wife of a chief in dying circumstances. She had professed Christianity for many years, had learned to read when about sixty, and was a very active teacher in our adult school. In the prospect of death, she sent a pressing request that I would visit her immediately; and on my entering her apartment she exclaimed, 'O, servant of God, come and tell me what I must do.' Perceiving that she suffered great mental distress, I inquired the cause of it, when she replied, 'I am about to die.' 'Well,' I rejoined, 'if it be so, what creates this agony of mind?' 'O, my sins, my sins,' she cried; 'I am about to die.' I then inquired what the particular sins were which so greatly distressed her, when she exclaimed, 'O, my children, my murdered children! I am about to die, and shall meet them all at the judgment-seat of Christ.' Upon this I inquired how many children she had destroyed, and to my astonishment she replied, 'I have destroyed _sixteen_, and now I am about to die.'" After this Mr. Williams tried to comfort her, by telling her that she had done this when a heathen, and during the times of ignorance, which God winked at. But she received no consolation from this thought, and exclaimed again, "O, my children, my children." He then directed her to the "faithful saying, which is worthy of all acceptation, that Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners." This gave her a little comfort; and after visiting her frequently, and directing her to that blood which cleanseth from all sin, he succeeded, with the blessing of God, in bringing peace to her mind. She died soon after, rejoicing in the hope that her sins, though many, would be forgiven her. Well may you exclaim, my dear children, "Holy Bible, book divine, Precious treasure, thou art mine." Infanticide still prevails in India, but as I have given a particular description of this crime in my Sermon to Children, on the Condition of the Heathen, I will here say nothing farther on the subject. CHAPTER XXI. THE DUTY OF PRAYING AND CONTRIBUTING FOR THE SPREAD OF THE GOSPEL. My dear children--There is another story connected with India, which I might have mentioned in my last chapter while writing about the destruction of infants. I will relate it now, in order that you may be constrained to pray more frequently for the heathen. Some time ago, the wife of a native prince had a little daughter. The father ordered it to be put to death, immediately after it was born. Had it been a son, an heir to the throne, he would have taken great care of it. A second, a third, a fourth, a fifth little daughter was born. All these were also put to death by the command of the father. When a sixth little daughter was born, the mother's heart yearned over it. "I cannot part with it," said she; "I will have it taken away and hid, so that the king may know nothing about it." This was done, but the poor mother never dared to send for her little girl. She never saw her again, but died sometime after. Many of the little girls in India are very pretty. They have dark eyes, and sweet, expressive countenances. This little child grew to be a very beautiful girl; and when she was eleven years old, some of her relations ventured to bring her to her father. They thought that he would be struck with the sight of his sweet child, and that he would love her for the sake of her mother who had died. The little girl fell at his feet and clasped his knees, and looked up in his face and said, "My father." And what do you think that father did? Do you think that he took her up in his arms, and kissed her? No. He seized her by the hair of her head, drew his sword from his belt, and with a single blow took off her head. Now, my dear children, do you not think that you ought to pray for the poor heathen--to pray that God will send the Gospel to them? I want to tell you of a little boy who heard me preach some time ago about the heathen. One night he said his prayers, and went to bed. After he got into bed, he said to the nurse, "I have forgotten to pray for the heathen, and I must get out of bed and pray for them." The nurse then told him that it would not be necessary for him to get up, as he could pray for them while in bed. "No," said he, "I must get out of bed and pray for them." And the dear little boy would not rest until he got out of bed and prayed for them. Now I want all of you, my dear children, every morning and evening, to kneel down and pray for the heathen, as this little boy did. And I want you to do something more. I want you always to be punctual in attending _the usual monthly concerts of prayer,_ provided there are no juvenile monthly concerts to which you can go. I have long wished to see juvenile monthly concerts of prayer established. They would be very interesting if I am to judge from the account of one which I some time ago received from a friend of mine, the Rev. Mr. V----. I will give you some extracts from his letter. He writes, "According to promise, I send you an account of the first children's monthly concert, so far as I can learn, held on Long Island. As notice was not given either in the church or Sabbath-school, the attendance was smaller than it otherwise would have been. Still, about sixty interesting children attended. After a few remarks concerning the object of the meeting by the superintendent of the Sabbath-school they sung with melting eyes the hymn that describes the wretched heathen mother casting her lovely babe into the jaws of the monster of the Granges. Prayer then was made, of about two or three minutes in length. Then I gave some of the most affecting accounts of the cruelties and ignorance of the heathen, as related by the devoted Williams, that martyr missionary. Their silent attention and subdued countenances told that their hearts were with the wretched idolaters. After having thus spent about ten minutes, the children sung in a sweet manner, a hymn--a prayer for those laboring amid the heathen: "When worn by toil, their spirits fail, Bid them the glorious future hail; Bid them the crown of life survey, And onward urge their conquering way." "After which, two resolutions were passed, unanimously, by the children. First, that they will each one attend the monthly concert of prayer regularly, when able, and bring with them all their companions whom they can persuade to come. "Secondly, that they, with the children of the various schools of W----, will constitute ---- a life member of the W---- Bible Society. Some of the smaller children had brought their little Bibles to give them to ----, that he might carry them to the poor children of the heathen. But when informed that the heathen could not understand English, they determined to raise money, and send it out to purchase Bibles for the children. This interesting meeting was closed by prayer, the doxology, and benediction." But not only can you pray for the heathen, you can give _something_ to send the Gospel to them. Do you say that you have no money to give? But cannot you earn some? Many young persons have done so. One of whom I have read, says, "Besides supporting a school in Ceylon, we are going to support five Chinese boys. I earn six cents a week for not using tea, one for not using sugar, and three for not using coffee." Another says, "I, with three others, have been making matches to the amount of ten dollars, and should have made more, but the people are pretty well supplied. I am going to dig my father's garden, and my mother is going to give me a quarter of a dollar for digging it, which I shall give to the missionaries. I am going to do all I can, and to earn all I can, and save all that I have, to support the missionaries." Another says, "I am going to leave off buying candy." What is that? Can little girls and boys do without sugar-candy? I am afraid that many of you, my dear children, would find it difficult to go without it. But let me quote all that this child wrote. "I am going to leave off buying candy and such little notions, unless it is necessary, and save every cent that I can get and give it to the missionaries." Now, my dear children, I do think that if you would save some of those cents which you spend in buying candy, fire-crackers, and similar things, and buy Bibles and tracts for the poor heathen, you would do much more good with them. I want to tell you about a little boy who belonged to one of my schools in Ceylon, who has, as I hope, gone to heaven through the means of a tract which cost only two or three cents, and which was the cause of his coming under my care. After he had attended preaching for some time, he begged me to admit him to the church. As he was quite young, not eleven years old, I was afraid to receive him. This feeling, perhaps, was wrong. He never joined the church on earth. He has, however, I hope, gone to join the church in heaven. When he was about eleven years of age, he was attacked with the cholera and died. In this country, when children are very ill, the father or mother will catch up a cocoa-nut or a few plantains, and run off to the temple, and say, "Now, Swammie, if you will cure my little boy or little girl, I will give you this cocoa-nut, or these plantains." The mother of this boy saw that he was very ill, and she told him that she wished to go to make offerings to one of her idols, in order that he might get well. But he requested her not to do so. "I do not worship idols," said he; "I worship Christ, my Saviour. If he is pleased to spare me a little longer in the world, it will be well; if not, I shall go to him." The last words he uttered were, "I am going to Christ the Lord." Now when you think about this little boy, I want you to ask yourselves, whether it is not better to give two or three cents to try and save the soul of some poor little heathen boy or girl, than to spend them in buying candy, and other useless things. But I must tell you about a little girl whom I saw some time ago, who refused to buy candy while there are so many heathen without the Bible. Her father is a sea-captain. Being absent from home, he sent her five dollars to buy candy, or any thing else which she wished. As this little girl had heard about the heathen, she determined to throw all her money into the missionary-box, instead of spending it for her own pleasure. The mother, on learning her intentions, asked her if she would not like to spend a part of it for candy, and similar things. She replied, that she would not, and in due time she put her five dollars into the missionary-box. Not long after this, she was attacked with a severe toothache. The mother proposed that the defective tooth should be extracted. The little creature, for she was only about eight years old, dreaded the operation, and seemed at first to be backward about having it performed. To encourage her to submit to it, her mother offered her twenty-five cents. This little girl did not then begin to reason, Now, if I can only get those twenty-five cents, I can buy a doll, or I can buy some sugar-candy; but she reasoned thus, Now, if I can get those twenty-five cents, I can go and put them into the missionary-box. So she said to her mother, I will go and have the tooth taken out. The tooth, however, ceased to ache, but still she wished to have it extracted. Her mother then interfered, and told her that, as it had ceased to ache, it might be well for her not to have it drawn until it ached again. The little girl, however, persisted, saying, that if it were not taken out, she could not get the twenty-five cents to devote to the missionary cause. She therefore went to the dentist's, submitted to the operation, received her twenty-five cents, and went and threw them into the Lord's treasury. Was not that a noble little girl? Doubtless you will all say she was. I must tell you about a noble little boy also. Some time ago, I was preaching to the children of Canandaigua, in the western part of New York. After I had preached there, I went on to Rochester. Returning from that place, I met with a lady in the cars, who told me as follows: "After you had preached in Canandaigua," said she, "a young lady there, who had lost her mother, and who had six or seven or eight of her brothers and sisters under her care, formed them into a missionary society." Oh, I wish that all the dear children in America were formed into missionary societies. After she had done this, she asked her little brother how he was going to get money to put into the missionary-box. "By catching mice," said he. His sister gave him two or three cents for every mouse he caught. Thus it appears, that this dear little boy was going to throw all his earnings into the Lord's treasury. But let me tell you a little more about the children to whom I before alluded. Another says, "In some of the day-schools of this city, the girls have formed sewing societies, and make pin-cushions, needle-books, emery-bags, and the like, and send the money that is raised from the sale of them to the missionaries, to be used for the heathen. There are seven Sabbath-schools in this town, and in each of them there is a missionary association; so that in all about five hundred dollars are sent from the Sabbath-schools every year." Now, my dear girls, I want you to think of what has now been said about the formation of sewing societies; and I want you to ask your mothers whether they will not allow you to form such societies, to meet once a week, or once in two weeks, or once a month to sew, to get some money to send the Gospel to the heathen. Many societies of this kind have been formed. After I had preached to the children in one of the churches in Third-street, New York, the little girls who attend that church formed such a society. The account which I received of it is as follows. "You may remember, that in your address to our Sabbath-school, you related instances of little girls knitting, sewing, etc., to earn something for the missionary-box The examples which you related were not lost to the girls of the Sabbath-school. Immediately they began to talk about forming themselves into a sewing society, and making small articles, and giving the proceeds to the missionary society. They did not stop here, but went right to work, and soon formed their society, which they styled the Juvenile Sewing Society. They are in a very prosperous and flourishing condition at present. I know not the amount of funds they possess--they pay a cent a week into their treasury--but they have a large assortment of articles already made. I understand, also, they meet once a week to sew." After I had preached at a place called Little Falls, New York, the girls formed a sewing society there. The following account of this society I received from one of its little members. "When you were here last fall, and told us how much good little girls had done in having sewing societies, we thought we would see if _we_ could not do some good in the world, as well as they; and, since October, we have met weekly, and by holding a fair, we have succeeded in raising sixty-two dollars. We hope it will be the means of saving some poor heathen children." Now, as I said before, I want you, my dear girls, to ask your mothers if you may not form such societies also. Will you think of it? I hope you will. Another of the children to whom I have twice referred, says, "I can try and save their souls, if I am not there. I can work for them, and send some money to you to buy them Bibles, and I can pray for them; and if I should save some souls, O how would they thank me. But if I did not send my money, nor care any thing about them, and I should not go to heaven, and they should not, how would they rise up in judgment against me, and say, If we had had the privileges that you had, we should not be here. O, how thankful we ought to be, that we were not born in heathen lands. O, if the poor heathen could only have such privileges as we have, how thankful would they be; and if we were born in heathen lands, I have no doubt that they would come and tell us about a Saviour." I have received many letters from children, breathing the same spirit which is manifested in the notes I have copied. One writes, "Last winter I brought in the wood for mother, and she gave me fifty cents. I now am very glad that I have not spent it, as I can give it to you to buy tracts for the little heathen children of India." A second writes, "The enclosed fifty cents my grandmother gave me when I was a very little boy, for sitting still one hour. Will you please to use it to furnish the Bible and missionary to the heathen." A third writes, "I have always spent my money for candy and other trifles, but since I have heard about the darkness and misery of the heathen, I intend to save it all, and put it into the missionary-box." A fourth writes, "The enclosed I earned by knitting. I intended to save it, till I had sufficient to carry me a short journey to see some of my friends; but when I heard you tell about the little heathen girls, I thought I would give it to you, for the poor heathen children." A fifth writes, "I have enclosed twelve and a half cents, which my father gave me to go and see General Tom Thumb. When I heard you lecture last evening, I came home and concluded to give it to you, and let you buy Bibles for the poor heathen." A sixth writes, "I remember, before my mother died, she used to tell me a great deal about the children of India, and now she is in heaven. I think she would like to have me give my heart to the Saviour, and go and teach those poor children. I give you some money that was given to me to see an exhibition, which I saved to give for such things, rather than go." A seventh writes, "You told us that two cents were the means of converting a young man. I would give two cents every week, if it would convert souls to Christ." An eighth writes, "My mother told me, some time ago, that every day I recited my lessons without missing a word, she would give me a penny; and not being desirous to spend it, I do wish you would take it--fifty cents--to the heathen. It may buy some tracts at the bazaar or market." A ninth writes, "We feel sorry for those poor heathen children. We will try to earn some money to buy Bibles for the heathen. Father has promised us some land to work next summer, and we think we can raise something and sell it to get the money." A tenth writes, "Since you were here last spring, I have saved what I could--one dollar--for the heathen children, and should be glad if I could do more." An eleventh writes, "The money which you will find enclosed, I earned by working for my mother on Saturday, which I intended to keep to buy a microscope; but when I heard you preach on Sabbath, I concluded to give it to buy Bibles for the poor heathen children." A twelfth writes, "The enclosed, five dollars, was a birthday present from my father, but I want to give it to Dr. Scudder, for the poor little boys in Ceylon." A thirteenth writes, "Please accept my mite, by the hand of my brother. I have been keeping it for the purpose of buying a geography; but when I heard you preach yesterday, I thought I had better send it to you, for the poor heathen." A fourteenth writes, "I would like much to become a missionary, as I am named after one; I hope I shall be one. I have been saving a dollar to buy myself some books, but concluded to give it to buy some books for the heathen." The last two children, whose letters you have been reading, gave to the missionary cause the money which they had been earning to buy books. When you have been earning money for the express purpose of giving it to the missionary cause, then you should devote it all to that cause; but I would advise you not to do as did the two children last mentioned. Had my opinion been asked, relative to the disposal of their money, I would have recommended them to give _one-tenth,_ or perhaps a little more, of the sums they had been earning, to their Saviour, and to keep the rest to buy their books. The giving of not less than one-tenth of all you earn, for charitable purposes, is the principle which I wish to have impressed fully on your minds, and I hope you will grow up under the influence of this principle, and _never, never_ depart from it. But while I thus speak, you must not suppose that I wish you to confine yourselves to the giving of one-tenth, when you can give more; I hope you will not give merely this, but one-half, or more, if you can afford it. Indeed, if you do not go as missionaries to the heathen, I want you to make it your great object _to make money for Christ, and to spend it for Christ_. O, if the generation which is grown, were as anxious to make money for Christ, and to spend it for Christ, as they are to make it for themselves, and to spend it for themselves, or to hoard it up--it may be for the everlasting destruction of the souls of their heirs--there would be no complaints that money could not be had to send the Gospel to the destitute, both at home and abroad. In my twelfth chapter, I spoke of the liberal donations which the heathen of India make for the support of their religion. In the city of Calcutta alone, it is supposed that two millions of dollars are spent every year on the festival of a single goddess--a festival which lasts only a few days. A single native has been known to give, as I before said, more than one hundred thousand dollars at one time to this festival, and afterwards thirty thousand dollars yearly. How vast, then, must be the sums which are spent upon all the different festivals of their gods. Would that we could see such liberality among Christians. Would that we could see the generality of them willing to give even one-tenth of their annual income to the Lord. Alas, what would the heathen say, if they were to learn how much greater are the sums of money which they give to their idols, than Christians give to honor their Saviour? Would they not exclaim, It is because Christianity is false, and heathenism is true, that Christians give so little for Christ, while we give so much for our gods? My dear children, I hope that you will never allow the heathen to say that the Christian religion is false, because you do not give your money for the spread of the Gospel. Will you not resolve now, that you will, so long as God prospers you in worldly goods, give _at least_ one-tenth of all you earn to the Lord? Do, my dear children, do make the resolution now. CHAPTER XXII. PERSONAL LABORS AMONG THE HEATHEN. My dear children--You have, perhaps, often seen Campbell's missionary map of the world. If not, I want you very carefully to look at it. I want you to look at the red spots on it, and think how many millions of people embrace the religion both of the Greek and Roman Catholic churches--a religion which is nothing more nor less than paganism, with a few Christian doctrines added to it. After this, I want you to look at the green spots, and think of the hundred and twenty millions of Mohammedans, who spurn the name of Jesus as a Saviour, and who have set up Mahomet as their prophet. I want you also to look at all the dark spots, where, with comparatively a few exceptions, the people are in pagan darkness, without any knowledge of God and the only Saviour of sinners Jesus Christ. And in view of all this darkness--in view of the need of more than half a million of ministers of the Gospel to preach the news of salvation to them, I want you, my dear boys, to ask yourselves whether it may not be your duty, after you grow up, to become ministers, and go and preach the Gospel to them. You know that you are bound to do all the good to others which you can; and even if you do not love the Saviour, you are not released from your obligations to do good. I would by no means have you become ministers without giving your hearts to Christ; but this you are as much bound to do, as you are bound to do all the good you can to others. If you are not Christians, I want you, through grace, to become such, and I want many of you to become ministers and missionaries. Two of my sons are now missionaries in India, and four others, I hope, are preparing to come. And why should not you also come here, or go to other heathen lands? If you can be excused from coming or going, why may not all who are now little boys also be excused? In such a case, there will be no missionaries at all. And you know that this would be very wrong. But I do not merely want many of you, my dear boys, to become missionaries, I want many of you, my dear girls, to become missionaries also. Many little girls and boys have expressed a desire to become missionaries. Several little boys who wrote to Mr. Hutchings, one of my missionary brethren, and several little boys and girls who have written to me, have said that they would like to be missionaries. One writes, "I should like to go and be a missionary, and instruct the poor heathen children to love God." A second says, "I have been selling matches that I made. I got five dollars--just as many dollars as I am years old. I think I shall become a missionary, and come and help you. I hope I shall see you again when I come to Ceylon. Tell the heathen children they must love God, and be good children. They must not give the children to the crocodiles, nor throw them into the water; and they must not worship wooden and brass gods. They must worship the true God, and keep his commandments." A third says, "I like to send money to help the poor heathen to learn to read the Bible, and other good books. I think it will be pleasant to sail across the ocean, and teach them to turn from their idols. I would teach them not to lay themselves down before the car of Juggernaut, and be crushed to death; and I would teach them not to burn themselves to death on the funeral pile." A fourth says, "I mean to save something to send to you, to help support one school. Should my life be spared, and the way be opened at some future day, I think I should be willing to leave my native home, to go to some distant land to tell the heathen of a Saviour, whom I hope I have found." A fifth says, "If you are ever in want of money, just please to send on to me, and I will endeavor to raise all that you want. If I live to be a man, I hope be a missionary to Ceylon or China." One little boy wrote to me as follows: "I have for a long time been saving three shillings, for the purpose of buying a little racoon, which I intended to do on Monday. On Sunday I heard you preach, and thought I would give it to you to save some poor heathen soul; and I hope you will pray for me, that I may become a minister, and go to India, and preach to the heathen." Another writes, "This is to certify that I, Charles D.H. Frederick, pledge myself, if God spares my life, when I get to be a man, and he pardons me through Christ Jesus, I will go and preach to the heathen." A little girl wrote me as follows: "According to my present feelings, I should like to engage in so glorious a cause," as the missionary cause, "and I hope, when I arrive at an age to be of use to God, and the poor heathen, to embrace so glorious a cause." Another little girl writes, "I felt very bad when I heard you tell about the poor heathen who worship the idols. I could not keep from weeping, when you told us about the man who came so far to get a teacher to come and tell the Gospel to his friends, and was disappointed. I felt very bad Sunday evening; and on Monday evening I felt that the Lord had given me a new heart. I felt happy, and sang some beautiful verses that I learned in one of mother's little books. I have read the Day-springs, and thought a great deal about the heathen for two years. "I used to think a great deal about having nice clothes, before I thought so much about the heathen. My mother told me some time ago, that she thought she would get me a white dress when I was ten years old. I am now ten years old, and this evening mother gave me two dollars to get the dress, or dispose of it in any way I thought best; and I wish you would take it to have the poor heathen taught about the Saviour. If I live, and it is the Lord's will, I hope I shall come and help you teach the poor heathen about the Saviour." There is a little boy in the city of New York, who formerly used to tell his mother, that he meant to be a cab-driver, and all she could say to him was of no avail in making him think differently. This little boy came with his mother to hear me preach about the heathen. After he had left the church, as he was going home, he burst into tears, and exclaimed, "Mother, I mean to be a missionary to the heathen;" and so far as I know, he has never talked about being any thing else since. And I hope that many of you will never talk about being any thing else than missionaries to the heathen. I am acquainted with a little girl in Ohio, who has resolved to become a missionary. She is a niece of Mr. Campbell, late missionary to Africa. She was not quite four years old when I saw her. When she was eighteen months of age, she saw the picture of a heathen mother throwing her child into the mouth of a crocodile She was deeply impressed with the sight. When she was two and a half years old, she resolved to be a missionary, and follow her uncle to Africa. From this resolution she has never drawn hack. When I was at her father's house, she was asked if she would not go to India. She replied, that she would not go to India, but to Africa. She was asked why she wished to go to Africa. "To teach the heathen," was her answer. "Why should you teach the heathen?" "Because they worship idols." Her mother told me, that ever since she began to get money, she has contributed to the missionary cause; and this money has generally, if not always, been earned by some act of self-denial on her part. I hope that many of you will feel just as this little girl felt, and do just as she did. When I was in America, I used continually, when preaching, to ask the dear children whether they would not become missionaries. I used also to beg them to write down what I had asked them. Many complied with my request. While I was at the Avon Springs, one of the daughters of a physician there, not only wrote it down, but gave me what she had written. The following is a copy of what she wrote, _August 18, 1844._ _Dr. Scudder requested me to come to India to help him when I am grown._ S. P. S. _Avon Springs_ Could I raise my voice loud enough to reach America, I would beg of _you_ to write down the following sentence: Dr. Scudder asks me, to-day, whether I will not hereafter become a missionary to the heathen. Perhaps you will write it down _immediately_. Now, my dear boys, if you will come out to India, or go to Burmah or China, to tell the heathen of the Saviour, you may, with the blessing of God, do as much good as Swartz and Carey, and others have done. And if you, my dear girls, will do the same, you also may do much good. This will appear from what I am going to tell you about a little girl in Ceylon. This little girl belonged to the boarding-school at Oodooville. She early gave her heart to the Saviour, and joined the church when she was thirteen years old. I should like to know if there are any of you who have not followed her example. If so, this is not right. My dear children, it is not right. Shall this little girl, in a heathen land, a land filled with idols, give her heart to Christ; and you, in a Christian land, a land of Sabbaths, and Sabbath-schools, and Bibles, not give your hearts to him? This is not right. You know that it is not right. But let me go on with my account of the little girl. After she had joined the church, she wanted to go and see her mother, who was a heathen, for the purpose of conversing with her about her soul's concerns. Now, in this country, when children who have been absent from their parents for any length of time go home, the mother spreads a mat down on the floor, and tells them to sit down upon it, adding that she will go and cook rice for them. They have no seats to sit on, as you have in America. Well, this little girl went home. When her mother saw her, she was very glad; and after she had spread a mat for her, and told her to sit down, she said that she would go and cook rice for her. The little girl told her that she was not hungry, and did not wish to eat, but wanted to talk with her. "You cannot talk with me," said her mother, "until I have cooked rice for you." "Mother," said the little girl, "you worship idols, and I am afraid that you will lose your soul, and I want to talk with you about Jesus Christ." The mother became quite angry with her, and rebuked her. But still the little girl continued to talk with her about her soul. The mother then became so angry, that she told her to be silent, or she would punish her. The little girl replied, "Mother, though you do whip me, I must talk to you about Jesus Christ," and she burst into tears. The mother's heart was broken. She sat down on the mat, and her little daughter talked with her, and prayed with her. After this the little girl was so troubled, fearing that her mother's soul might be lost, that she was heard praying for her during all parts of the night. And God heard her prayers. Her mother forsook her idols, and became a Christian, and her conversion was followed by the conversion of one or two others. Now, my dear little girls, if you will give your hearts to the Saviour, and in due time come here, or go to other heathen lands, and tell the people of a Saviour, you may, with the help of the Holy Spirit, be as useful as this little girl was. Female missionaries have done much good among the heathen. I mentioned an instance on page 88, to prove this. Let me mention another instance more. In the year 1838, an English lady, Miss Aldersey, went to the East, at her own expense to promote female education among the Chinese. At that time, she could not go to China, as that country was not open to missionaries She therefore went to Java, where there was a colony of Chinese. Here she hired a house, and collected about twenty-five girls, whom she clothed, and boarded, and taught. The Lord blessed her labors, and several of these girls were hopefully converted. When their parents saw that they would no longer worship idols, they became much opposed to the school, and some of them took their daughters from it. In the year 1842, God opened the door for the entrance of the Gospel into China. This missionary then broke up her school in Java, went to that country, and resided in the city of Ningpo. Of the girls who had become Christians while under her care, two were much persecuted by their parents. They were whipped and beaten, with the hope that they would again return to their idols; but all the efforts which were made to induce them to forsake the Saviour were in vain. They declared that they would sooner die than forsake him. When their parents saw that stripes and blows were of no avail, they determined to marry them to men who were much devoted to their idols. This stratagem, they thought, might succeed in destroying all their interest in their new religion. Here, however, they were again foiled. The girls became alarmed, and fled from their parents. An English gentleman, but who was not a professor of religion, felt deeply interested for them, and assisted them to get on board a ship going to Batavia. Here they were pursued but escaped from the pursuers by going on board of a ship which sailed for Singapore. From Singapore they sailed for China, where they were permitted to join the old friend who had been the means of their conversion. This lady collected a school at Ningpo of more than thirty girls. Thus you see how much good female missionaries have done by going to heathen lands. And are none of you willing to follow their example? Are none of you willing to say, Here am I, Lord, send me? CHAPTER XXIII. SUCCESS OF THE GOSPEL IN INDIA AND CEYLON. My dear Children--I have told you that India is a very dark land, but there are a few bright spots in it. Through the blessing of God upon the prayers of his people in Christian lands, and upon the prayers and labors of his missionary servants, many of the heathen of India and Ceylon have forsaken their idols, and are now enlisted under the banner of Jehovah Jesus. In the Travancore and Tinnivelly districts to say nothing of the success of the Gospel in other places, thousands and tens of thousands of the people have embraced Christianity. In hundreds of villages where but a few years ago the name of Jesus had never been heard, it is now known and adored. You have often heard of Ceylon. If you will look at the map of Hindostan, you will find it close to that country. Here Christianity has begun to prevail. This island is two hundred miles long, and in some places quite wide. A large part of it is covered with what is called jungle. Jungle and wilderness mean the same thing. In this jungle there are many wild beasts, such as elephants, bears, wild hogs, and buffaloes. In it also, there are men, women, and children, running wild, just like the wild beasts. This people are called Verders, or wild people. They wear scarcely any clothing. They have no houses. When it rains, they creep into holes, or go under overhanging rocks. Their beds consist of a few leaves. Sunk almost to the level of the brute, they live and die like their shaggy companions of the forest. Even upon these the Gospel has tried its power. More than fifty families have settled down, forming two pleasant, and now Christian villages. They have schoolmasters and Christian teachers. I must give you a description of two revivals of religion which occurred while I was in the island of Ceylon, in the year 1833. Before those revivals took place, there was no particular manifestation of much seriousness at any of our stations. It was in the month of October of that year, that we began to feel that we must labor more, and pray more for the conversion of perishing souls. A protracted meeting was spoken of, and it was determined that one should be held at our seminary in Batticotta--a seminary which was established for the purpose of raising up a native ministry. On the morning of the day in which the meeting was commenced, Mr. Spaulding and myself went to that station to assist Mr. Poor, the principal of the seminary, in laboring with the students. In these labors we spent five days. It was good to be there. No sooner had we begun our exercises, than a blessing from on high was experienced. The windows of heaven were opened, and the Holy Ghost descended. This was evident from the spirit of prayer which was poured out upon the pious students of the seminary. They were heard "a great while before day" pleading, in their social circles, that God would have mercy upon their impenitent companions, and bring them into the kingdom of his grace. We trust, also, that a spirit of prayer was given to those of us who took a prominent part in the meeting. At the termination of our exercises, with the exception of a few lads belonging to a Tamul class, who had lately been admitted to the seminary, there was not, so far as I know, an individual connected with it, who was not humbled at the foot of the cross, either to lie there until healed of his wounds, or to show, if he perished, that he must perish under circumstances of a very aggravated nature. After we had finished our meeting at Batticotta we went to the female seminary at Oodooville, to hold similar meetings. Before we reached that station, the church-members there, after having heard what God was doing at Batticotta, became very much aroused to pray for the influences of the Holy Spirit to descend upon the impenitent in their seminary also. Soon after we reached the station, we held a meeting with the girls. Some of them were then deeply concerned for the salvation of their souls; but it was not until Wednesday afternoon, that we knew how powerfully the Spirit of God had been at work. The meeting which we held with the seminarists at that time was one of the most solemn meetings which I ever attended. One of them, a girl of high caste, and of a very good family, said to her companions in that meeting, "My sisters, I have been a proud one among you. I hope that if you ever see me proud again, you will tell me of it. I used to tell the missionaries, that I had given myself to the Saviour, but I had not done it." Another of the girls burst into tears, and cried out aloud. As she could not restrain her feelings, and did not wish to disturb the assembly, she arose and left it. She retired to one of the prayer-rooms adjoining the seminary, there to weep alone. She, however, was not left alone. Mr. Poor, one of my missionary associates, followed her, and endeavored to administer the consolations of the Gospel to her; but she refused to be comforted. All her distress seemed to arise from a single source. "I told you a falsehood," said she, "last Monday, in saying that I had dedicated myself to the Saviour, when I had not." Perhaps she thought at that time, that she had thus dedicated herself to the Saviour, but afterwards found that she had deceived herself. In this wretched state of mind, she continued until half-past ten o'clock that night, when she came into Mr. Spaulding's house, where I then was, and wished to know what she must do to be saved. She was told, as she had often been told before, that she must dedicate herself entirely to her Saviour. She went away, and returned the same night at about half-past eleven o'clock, saying, that she had found HIM. "Friends, is not my case amazing? What a Saviour I have found." My dear young friends, are there any of you who have never given your hearts to Christ? If so, let me entreat you to follow the example of that dear little girl of whom I have now been speaking. She found it to be necessary to give her heart to the Saviour, and I hope that she did give it to him. O that you too might give up your hearts to him. Alas, if you do not, you must soon go down to eternal burnings where you will be constrained to cry out, Lost, lost, lost for ever! Be careful, my dear children, O be careful that this young girl does not rise up against you in the last day, and condemn you. She must do so--she will do so, if you do not, like her, choose Christ as your portion. But I am digressing, and must go back to the point I left. The next day, one of our missionary sisters, who had lately reached Ceylon from America, came to Oodooville, to witness the nature of the work which she heard was in progress at that place. As she was entering Mr. Spaulding's house, she was met by one of the most consistent church-members of the seminary, who declared that she had lost her hope of being a Christian. Perhaps this church-member was disposed to write bitter things against herself because she did not feel all that warmth in religion which marked the conduct of those who, at that time, were indulging the hope that they had passed from death to life. After the sister to whom I alluded had been in the house a little while, she requested Mrs. Spaulding to allow her to have an interview with such of the girls as were entertaining a hope of their interest in the Saviour. These were twenty-two in number. This interview was granted. As she knew nothing about the Tamul language, I acted as her interpreter. Through me, she requested the girls to give a statement of their feelings. One of them arose, and said, "I feel as happy as an angel. I feel joys that I can express to no one but my Saviour; and I am just as certain that my sins are forgiven, as if I had sent up a karduthaase," that is, a letter to heaven, "and received an answer to it." Another of the girls said, that the missionaries had often talked with her about her dedicating herself to the Saviour, but that she did not then know what it meant. "I now know," added she, "what it means, for God has taught it to me." Another of the girls said, "Though they put me in the fire, I will never forsake the Saviour." Now, my dear children, I must bid you farewell Probably I shall never see you, unless you come to this heathen land, until I meet you at the judgment-seat of Christ. If you do not become missionaries, most of you will probably die, and be buried where you now are. Probably I shall die in this heathen land. But we shall not always sleep in our graves. After a little season, the archangel's trumpet will sound, and you in America, and I in India, shall hear his voice proclaiming, "Awake, ye dead, and come to judgment." And we shall all at once rise from our graves, and stand before our Judge. And where shall I then see you? Shall I see any of you on the left hand of Christ, and hear him say, "Depart, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels?" O, if I should hear that dreadful sentence pronounced against you, how would my heart die within me. How could I bear to hear it. Oh, I could not--I could not bear to hear it. My dear children, if you are yet out of Christ, I entreat you, _at this very moment_, to lay down this book, and throw yourselves at the feet of your Saviour. Tell him, that you are lost sinners, deserving to be cast into everlasting burnings. Tell him, that though you have been wicked children, you will leave off your wickedness, and be his for ever. Plead with him, with as much earnestness as a _drowning_ man would plead with you to save him, to give you the influences of his Holy Spirit, to create within you a clean heart, and renew within you a right spirit, without which you are eternally undone; and continue to plead, until he pardons you, and receives you as his children. By all the sufferings of the Son of God, by all the joys of heaven, by all the torments of hell, by the solemnities of your dying bed, by the value of your immortal souls _which, if once lost, must be lost for ever_, I beseech you thus _immediately_ to throw yourselves at his feet, and plead with him to make you his. Neglect this duty--neglect giving yourselves to Christ, even for one minute, and it may be, that you will be lost, yea, LOST FOR EVER. 
43918	----	Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. Words printed in italics are noted with underscores: _italics_. [Illustration: See page 11.] THE PENITENT BOY: OR, SIN BRINGS SORROW. REVISED BY D. P. KIDDER. New-York. PUBLISHED BY LANE & SCOTT, FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION OF THE METHODIST EPISCOPAL CHURCH, 200 MULBERRY-ST. Joseph Longking, Printer. 1851. THE PENITENT BOY. "Do lend me your new knife, which mamma gave you," asked Samuel; "I want to cut notches in my stick, and play Robinson Crusoe: do, will you, Alfred?" "No, I cannot Sam; so do not ask any more. I wish you would not tease me for my knife; you cannot have it; I do not want it hurt." "Well, but you lent it to cousin James, on Monday, and he did not spoil it, did he?" "Now do be quiet, Samuel; I cannot lend it to you, so that is all I shall say." "Why I never saw you so cross, Alfred." "Yes, I am cross, I know. I feel very cross and uncomfortable, so do not ask any more about the knife." Just then an aunt of the little boys entered the room, and Samuel turned to her in his trouble. "Now do not you think, aunt, Alfred ought to lend me his knife, just for a minute, to cut a Robinson Crusoe stick?" "No doubt he will," replied Miss Woodford; "I never knew Alfred cross or unkind: he does not mean that he will not lend it; he is only joking, I am sure." "Yes, aunt, I do mean it; I have made up my mind that nobody shall use my knife." "Well, then," urged the anxious Samuel, "do you cut my stick yourself; I only want seven notches in it, to make believe the days of the week: of course, you will not refuse this, will you?" "Where is your knife, my boy?" asked his aunt; "is it in your pocket?" "No, aunt." "Well, get it then, my dear, and do this little kindness for your brother, who looks so imploringly there, with his stick in his hand." Alfred left the room, looking very thoughtful; and Samuel took a seat on a stool, keeping his eye on the door, resolved to wait quietly for Alfred's return, as he was not an impatient boy. After a considerable time, Alfred came back, with a face very much flushed, and no knife could be seen. "Have you got it, Alfred?" asked Samuel, jumping up; "come, do cut my notches, because I cannot get on the island and begin to play until it is done." "I cannot do it, Samuel; I have not got my knife." "Where is your pretty new knife, then, my dear? I saw you put it carefully away in a box one day." "Yes, I did, aunt; but I have just dropped it into a crack in the hall, and it is gone out of sight." "O dear! let us try to get it," said the kind aunt; and away they all three ran to the crack in the passage. "Show me exactly the place where it went in, Alfred." "Just here, aunt," said he, pointing to a very small crevice between the boards. "O no; this cannot be the spot, the crack is too small to admit a knife: it must be somewhere else. But I see no crack in any other part. My dear boy," continued Miss Woodford, looking into Alfred's face, "you did not let it down here." Her gentle words, accompanied as they were with a sorrowful look, melted him at once, for Alfred was not a hardened boy, and he ran off to his room, weeping all the way. "Well," said Samuel, as he returned to the parlor, "I suppose I must mark some make-believe notches on my stick with my pencil." Miss Woodford left him to his play, and went in search of her sister, the mother of the boys. Taking a seat by her side in the dining-room, she asked Mrs. Sinclair if she knew anything of the knife she had given to Alfred. "No," replied Mrs. Sinclair; "I have not seen it for some time: but I think I heard James admiring it, on Monday." "I am afraid it is lost, sister," continued Miss Woodford: "but this is not the worst part of it; I greatly fear Alfred has told an untruth about the affair." "I hope not," replied Mrs. Sinclair, with a troubled countenance; "I never knew either of my boys to be guilty of anything so shocking. Where is he?" Miss Woodford then related the whole of the circumstances, adding, "I believe Alfred has gone to his room." Mrs. Sinclair considered, for a moment, what course to pursue, and then resolved to allow her little son to remain in the retirement he had chosen, at least for some time. Samuel could not enjoy his game alone, for he saw very plainly that his brother had been guilty of a great sin; so he went into the garden, and walked up and down, feeling very melancholy. He knew that God had said that liars have their portion with those who are shut up in eternal darkness; and he felt very sorry that he had asked for the loan of the knife. After an hour or two, Mrs. Sinclair went up to converse with the guilty boy; but as she was drawing near his room she heard the sound of his voice, as if conversing with some one, and, supposing that Samuel had joined him, she stopped for a moment to ascertain from whence the voice came, when she distinctly heard Alfred saying, "Forgive my sin, heavenly Father, for Jesus Christ's sake." This was a confirmation to her of the sad fact that he was really guilty of the crime laid to his charge; at the same time it was a comfort to her to hear that he was penitent. She stepped gently back into the parlor, thankful, amid her sorrow, to find that her little boy was confessing his sin to the holy God. She could not, however, remain long absent from her erring child, but again ascending the stairs, and finding all silent, she entered the room. Alfred was sitting, bathed in tears, with two books by his side, a Bible and a prayer-book. "O, mamma!" he exclaimed, "I am ashamed to see you--I am--I am; but I will tell you all about it. O, I am so unhappy! I am afraid you will not forgive me, and I feel sure the Saviour will not." When he saw the tears falling over his mother's cheeks, he felt more distressed than ever, and covering his face with his hands, he wept bitterly. At length he went on to confess the whole matter. "You know, mamma, my cousin James liked my knife, and asked me to give it to him for some sweetmeats he had in his pocket; so I consented to part with the knife you gave me, without thinking. I wish I had asked you about it. I have been very wicked. I told a lie to try to hide it. What shall I do?" "Are you really sorry for your sin, Alfred? this is the question; or are you only mortified that your guilt is discovered?" "O yes, mamma, I am indeed sorry, and I have been trying to tell God about it. I asked him to forgive me, but I am afraid he will not. How dreadful it is to think that God will remember that I have told a lie! What would become of me, if I were to die to-night?" Mrs. Sinclair took a chair by the side of her son, and told him if he really felt sorry, there was hope he might be forgiven; "for although," said she, "God is a God of truth, and has said that whosoever loveth or maketh a lie shall be shut out of heaven, yet he has also said, if we repent of our sins, resolving to forsake them, and come to him in the name of the Saviour, that he will pardon us for his sake." "O, I hope he will forgive me! Do pray for me, mamma. What a dreadful thing it would be if I should be driven away from heaven at last, and go with liars away from God!" Then bursting into tears, Alfred hid his face on his mother's neck, and they wept together. Mrs. Sinclair then prayed with her penitent boy, and he became more calm. "Now, my son," she said, "we will go down to the parlor." "O no, mamma; do let me go to bed: I would rather go to bed, if you will only kiss me, and forgive me. I should like to go to bed." Mrs. Sinclair consented to Alfred's proposal, and after reading a chapter in the Bible, and praying to be forgiven all his sins, for the sake of Jesus Christ, he retired to rest; but he passed a very uncomfortable night, and awoke in the morning with a very sorrowful heart. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair had resolved that nothing should be said to their son, the next morning, on the subject of the evening's transgression, as they believed that he felt truly sorry that he had offended God. When the bell rung for family worship, Alfred appeared, with Samuel by his side; but he looked pale and unhappy, and his eyes were downcast as he took his usual seat by his father. The family sung some verses from that beautiful hymn beginning,-- "There is a fountain fill'd with blood Drawn from Immanuel's veins, And sinners plunged beneath that flood Lose all their guilty stains." Alfred was in the habit of pitching the tunes on those occasions, but this morning Samuel took his place, and began the moment the verse was given out. When they came to the third line Alfred's tears flowed so fast he was obliged to stop; and if you had been sitting near his mamma you might have seen her cheek wet too, for she felt deeply for her little son. After breakfast, the two boys went to their studies as usual, and Samuel was very kind and attentive to his brother, watching him in all his movements, and trying, by all the means within his power, to win a smile from him, for his affectionate heart longed to see his brother as happy as usual. But all his efforts were unavailing; no one could see a gleam of cheerfulness on Alfred's countenance all the day. Just before dinner, as he was standing by the parlor fire, with his back to the door, Rose, a kind Irish servant, came in to prepare the table. "O, then, is it you it is, Master Alfred? I wanted to have a word with ye. What's the matter? sure your cheek's pale; it's sick entirely ye'll be soon," said the kind-hearted girl, "if you vex any more about that bit of a knife; and it's a good half hour I spent too, looking for it: but never mind, I am sure the mistress, good creature, will soon give ye another, or may be you will soon find the same." Alfred looked at Rose very thoughtfully, and asked, "Do you not know what I have done, Rose?" "Sure and I never knew ye do anything bad since the day I came with ye from Belfast; think of that now, and ye'll do bravely yet, my darlint." "Ah, Rose! I see very plainly how it is; you do not know what I am. Did you ever read the fifth chapter of the Acts, and the twenty-first chapter of the Revelation, Rose?" "Why yes, Master Alfred, to be sure, I've read the Bible through entirely, but I don't just remember those particular parts by chapter and verse. But what has that to do with the loss, Master Alfred? I want to say a word of comfort to you. Think of Miss Mary when she lost her handkerchief; the mistress never said a word about it after: and it's the flower of the country she is for kindness, when we tell her our faults." "Yes, yes, Rose, I know all that very well; but do you remember hearing about Ananias and Sapphira in the Bible?" "O, if it's I don't remember that! I'll forget kith and kin afore I'll forget how afraid I was to tell a lie in the Sunday school, for fear of being struck dead; and it's a fine scrape entirely I got into, and lost a pretty new frock into the bargain." "Did you, Rose, indeed? O, I wish I had been you!" and the tears fell fast again over the penitent boy's cheeks. "Ah now, Master Alfred, do not take on so. What can be the matter? Sure this story has nothing to do with you, has it?" "I see how it is, Rose; the dreadful tale has been kept a secret. You do not know what I am." "Is it I do not know what you are, Master Alfred? why sure it's your reason entirely ye'll lose by the heart-trouble, whatever it is. Not know what ye are? Sure your're a fine young gentleman, and it's the son of the mistress ye're for kindness; and the likes o' ye I never saw, barrin' your brother, the darlint." "O, do not talk to me so, Rose; it only makes me more ashamed! I am an ungrateful and a sinful boy, and I am afraid I shall never go to heaven." "And is it you that is afraid of that? O dear! what then is come to ye, my dear?" Alfred was out of hearing before Rose had finished her kind speech. He could bear his sorrow no longer without talking to his mother. Mrs. Sinclair was coming out of a little back parlor, with Samuel, as Alfred crossed the hall; and, taking his mother's hand, he said, "I want to talk to you, mamma." Mrs. Sinclair led him to her room, and closing the door, she drew a chair for him by her side, still holding his hand in hers. Alfred was weeping too much to utter a syllable for some minutes; but when a little recovered, he exclaimed, "O, my dear mamma, I am so miserable, I cannot bear to think nor stay by myself. I was afraid to go to sleep last night, for I thought perhaps I should awake in that dreadful place where liars go; I never was so unhappy before in all my life." "I can easily imagine this, my dear boy," replied Mrs. Sinclair; "you were never guilty of the same sin before, I believe." "You only _believe_, mamma: are you not sure I never told a lie before?" "I hope you never did, my boy." "Ah! I see it is as you told us one day, a liar can neither convince nor persuade others, and is not believed even when he tells the truth. Indeed, mamma, I never did tell a lie before; but I was afraid you would think me an ungrateful boy for not taking more care of the present you gave me. O, I wish I had told the truth, and been more afraid of offending God than even you." "I wish so too, my son. I have avoided saying much to you on the subject, because I hope and believe that you are truly sorry, and that you have confessed your sin to the great and glorious Being who calls himself the God of truth; and you remember after the apostle John had been describing the beautiful city, where holy and redeemed people shall live when earth is passed away, he says that no one shall enter there who maketh a lie. Indeed, a liar could not live in heaven, if he were permitted to enter, for everything there is pure and holy." "Yes, mamma; I have been reading the twenty-first chapter of the Revelation, this morning." "Well, my son, then in the fifteenth Psalm, when the question is asked, Who shall dwell in thy holy hill? the answer is, He that speaketh the truth in his heart. Then again, we are told by the wise man that lying lips are an abomination to the Lord. The holy God, who requireth truth in the inward parts, must look upon a child polluted with falsehood with just indignation, and as belonging to that fallen spirit who is called the father of lies, and who dwells where truth is unknown, and where all liars have their part. There truth is never spoken, except to deceive, and there repentance and prayer are of no avail." "O yes, mamma," said the sorrowful Alfred, "I remember the hymn you taught me when I was a very little boy-- 'The Lord delights in them that speak The words of truth; but every liar Must have his portion in the lake That burns with brimstone and with fire.' I never thought I should tell a lie when I used to say that hymn to you. O, I wish I could be a little good boy again!" said Alfred, wiping away the tears. "I trust you will yet be a good and holy boy, my son; and the suffering you have caused yourself and your family will prove a warning to you: but you must not trust to your own deceitful heart, but look to God for assistance to make you sincere and truthful. You find your conscience does not like a lie, but that it solemnly and dreadfully reproaches the liar; and you find too, my son, that to be holy is the only way to be happy." "Yes, mamma, I do; but do you think the Saviour will forgive me, and make me happy again?" "Yes, I have no doubt he will pardon your sin, if you are really sorry, and resolve to be watchful in future." "Yes, mamma, I am indeed sorry, and very sorry, that I should offend God, and make you unhappy, and make myself in danger of having my portion in the lake that burns with brimstone and with fire." "Well then the Bible says, if you repent and forsake your sin, God will have mercy, and pardon your guilt. He will so forget it, that it will never appear against you at the last great day. You know I have often told you that the blood of Jesus Christ can wash away all sin, and _all_ must of course include yours. You can read this for yourself in the First Epistle of John, the first chapter, and the seventh verse." Just then the dinner-bell rung, and Mrs. Sinclair and Alfred went down to dinner. As they were entering the parlor, they met Rose, who had been greatly concerned about her favorite; and she whispered in his ear, "Come down to me, darlint, after the dinner: I want to say a word to ye." Everybody tried to be cheerful at dinner; but Alfred could not forget his "heart-trouble," as Rose called it, nor had he much inclination for food. When the repast was over, and Rose had cleared the room, he went down to hear what she had to say to him. The kind-hearted girl slipped a small parcel into his hand, wrapped in silver paper, saying, "There, then, darlint; now sure ye'll dry your poor red eyes up entirely, and think no more about it and the loss." On opening the parcel, Alfred looked upon a pretty knife, very like the one his mamma had given him, and putting it on the table, he ran up to Rose, saying, "I cannot allow you to think me so much better than I am, Rose. I have been guilty of the same sin as Ananias and Sapphira; and it is a wonder the great God has not driven me away from earth too." Poor Rose was so greatly surprised that she looked at him some time in silence, while he continued,-- "Rose, you thought me a good boy, but I am very wicked. I gave away my knife, and then told a lie to try to hide it; but I hope I shall be forgiven, and mamma says the blood of Christ can wash all my guilt away." "Sure then, dear, the mistress is right entirely; and I hope you will be happy, as you used to be. Your poor eyes have done nothing but blink since the time the aunt searched in the hall for the knife; and it was sighing I heard ye when sleep gave them a little rest, that sure I didn't close mine very comfortably. So I just got the boy to run for his life, and get ye a pretty white knife at the shop, for it's a strong pet ye are of all of us entirely." "This is very kind of you, Rose: and may I do what I like with the knife, Rose?" "Sure you may, and it's yours entirely; only don't vex any more: let us see ye as merry as the kitten, as the likes o' ye ought to be." The next morning Alfred and Samuel walked to their cousin's; and as soon as James saw them, he ran up, presenting the unfortunate knife to Alfred, saying, "Ma does not wish me to keep it; so take it back." Alfred then told his aunt the whole of the affair, as quietly as his feelings would allow; and then desired that James might be allowed to have the knife Rose had given him, in exchange. As all the sweetmeats were eaten, it would not be fair to have back the knife without some return. Alfred soon ran home with his own knife, and placed it in its own box, intending to keep it as a warning to him in future. It is believed that Alfred was really and truly sorry for his sin; and he grew up a truthful and pious boy, dreading the very appearance of anything approaching to a lie. Dear children, see that you always speak the truth. Remember anything you say INTENDING TO DECEIVE is a lie in the sight of God; and remember too that for all such words you will be called to give an account in the day of judgment. He who made the eye can see, and he who made the ear can hear. Yes! and he will remember all you say and do; and if you should be suddenly called away, without repenting of your sin, and without being washed in the blood of the Saviour, by believing in him, you must have your portion where the worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched. Now the dear Redeemer is ready to receive you, but to-morrow it may be too late: to-morrow may never come to you; for death may take you away this night. THE END. 
44658	----	courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/)) HISTORY OF ORRIN PIERCE. [Illustration] WRITTEN FOR THE AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, AND REVISED BY THE COMMITTEE OF PUBLICATION. Philadelphia: AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, NO. 146 CHESTNUT STREET. _Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1847, by_ THE AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, _in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania_. ORRIN PIERCE. [Illustration] The cottage where Orrin Pierce was born stood by the side of a clear bright stream not far from the sea-shore. This cottage had a thatched roof, and was surrounded by a plain fence. Orrin's mother was very fond of flowers, and the little yard in front of the cottage was filled with many beautiful plants and shrubs; some of them were trained up about the upper window and around the door. A marten's house stood on a post one side of the cottage, where three twittering birds built their nests in safety. Everybody that passed Mrs. Pierce's house, looked at it with pleasure, and some even stopped to admire its neatness and comfortable appearance. [Illustration] [Illustration: Noah.] Mrs. Pierce was an excellent woman; she feared God and instructed her little son out of the Scriptures. Before he was old enough to read, she used to read to him about the creation of the world; and before he was four years old, he could tell a great deal of Scripture history. He knew about the temptation and fall of man; the story of Noah; the deluge; the history of Joseph; the account of the Israelites in Egypt; the plagues sent upon Pharaoh; the departure of the children of Israel out of Egypt; their journey through the wilderness, and their entrance into the promised land. He also could relate the story of Daniel; of Israel, and many other accounts from the Bible. Those who do not read the Bible are ignorant of some of the most interesting and important parts of the world's history. [Illustration] [Illustration] Sometimes Mrs. Pierce would walk out with little Orrin, and she always used to talk with him, so as to improve his mind. She would make him observe the works of God, and tell him of the wonders of Creation. Orrin was very fond of going to the sea-shore, and when he had been a good boy his mother would go there with him. He always took with him a basket to put his shells in, for there were many shells on the beach. His little dog, Dash, always went with him, and when Orrin threw a stick into the water, Dash would plunge in, and swim after it, and bring it to his little master. [Illustration] [Illustration] Often during the summer, when the evenings were mild and pleasant, she would walk in the fields with Orrin, and they would sit down to enjoy the beauty of the scene. The calm, full moon, shining above them, shed a soft light on all around. Sometimes a cloud would pass over it and hide for a moment its brightness, and they would watch for it as the cloud moved on, and it would suddenly burst upon their sight; on such occasions, Orrin used to repeat some passages of Scripture to his mother, giving thanks to God, who made the moon and stars to shine by night. [Illustration] [Illustration] Orrin loved very much to see the different animals, that are for the use of man. He liked horses and cows and dogs very much, but best of all he liked the sheep and lambs. There was a field not far from his mother's cottage where a flock of sheep were often kept. He used to watch the shepherd taking care of the sheep, and when he noticed how readily they followed him, he thought of the words of Christ, "My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me." He also remembered that this harmless animal was employed as a type of Christ, who is called "the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sin of the world." [Illustration] [Illustration] Mrs. Pierce gave her little son a place for a garden, which the gardener used to dig up for him. She gave him different seeds of plants and flowers. She bought him a shovel, a rake and a hoe, of a suitable size for a little boy. Here he used to amuse himself for hours. He had one tree in his garden which would not thrive, though he had bestowed much labour upon it, but finally he determined to remove it. Indeed the branches were many of them dead. He told his mother he was reminded of the passage in Luke xiii. 6, 9, for he had waited long for fruit, but found none, and he was going to remove the worthless tree. [Illustration] [Illustration] On a pleasant afternoon, it was very delightful to walk in Mrs. Pierce's garden. Orrin's garden spot was as neat and in quite as good order as his mother's. The roses were so fragrant, and the various colours of the numerous flowers so pleasing to the eye, that all admired who beheld them. The butterflies roamed from flower to flower undisturbed: the humming-birds and bees took their portion of the sweets, and pretty singing birds fluttered among the branches. Mrs. Pierce used often to point to the beautiful lilies, and say to Orrin, "Consider the lilies, how they grow, and remember the instruction they give." [Illustration] [Illustration] You may be sure Orrin was early taught to pray; and that he was careful never to forget or neglect this duty. He did not wait till after he was in bed, either, but kneeled down before he became sleepy, so that he might pray with the understanding. He used to pray for a new heart, so that he might love holiness and hate sin. He also prayed for the forgiveness of his sins. Sometimes he prayed when he was in the field or on his way to school, when he thought he should not be observed. He thanked God for all his mercies, but more than all for the gift of the Saviour; and when quite young, he could repeat many very pleasing verses about the love of Christ for this sinful world. [Illustration] [Illustration] One day when Orrin was on his way to the Sabbath-school, he met a boy going across a field with a kite in his hand. He did not know the boy, but he knew he was about to commit sin, so he asked him if he would not leave his kite and go to the Sabbath-school. He opened his book and showed him where the lesson was, and told him that he would be much happier in learning to keep God's commandments, than all his kite-flying could make him. The boy thought so too, and was willing to take advice, so he hid his kite behind the fence, and went with Orrin. We should try to do good to all as we have opportunity. [Illustration] [Illustration] The next day he met the same boy flying his kite. He stopped as Orrin approached him, and said, "I thought yesterday when you asked me to go to the Sabbath-school that it was a pity to give up flying my kite, because there was such a good wind, but to-day the wind is just as good, and I have had a fine time with my kite." So he lost no pleasure, but gained much good. Orrin stayed a while and played with this boy, and told him he hoped to see him again at Sunday-school; and so he did, for he continued to attend regularly from that time. [Illustration] [Illustration] Orrin's mother was almost sorry when he was too old to be kept at home under her instruction. She felt afraid that when he began to be more from her watchful care he might become more like those boys whose company she had always directed him to avoid. He was very fond of study; and his teacher soon noticed him as a boy who would be an example to the school. He was always in his place when the bell rang for nine o'clock, and his lessons were well learned. His mother was much pleased with the accounts she received from his teacher, of his good conduct. [Illustration] [Illustration] When Orrin was about fourteen years old, he met with the greatest affliction that could have been sent upon him. This was the death of his excellent mother. She was sick for a long time, and had a very good physician, but God did not see fit to restore her to health, and she was quite ready to submit to His will. Her only anxiety was for her son, and even this care she was able to commit to the Lord, who has promised to be a father to the fatherless. She talked much to Orrin, and told him that she had trained him up thus far, in the way he should go, and charged him not to depart from it. [Illustration] [Illustration] A great number of friends and neighbours followed Mrs. Pierce to the grave. She was greatly beloved by all who knew her, but none could mourn for her as her poor afflicted boy did. When he saw his mother laid in the grave, he felt as if he had not a friend on the earth. True, he had neither sister nor brother. His father died when he was an infant, and now his precious mother was taken away. But God could supply to him all that he had lost, and be to him more than all earthly friends, even one who would never leave him nor forsake him. [Illustration] [Illustration] Day after day, Orrin went to the graveyard, to visit the tomb of his beloved parent. He used to take with him the Bible, which they had so often read together, and read those passages which she delighted in. He was much comforted by these words of the Lord Jesus Christ, "I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth in me, though he were dead yet shall he live, and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. The hour is coming in the which all that are in their graves shall hear the voice of the Son of Man, and shall come forth; the followers of Christ to enter into heaven, and his enemies to be cast into hell." [Illustration] [Illustration] After his mother's death, Orrin went to live with a kind uncle, a brother of Mrs. Pierce, who lived a great distance off, so that Orrin went there in a ship. Then God raised up a friend for this orphan-boy. His uncle had a little daughter much younger than Orrin, whose name was Jane. As he never had a sister, it was very pleasant to have such a little companion as Jane. His aunt was very kind and affectionate to him, but no one was like his mother. Though he was very sad for a long time, he tried to overcome such feelings, and, by dutiful conduct, to show his kind uncle and aunt that he was grateful to them. [Illustration] [Illustration] Jane had not received as much instruction as Orrin had, and he was very happy to tell her some of the things he had heard from his mother. One day, he and Jane were walking in the garden, and they stopped by the bee-hives to watch the bees go out to gather their stores, and return laden with sweets. Orrin told Jane many curious facts about bees, which instructed her very much. He told her that they were always busy, and would not allow an idler to live in the hive. Orrin and Jane also attended Sunday-school together. [Illustration] [Illustration] Jane used to walk and play in her father's garden, but she did not have one of her own. Her father used to tell her she might look at the flowers, but that she must not pick them, as she would injure them. But when Orrin came he gave Jane a garden by herself in which her cousin worked, and they both kept it in order, and it was a great pleasure to her to pick flowers whenever she liked. She used often to gather a pretty nosegay for her mother. Orrin used to say when he looked at her flowers, why even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. [Illustration] [Illustration] Many boys who have been taught by pious mothers to pray to God in childhood, when they become older forsake the law of their mother. They begin to think it is well enough for children, but not needful for men; but this was not the case with Orrin. He remembered what Solomon says of a mother's counsel: "When thou goest it shall lead thee; when thou sleepest it shall keep thee; and when thou wakest it shall talk to thee." Orrin read his Bible daily, and continued to pray to the God of his mother, and he kept in mind her instructions and always tried to act as he supposed his mother would wish. [Illustration] [Illustration] From the time he was old enough to behave properly, Orrin went to Sunday-school. He was in a room where only the little scholars attended, and they were taught by a very kind lady. She taught them from Scripture-cards, and they could say and sing many beautiful little hymns. He could also answer all the questions in a simple catechism. When he could read well, he went into the larger school, and was put into a class with some boys larger than himself. Some of them did not behave as well as Orrin did. [Illustration] [Illustration] Orrin's mother loved to see her little boy play at proper times. She did not always require him to be studying, or reading books. When he went to play she was careful that his mates should be good boys who did not take the name of God in vain, or use coarse and vulgar language, or quarrel and fight. She told him always to treat his mates kindly, to be just and fair in his sports, and at all times to "do unto others as he would wish others to do unto him." She reminded him that "even a child is known by his ways," and that "cheating play never prospers." [Illustration] [Illustration] Wherever there is a library of useful books, a young person can gain a store of knowledge. Orrin was very fond of reading, and his uncle gave him the liberty of reading in his study, whenever he wished to do so. There Orrin spent many hours, gaining useful knowledge; and as he had a very good memory, he found, many years after, much use for the instruction he received in this way. Solomon says, "Get wisdom, get understanding, take fast hold of instruction, let her not go, keep her, for she is thy life." [Illustration] [Illustration] Those who have read the history of this good boy, will like to hear something of him as a man. He became not only a respectable, but a useful and pious man. He was a kind friend; he warned and reproved those he found doing wrong. When a man, he was as fearless in reproving sin as he was when a boy. If he saw a young man profaning the Sabbath day, he kindly warned him of his evil way and would invite him to go with him to the house of God. His example was, also, a silent teacher of all. [Illustration] [Illustration] You will not be surprised to hear that Orrin became a Sunday-school teacher, nor that he knew how to teach in a way to profit his scholars. They all loved him very much, and never were absent from school unless they were sick. Here he is, just returning from Sunday-school. Two of his scholars are with him; they have their library-books in their hands. How orderly they walk by his side, talking with him about the lesson. It is a great blessing to have such a teacher. [Illustration] [Illustration] This picture may remind us of Orrin, for we may think of him as walking by the water-side with a friend. Perhaps he is speaking of the occupation of Christ's disciples, when he called them to preach the gospel. They left their ships and followed him. He is pointing to the church amid the trees, and says "I too would preach the gospel." No doubt he would make a useful minister of the gospel, for from his youth he has known the Scriptures, which are able to make him wise unto salvation. He may be thinking of Christ's words, Go ye unto all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature. [Illustration] [Illustration] After much thought upon the subject, and having taken the advice of friends, Orrin determined to be a missionary. He went to bid farewell to the scenes of his childhood. He visited the cottage where he was born. He stood by the sea-side, where he had gathered shells, and listened to his mother's instructions; he walked in the fields where he had seen the lambs. And as he stood thinking over his days of childhood tears fell from his eyes, but they were tears of gratitude to God, for having given him a mother who taught him to love the service of God. [Illustration] [Illustration] He at length goes to make known the way of salvation to those who never heard of a Saviour; to poor ignorant pagans, who worship idols, the work of their own hands. Many, like him, have gone to tell the perishing heathen of Jesus, who is the way, the truth, and the life. May all such reap a rich reward, and turn many to righteousness. May God incline the heathen to cast away their senseless idols, which have eyes that see not, and ears that hear not, and enter upon the service of Him who is worthy of all their love. [Illustration] 
38227	----	Internet Archive (http://www.archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 38227-h.htm or 38227-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/38227/38227-h/38227-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/38227/38227-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See http://www.archive.org/details/rainbowafterthun00ladyiala THE RAINBOW, AFTER THE THUNDER-STORM. by A LADY. [Illustration] London: Printed for Francis Westley, Stationers'-Court, Ludgate-Hill. 1823. T. C. Hansard, Printer, Peterboro'-court, Fleet-street, London. THE RAINBOW, AFTER THE THUNDER-STORM. JULIA and her mamma resided chiefly in London. Owing to indisposition the family were a little way from home for the benefit of the air. In consequence of that, Julia and her mamma were frequently walking out. One summer's evening they had extended their walk to an unusual length, when suddenly the clouds gathered, and distant thunder indicated an approaching storm. They were a great way from any house, but hurried to the nearest one for shelter. It was a large brick-built house, with a court-yard, inclosed by a high wall. At the iron gate was a servant, with a pitcher in her hand, taking some milk of a man who stood by. Julia's mamma went up to her, and said, "Will you be so obliging as to let us have a shelter from the storm? It appears likely to be very severe." The servant replied, "I am very sorry, ma'am, but it is not in my power; my master and mistress are not at home, and they have given me orders not to admit any stranger." There was no time to hesitate; immediately they proceeded to an unfinished house they recollected to have seen; it was a quarter of a mile distant. Almost breathless with fatigue, they arrived; the wash-house door was standing open, they entered, and thought themselves happy in having so good a shelter. "Oh," said Julia, "how cruel it was in that young woman to refuse to let us go into the house! I would not have done so." "Then," replied her mamma, "you would have done wrong; however painful it must have been to her, to refuse was no more than her duty as a faithful servant." Every minute the lightning became more vivid, and the thunder appeared to be bursting over their heads. "Oh, mamma," said Julia, "how awful this is!" "Yes, it is indeed, my dear," said her mamma; "God thundereth marvellously with his voice; great wonders doeth he, which we cannot comprehend." "This is a storm," remarked Julia, "such as I never remember before. Hark! how it thunders. Oh, what a dreadful flash of lightning! Oh, the thunder! It gets worse; how shall I bear it! Hide me, hide me, my dear mamma; let me get into some dark place." "My dear love," said her mamma, "you surprise me to see you so alarmed; it is what I did not expect; don't give way to fear; _I_ cannot hide you from this storm any more than I can hide you from the presence of God; and that you are sure I cannot do. Be composed, my love, and let each of us say-- 'Hide me, O my Saviour, hide, Till the storm of life is past; Safe into the haven guide, O receive my soul at last!' Our father sits at the helm; he will guide the storm, and I shall say to you as our Lord said to his disciples when _they_ were in a storm, and as he says to us now in his word, "Why are ye so fearful, have ye no faith?" Let us put our trust in _him_, and look for our protection from _him_. How much tenderness was there in our Lord's words! He did not blame them much for their fears, but kindly reminded them that it was their duty to trust in God. You are not like your little brother when _he_ was about four years old. I was out with him when it thundered, and he said, 'Don't be afraid mamma; if we love God, nothing can hurt us.'" "It makes me tremble so much," said Julia. "If a storm like this is so awful, my dear," said her mamma, "what must the second coming of Christ be, when the elements shall melt with fervent heat, the earth also, and all the works that are therein shall he burned up! How will the sinner tremble, and call to the mountains and rocks, 'Fall on us, and hide us from the face of him that sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the lamb!' Now we need not try to hide ourselves, but if we love the Saviour, may say-- 'This awful God is ours, Our father, and our love.' [Illustration] "I think the thunder is more distant," continued her mamma, "and does not succeed the lightning so soon." "Does that make any difference?" asked Julia. "It proves, my dear," answered her mamma, "that the cloud is going from us; but I observed you were more afraid of the thunder than of the lightning; when you hear the thunder, the danger is over. It is only the _lightning_ that is fatal. When we have seen the lightning, but have not been touched by it, and when the thunder does not come immediately after it, it is foolish to turn pale and tremble at a sound which is not dangerous. After the flash of lightning is over, we may securely wait for the clap of thunder; it is as harmless as the sound of a cannon. The thunder tells us we have escaped the danger, and at the same time informs us at what distance; for the greater space of time there has been between the flash of lightning and the thunder, the more distant the storm." Julia's mamma proceeded, "I heard a poor woman once say she thought God was angry with the people, and had sent a storm to punish them. That is, however, a very ignorant way of talking. Storms are a blessing, and we ought to be thankful for them; and though we know they sometimes do hurt, and a few lives are lost, yet how few compared with what might be expected! Out of seven hundred and fifty thousand persons who died in the space of thirty years in London, there were only two killed by lightning. Probably if there were no storms, the air would be so impure, that men and other living creatures would perish by millions. Let us, my dear, lift up our hearts in gratitude to the Almighty, who, though he sometimes shows us his grandeur and his glory in this manner, yet always displays more of _mercy_ than of _judgment_. After all, God has more glory and greatness than he shows to us; what, then, will be the manifestations of them, when in another world we see him face to face! Yet what we shall behold of him there will fill us with _delight_, and not _terror_, as I heard you singing the other day, my dear-- 'Millions of years my wond'ring eyes Shall o'er thy beauties rove, And endless ages I'll adore The glories of thy love. Sweet Jesus! ev'ry smile of thine Shall fresh endearments bring, And thousand tastes of new delight From all thy graces spring.' May we be prepared for that period, and enjoy all that blessedness described in those beautiful lines! There, my dear, will be no storms, and we shall have no fear." "I thank you, my dear mamma, for talking so to me," said Julia; "I have not felt so much fear since you began." The rain had nearly ceased, and the storm was gone. Julia and her mamma were glad to prepare for going home. As soon as they entered the field leading to their home, Julia remarked how refreshed every thing appeared. "Yes," said her mamma, "nature never appears more lovely than after a Thunder-storm. The herbage of the field is revived, and what before was fading is refreshed. All animals seem to rejoice; birds are coming from their shelter, and are singing delightfully, though it is nearly their time for rest; and the cattle share in the general pleasure. See those two lambs, how prettily they are playing!" [Illustration] [Illustration] THE RAINBOW. It was at this moment Julia looked around to admire the scenery, and beheld a Rainbow. "Look, look!" she said, "mamma, what a beautiful Rainbow! How wide it spreads! How many colours are there? Let me count them. One, two, three, four, five--" "My dear," said her mamma, "there are seven, and in the following order: _red_, _orange_, _yellow_, _green_, _blue_, _purple_, and _violet_. These colours appear so much the more lively, according as the cloud behind is darker, and the drops of rain fall the closer. The Rainbow can last only while the rain continues. The sun must be behind us, and the rain opposite to us. The sun and rain must appear at the same time in order to form a Rainbow. It is caused by the rays of the sun reflected on drops of water, and is a picture the most beautifully coloured of any the Creator has given to us. The nearer the sun is to setting, the wider the arch extends. When the sun is at its greatest height, the bow appears the smallest. "Where do we read, my dear, in the Bible about the Rainbow?" asked Julia's mamma. "I think, mamma," replied Julia, "it was to Noah as a sign the world should not again be destroyed by water, and we read so in the book of Genesis." "Yes," answered her mamma, "my dear, you are right. How very fearful would Noah and his family have been whenever they saw dark clouds arise and an appearance of much rain, if God had not kindly said what he intended by the Rainbow! But he explained it by saying, 'I do set my bow in the clouds, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth. And the bow shall be in the cloud; and I will look upon it, that I may remember the everlasting covenant between me and every living creature of all flesh that is upon the earth!' "A bow bespeaks terror; but this has neither string nor arrow; it is an emblem of peace. If it had not been said that it was a token to all generations, even _we_ should have feared a deluge whenever a storm approached. How must Noah have felt when he and his family left the ark, and not a vestige of any thing remained they had seen before! For the waters had covered the highest mountains, and had risen fifteen cubits higher; that is, seven yards and a half; so that in vain would salvation have been hoped for from the hills and mountains. What was Noah's conduct on leaving the ark? He did not forget (as many do) the mercies of God which he had received. The first thing he did was to build an altar for the worship of God. One would have thought, so dreary as every thing must have appeared, his first care would have been to build a house for himself and family, warm and sheltered as they had been in the ark. But no; Noah _feared_ God, and therefore his first care was to _serve_ him. "May it be so, my dear, with _you_," continued Julia's mamma. "May _you_ seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all other things shall be added unto you! Noah's worship was accepted, and immediately God said unto him, I will no more destroy the world with a flood. What kindness is here shown! I think, my love, it is time we hastened home." [Illustration] When they arrived at their abode, as Julia's papa was not expected that night, her mamma, according to her usual practice in his absence, rang the bell for the servants to attend family worship; and a large family bible being laid on the table, her mamma, with great solemnity, read the twenty-ninth Psalm, which being done, all kneeled, and she, in a sweet, feeling manner, approached the throne of Mercy. When prayer was over, all rose from their knees; Julia kissed her mamma, and took her leave of her for the night. "Good night, my dear," said her mamma; "don't forget to pray in secret before you close your eyes for sleep. Adieu! dear Julia; 'May angels guard thy head, And through the hours of darkness keep Their watch around thy bed!'" I hope, my dear young reader, you will consider what Julia's mamma said to her for _her_ instructions and comfort about the Storm and the Rainbow is here mentioned for _your_ instruction and comfort too on such occasions. Only fear God, and you need not fear any thing else. How dreadful to hear in the sky The thunder so long and so loud! To witness the fork'd lightnings fly, Discharged from yonder black cloud! Lord, mercy on me do bestow, And show me the peaceful Rainbow! In vain to shelters do I run, If I find no shelter in Thee; No threat'ning dangers can I shun, But as Thou art gracious to me. Thou can'st hush my fears I well know, By showing the peaceful Rainbow. That tells me the storm shall soon end, The earth shall be delug'd no more, That God is my father and friend, Whose love is great as his power. His signal to creatures below Is the peaceful, lovely Rainbow. This bow is not bent by a string, Because the anger is all fled; Nor has it an arrow to fling, So that I have nothing to dread. And God now would have me to know, All is _mercy_ in the Rainbow. In future, then, when I'm afraid, And darkness and storms fill the air, I will think that God who them made, Views me as a child of his care; That storms will soon cease from below, And the sky display the Rainbow. FINIS. T. C. Hansard, Printer, Peterboro'-court, Fleet-street, London. _New and Approved Reward Books_, JUST PUBLISHED BY FRANCIS WESTLEY, 10, STATIONERS'-COURT, AND AVE-MARIA-LANE. 1. THE WASHERWOMAN. By a Lady. Neatly printed, with Four Wood Cuts, 32mo. Price 1_d._ 2. HENRY'S SERMON to his Servant, when he was only Eight Years Old. By a Lady. Embellished with Four Wood Cuts, and neatly sewed in stiff Wrappers. Price 1_d._ 3. THE VILLAGER'S DAUGHTER. Embellished with Four Wood Cuts, and neatly sewed in stiff Wrappers. Price 1_d._ 4. THE YOUNG LOITERER. Neatly printed, 32mo. Price 1_d._ 5. THE SNOW DROP. Neatly printed, 32mo. Price 1_d._ 6. THE YOUNG MECHANIC. Neatly printed, 32mo. Price 1_d._ 7. THE LITTLE ARTIST; or, The History of Francis Thomas. Second Edition. 32mo. Neatly printed. Price 1_d._ 8. A MOTHER'S NARRATIVE. 32mo. Neatly printed. Price 1_d._ 9. No. 1. GEMS OF SACRED POETRY, selected for Sunday Scholars. Illustrated with 15 Wood Cuts, 32mo. Price 1_d._ 10. No. 2. Ditto. Ditto. 11. No. 3. Ditto. Ditto. 12. ARITHMETICAL TABLES for the use of Schools. Neatly printed, 32mo. Price 1_d._ * * * * * Transcriber's note: Obvious punctuation errors were corrected. 
63049	----	Transcriber Note Emphasis is denoted by _Italics_ and =Bold=. [Illustration: Having a good time in the Garret. See page 38. ] UP IN THE GARRET. By ROBIN RANGER. SUNDAY-SCHOOL DEPARTMENT, 805 Broadway, N. Y. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by CARLTON & PORTER, in the Clerk's Office the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. CONTENTS. Chapter Page I. How the Garret looked 7 II. The Little Bondies 16 III. Fine times up stairs 22 IV. Somebody comes to see them 35 V. The Swallow Story 44 VI. Coming down from the Garret 49 UP IN THE GARRET. CHAPTER I. HOW THE GARRET LOOKED. The house in which Mr. Bondy lives is large and roomy. It stands on a knoll or little hill, and has green grass and bright pretty flowers all around it. There are also trees, some for shade and some for fruit. But it is not about the house or the garden that I wish to tell you now. You may laugh when I say that I want to talk to you about the GARRET of the house. "O, Mr. Robin Ranger," say you, "what is there about the garret that will make a pleasant story for me to read? Don't the rats and mice live in the garret? It is not a nice place: cold in winter, and hot in summer." But stop a moment, Master Flurry, (if that is your name.) Isn't there a garret to your house? And don't you go there sometimes to play, or to find something that has been put in the rag bag? If you do not, I think your sister does, and you may call her, if you think you do not want to read about a garret, and see if she will not like it. But I suppose that as you have read so far, you think you may as well go on and find out what the story is about. Mr. Bondy's garret was quite large. It had four small windows in it, two at each end, so that there was plenty of light. There was also a chimney between each pair of windows. On the floor of the garret there was a little of everything: old bedsteads and chairs waiting to be mended; trunks, valises, and carpet-bags ready for traveling; rolls of spare carpet, matting, and oil cloth; two or three stoves, put out of sight for the summer; hats in bandboxes, and boots without any boxes; rag bags, and bags without any rags. Yet there was no disorder on the floor. Mrs. Bondy was a neat and careful woman, and she had everything in her house, even in the garret, put in order and kept so. Her motto was, "A place for everything, and everything in its place." Hence the floor of the garret was kept clean, and the various things I have named were stowed away where they might be found when wanted. There was a rope stretched across one end of the garret, and on this rope were hung old clothes to be given to the poor, and winter clothes not now in use. Nails were also driven into the rafters, which, I suppose you know, are the beams or long pieces of wood just under the roof. From these nails there hung little bundles of last year's herbs: mint, sage, thyme, catnip, pennyroyal, and summer savory. These gave to the garret a very pleasant smell. Against one of the chimneys there stood a set of shelves which had once been used in the kitchen; but when the kitchen was made larger, new shelves were put in, and these old ones were sent up garret, where old papers and books were piled on them. I must not forget to tell you that on and under an old table with a broken leg there were some toys: dolls, some with broken heads, and some with broken arms; toy cats that couldn't squeak, and dogs that had long ceased to bark; a company of soldiers that had once been able to stand up together, but now looked as if they had been in the wars. The captain had lost his head, and most of the men had lost either an arm or a leg. There was also a little cradle with one rocker off, and a small cart with only one wheel. There was a Noah's ark that had once been filled with animals and with Noah's family--wooden animals and wooden people; but the lid of the ark was gone, as though a great wind had blown it away, and the animals and people were scattered, with broken limbs and heads, about the floor. These toys had been nice and new once, but they had been used as all other toys are, and did not long stand the wear and tear of young hands. They were still good enough to play with once in a while, and thus were put up in the garret, while the newer and better toys were kept below, some in the nursery and a few in the parlor. And now you begin to think there must be some children in Mr. Bondy's house, for he and his good wife would not play with dolls, and toy cats, and wooden soldiers. And you are right. There were children there, and I am glad of it, because a house without any children in it is too dull and quiet, and is not as pleasant as a house in which are the pattering of little feet, and the laughter of merry little hearts, and the smiles of happy little faces. A house without children is like a garden without buds. If you want to know something of these children, read the next chapter. CHAPTER II. THE LITTLE BONDIES. There were three of them. Alice, Maggie, and James were their names, and they were generally well-behaved and kind to each other. This they were taught to be by their parents. Alice was ten years old and went to school. So did Maggie, who was three years younger. But James, who was only four years old, was too young to go to school, though he had learned a few of his letters from his sisters. If I should say that these three little Bondies loved to play, you would not think it strange, would you? Play! Why, I should not like to see children that did not love to play. I should think they were sick, or else had lost some of their senses. I have seen children that did not love to work or to study, but I never yet saw one that did not love to play. I should as soon expect to see a squirrel that couldn't jump, or a bird that couldn't fly, or a mouse that couldn't run. Yes, they loved to play; and I ought to say just here that they were willing to work and to study as far as they could. Alice and Maggie tried hard to get their lessons for school, and even little James would have studied his spelling-book if his father had not thought him too young. Alice sometimes helped her mother work in the kitchen, and Maggie thought she did the same, but I don't think her help amounted to much. Master Jimmy loved to work, also. But his work made more work for older folks. So his father thought one day, when he came home and found the young beets and parsnips all pulled out of their beds in the garden. "Who did that?" said he to the children. "I did, papa," said little James. "And what did you do that for?" "_I was working in the garden!_" was the little fellow's reply. He thought he was helping his papa. What do you think? The children had a very good place to play in, for the garden was large, and there was a good sized plot of grass; and, besides, not very far from the house there was a grove of beautiful maple-trees, under the shade of which they sometimes had a picnic. But when it rained they could not play in the garden, or on the grass, or under the trees. They had to stay in the house. Then it was that the garret was used. It was a good place to play in on a rainy day in summer. In winter it was too cold. At such times the children took some of their good toys with them from the nursery, and used them with the old toys in the garret. And though they could not go out doors, they had fine fun and frolic under the roof of the house, and made noise enough to frighten all the mice away, if there had been any there. [Illustration] CHAPTER III. FINE TIMES UP STAIRS. One Saturday in July the children had expected to take a ride with Abby Mapes and her brother Mark. Mr. Mapes's man Sam was to drive the wagon, and they were going to the "Silver Spring," as it was called, a beautiful spring of water about three miles from Mr. Bondy's house, and not far from Mark Mapes's uncle's, where the children were all expected to take tea, and Sam was to bring them home by dark. They had talked it over for several weeks; but at last, when the long-looked for day came, rain came with it. Rain was very good for the gardens, but not very good for visiting; and the children had to stay at home disappointed. They were very sorry they could not go, but they made no noise about it. They tried to make the best of it. They hoped it might stop raining by noon. They would still be in time, for they had not expected to start before three o'clock. But noon came without any signs of clear weather. So, after dinner, Mark Mapes came over to say that his father would let Sam take them next Saturday. Before Mark went back, Alice, who had been for some time thinking how to pass away the afternoon, went to her mother and whispered: "Shall I tell Mark to ask Abby to come over here this afternoon and play with me?" "You may, if you wish," replied her mother. Alice ran to the door, which Mark had by this time reached on his way out, and gave him her message for his sister. As the house was only a short distance from Mr. Bondy's, Mark was soon back again, trying, as best he could, to hold a big umbrella over Abby's head. He felt very large, but he could not manage the umbrella very well. He was only six years old, and hardly strong enough. Besides, his sister was so much taller than he, that the points of the umbrella often caught in her hood, and nearly tore it from her head. They were hardly seated before Alice asked her mother if they might not go up garret and play a while. She told them "Yes," and they all started up stairs. Alice and Maggie stopped a moment in the nursery to get some dolls and other toys, while Abby took little Jimmie by the hand and helped him along. When they reached the garret they were soon at their play. The old toys were taken from the table, and, with the new ones, made enough to keep them busy all the afternoon. Mark and Jimmie found some little blocks, and had great sport in building houses out of them, and knocking them down. They also took the cart with one wheel and loaded it with their blocks, and amused themselves in drawing the load from one end of the garret to the other. The girls went to work at housekeeping. They had dishes, and pots, and pans, some made of china, some of wood, and some of pewter. There were hardly two whole ones in the lot. Nearly all were either cracked, or broken, or bent. Alice had a very nice set of china dishes, and Maggie had a set of smaller ones, which had been given to them by Uncle Fred for their last Christmas present. But these they kept on the corner stand in the parlor, and did not very often use. After a while the boys got tired of carrying blocks in a cart with only one wheel, so they hunted around for something else. They found some of the animals belonging to Noah's ark, and two or three of the people. But whether Noah and his wife were among them I cannot say. They also found a tin trumpet and a wooden whistle. The trumpet was bent, and the whistle a little cracked; but still there was enough _squeak_ left in them to make a noise. But such a noise! It sounded as if both trumpet and whistle had been out in the rain, and had become hoarse with a cold. Mark and Jimmie marched up and down the garret, making all the noise they could, and scraping their feet across the floor. By and by they sat down for a moment on a small trunk to rest. When they rose from the trunk, Mark moved it a little with his foot. He stooped to put it back in its place, and as he did so he saw something on the floor behind it, and cried out: "Hey! Jimmie, look here! Isn't this the wheel that belongs to the cart?" As he said this, he picked up from the floor the missing wheel. How it ever got behind the trunk I don't know; but there it was, and the boys were not long in putting it on the axle. Abby found a small nail on the floor, and put it in the end of the axle to keep the wheel on. Then the old cart had two wheels, and did the work much better than when it went dragging along with only one. There was one very pretty thing that the girls brought up stairs to play with, that I must tell you about. But I really do not know the name of it. The lady who made it and gave it to Alice called it, I think, a _boudoir_. What an odd name, isn't it! Can you pronounce it? It was a little table about the size and shape of one half of a dinner-plate, the back being straight, and the front round. It was made of wood, and had three legs. The hind leg was put in the middle of the straight back, and went up some distance from the top of the table, like a pole. The table and the pole were covered with blue muslin, which was neatly fastened on the top of the table, and hung down like an apron all around. A piece of the same also went from the top of the pole to the ends of the back part of the table. Then this blue muslin was all covered with white lace. Thus the table had a lace top over it, a lace apron in front of it, and lace curtains hanging from the top of the pole, and nicely fastened with ribbons at each corner of the back. On the pole, a short distance from the table, there hung a cunning little looking-glass with a gilt frame. There were several things on the table: a pincushion, a white china wash bowl and pitcher, a square scent bottle, also of white china, with something in it that smelled sweetly, and a tiny glass bottle of cologne water. It was really a beautiful toy, and all who saw it were well pleased with it. Alice did not often play with it, but she saw it as she passed through the nursery on her way up stairs, and thought it would be a nice thing to take with her. It looked all the better in the garret, because there were so many old, and broken, and ugly-looking things around it. [Illustration] CHAPTER IV. SOMEBODY COMES TO SEE THEM. Thus they played along for two or three hours, and had as good a time as if the sun were shining, and they out in the garden. The little dolls were dressed and undressed, put into the old broken cradle, and taken out again, I don't know how many times. The _boudoir_ was set on one of the shelves I have told you about, and was looked at, but was not handled much, for Alice was very careful of it. The plates and dishes were put on the table and taken off, and put on again, and at last all thrown together in a box under the table. I forgot to tell you about the swing which Mr. Bondy had put up in the garret for the children. It was a stout rope, and hung from the rafters, where it was tightly fastened. An old cushion, which had once been on an arm-chair, served as the seat. When they were tired of their other plays they got on the swing; and when they were tired of swinging they went back to their dolls and dishes, tin trumpet and old cart. By and by they became tired of the garret, and Alice said: "Come, let's go down stairs again." "Sister," said Maggie, "let's have one more swing." "I want another swing, too," said Jimmie. So on the swing they went again. They had not swung long before they heard a step on the stairs. "O," said Alice, "there comes father." They were not afraid to have him come, for he often played with them, and loved to see them enjoy themselves. He had come home from business earlier than usual on account of the rain, and when he found that the children were in the garret he went up to see them. As soon as his head was seen above the garret floor, as he came up stairs, Maggie cried out: "O papa, come give me a swing, and tell me a story, and let me sit in your lap!" "Well, well, miss," said Mr. Bondy laughing, "I think you are asking a great deal at once. I can't swing you, and hold you in my lap, and tell you a story all at the same time." "Well, swing me now," said Maggie, "and then tell me a story." While Maggie was on the swing they were all startled by a singular noise coming from the chimney. They had heard it when they first came up garret, but it was not so loud. They would have gone down stairs then in fear, but they waited a moment, and, as it did not come again, they went on with their play and soon forgot it. But now it became quite loud, and if Mr. Bondy had not been there they would have all run down stairs. But they were not afraid while he was by. It was a strange noise, and I can hardly tell you what it was like, unless it was like something rolling down the chimney. "What is that?" said Abby as she started toward the stairs. Mr. Bondy smiled and said: "Don't be afraid, children, there is nothing here to hurt you." "But what made the noise, papa," said Alice. "What would you think," said her father, "if I should tell you that the noise is made by the folks that live in the chimney?" "Folks in the chimney!" said Mark Mapes. "How could anybody live there?" "O papa is only teasing us with one of his riddles," said Alice. "But there, that's the same noise again. I wish I knew what made it." "Perhaps," said Mr. Bondy, "the old folks have been out to market, and are just coming home with something for the children to eat." At this they all laughed. Presently Alice said: "O, I know what you mean! There's a bird's nest there, and it's the old birds that make the noise with their wings." "How could little birds live in the chimney, I should like to know?" said Maggie. "I should think the smoke would get in their eyes and drive them out." "But they do live there," said her father. "Alice has guessed right. There is no doubt a nest of swallows somewhere in the chimney. The old birds go out and get flies, and bring them to the little birds, who open their mouths while the old ones drop them in." "Isn't that funny," said little Jimmie, who had heard all that was said. "Papa," said Maggie, "won't you tell us some more about the swallows?" "Shall I tell you a swallow story?" he asked. "O yes, do, do," all the children said. "Then you must all sit down, and be very still." CHAPTER V. THE SWALLOW STORY. Abby and Alice took a seat on an old trunk; Mark and Jimmie sat on the floor; and Mr. Bondy got an old chair, with the back broken, and took his seat on it, holding Maggie in his arms. When they were all quiet he began: "A little girl named Jane Clark once went with her mamma to visit her grandma in the country. During the night Mrs. Clark was several times wakened by strange noises about the chimney of the room where she slept. But Jane was so tired that she slept too soundly to hear anything. "Once Mrs. Clark sat up in bed as the noise came louder than usual, and she saw, by the light of the night-lamp, a bundle of straw tumble down from the chimney into the fireplace. The straw had been put into the chimney, which was never used for a fire, to keep the cold wind from blowing down. "The noise now stopped, and Mrs. Clark went to sleep. Early next morning Jane jumped out of bed, and as she touched the floor a little bird started from a corner of the room, and flew frightened toward the window. But it could not get through, for the window was shut. "After flying all around the room until it was tired, the bird was caught by Mrs. Clark, who let Jane hold it carefully in her hand. "Its nest was near the top of the chimney, and somehow or other it had fallen down during the night upon the straw which stopped up the chimney. It tried to fly up again, but could not. Each time it tried it fell back on the straw, until it loosened the bundle, which fell with it to the floor. "Mrs. Clark looked at it very carefully, but could not find any bruise upon it. Jane at first wanted her mother to get a cage, and let her take it home. But when her mother told her that the poor little thing would die if shut up in a cage, Jane was willing to let it go. "She took it again in her hand, and gently smoothed down the feathers on its head and back. She then opened the window, and kissing it on its bill, said: 'Go, little birdie, go, and find your nest again.' And the swallow spread its little wings and soon was out of sight." [Illustration] CHAPTER VI. COMING DOWN FROM THE GARRET. "That was a pretty story, papa," said Maggie. "Wont you tell us another?" "Not this time, I guess, my child. But tell me: how would you like to live in a chimney?" The children laughed at this, and said that it was not possible. "Well, then, how would you like to live in a garret?" asked Mr. Bondy. Of course they none of them cared to do that. "It would be too cold in winter," said Abby. "And too hot in summer," said Alice. "And too dark all the time," said Mark. "I should be afraid of the rats and mice," said Maggie. "I would shoot them with my gun," said Jimmie, who was very bold when there were no rats and mice to be seen. "But, my children," said Mr. Bondy, "there are many poor people who have not as comfortable a place as this garret to live in. I have seen them sometimes in a garret with no bed but a heap of shavings or straw to lie on, and no covering but an old, ragged, and dirty quilt. The roof has been leaky and the floor wet with snow or rain, and the wind blowing across the garret, making every one shiver with the cold. "O it is a sad sight to see a poor sick woman lying in such a place, and dying for want of food, while her children are lying around her in rags, and dirt, and cold, crying for bread which the mother has not to give. "You ought to thank God, children, who gives you food, and clothing, and kind friends, and a comfortable house to live in; and we ought to help the poor and the sick all that we can." The children felt sad when they heard about the poor who suffer thus, and Alice said she was sure she would like to help them if there were any such living near. But by this time the rain had stopped. There was a little blue sky in the west, and soon the golden sunshine came through the garret windows, casting its pleasant light across the floor, and making the old toys and broken furniture look brighter and better than they did when all was dark and gloomy. Presently the tea bell rang, and they hastened down stairs. They had enjoyed a pleasant afternoon in spite of the rain. Perhaps, if the weather had been fine, and they had gone to the Silver Spring, they might have had a pleasanter time; but then, as Alice said at the tea-table, "We should not have heard that story about the swallow, nor about the poor people that suffer so much in the cold. I wish I could help them." "Besides," said Abby, "we can all go to the Silver Spring next Saturday, if it is pleasant; Sam will take us." And so he did, for the next Saturday was a very fine day, and they all had a grand time. Thus they enjoyed two pleasant afternoons: one stormy one in the garret, and one bright one by the Silver Spring. THE END. [X]------------------------------------------[X] | =SUNDAY-SCHOOL BOOKS.= | | CARLTON & LANAHAN, 805 Broadway, N. Y. | |--------------------------------------------| | =THE GIANT-KILLER;= | | Or, the Battle which all must Fight. | | =Two Illustrations. 18mo.= | |--------------------------------------------| | =ANNIE LEE= | | And her Irish Nurse. | | =Three Illustrations. 18mo.= | |--------------------------------------------| | =MINNIE RAY:= | | A Story of Faith and Good Works. | | =Four Illustrations. 18mo.= | |--------------------------------------------| | =MARGARET CRAVEN;= | | Or, Beauty of the Heart. | | =Five Illustrations. 18mo.= | |--------------------------------------------| | =A BOOK FOR BOYS.= | | Stories of Boys who won their way | | to Honor or Wealth by Obedience, | | Industry, and Piety. | | =Nine Illustrations. 18mo.= | |--------------------------------------------| | =THE LOST KEY.= | | By the Author of "The Little | | Water-Cress Sellers." | | =Five Illustrations. 18mo.= | [X]------------------------------------------[X] [X]------------------------------------------[X] | =SUNDAY-SCHOOL BOOKS.= | | CARLTON & LANAHAN, 805 Broadway, N. 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With several | | Incidents of his Ministry. | | =Four Illustrations. 18mo.= | [X]------------------------------------------[X] Transcriber Note Minor typos were corrected. 
46733	----	A LIFE SKETCH. Lack of Education--Early Marriage--Resisting Temptation--Grain Increased by the Power of God--Answers to Prayer--Large Family--Result of Early Marriage. CASES OF MIRACULOUS HEALING. Great Assembly of Indians--Baptizing them--The Sick Instantly Healed--Curious Actions of Indians Affected with Evil Spirits--The Old Chief's Faith--Child Cured of Fever--The Dead Revived. ANSWER TO PRAYER. Early Experience in Calling upon the Lord--Prayers Answered--Faith Developed--A Pocket-Book Lost--Found in answer to Prayer. JOSEPH SMITH'S FIRST PRAYER. AMONG THE PONCAS. By W. C. S. CHAPTER I. START FOR THE MOUNTAINS--EXPERIENCE AS A COBBLER--INDIAN MISSION ABANDONED--CACHING PROPERTY--PONCA INDIANS--A PROPHECY AND ITS FULFILLMENT. A few days after the organization of the "Mormon" Battalion, and when it had left Council Bluffs for Fort Leavenworth, it was decided in the council of the authorities of the Church that Brother George Miller (Bishop) should raise a company and endeavor to cross the Rocky Mountains that fall. At this time I was traveling and living with the family of Bishop Miller. I had been suffering with fever and ague for two months previous, but a few days before we arrived at Council Bluffs the fever left me, when my legs commenced to swell and finally broke out into sores, some of which were over an inch deep. I had five on my right and four on my left leg. These caused me much pain; but the Lord blessed me with His Spirit, and I did not feel in the least discouraged. I had brought some shoemaker's tools along, so that I could mend my shoes when they needed it. I had them in use every time we stopped, mending shoes for the camp. I soon learned to be a pretty good cobbler, especially in patching up the sisters' shoes. Some four of Bishop Miller's teamsters left to join the Battalion. Brother Henry G. Boyle was the one who drove the team I traveled in, but now I had to be teamster. We left with sufficient breadstuff to last a year, consisting of flour, corn meal, etc., but no meat, as we hoped to find plenty of game on our journey. In this we were disappointed, as we were without meat for several weeks, with the exception of fish when we could catch them. When about twenty miles east of the Pawnee village and mission we met several white men, who had been in charge of the mission, under the superintendence of an Indian agent appointed by the government. These men had been employed at building houses, fencing in land, sowing grain, etc., and endeavoring to teach the Indians to do likewise; but the Indians for some cause had become exasperated and had killed two of the white men, one of whom was a blacksmith. As soon as this party learned of our numbers and intentions they wished to return to the mission and cache some government property, such, as iron, steel, blacksmith tools, farming implements, etc., which they left in a hurry when fleeing from the Indians. On arriving at the mission and village, we found that all the Indians had left, fearing, I presume, that they would be punished if they were caught by the government troops. The brethren helped these men to cache all the property, which they did by digging a large hole in the ground, in a dry place, putting the goods into it, covering them with the soil taken out of the hole, and building a large fire over the place, that the ashes might cover up all traces of the digging. One of the men of this party joined the Church, and emigrated to the valley with us. We found several fields of grain ready for harvesting, with potatoes, turnips and sweet corn, as well as a large quantity of wheat, barley and oats already threshed and housed. This was all handed over to our camp. We remained here a couple of days, when we received a letter from President B. Young's camp, advising us to winter on Grand Island, which was well timbered, and where there was good feed also This island was a few miles west of us, on the Platte River. The letter also stated that a company had left President Young's camp, who would winter with us and give us sufficient strength to guard against an attack from Indians. The day following eight Ponca chiefs came to our camp, stating that they had come from their nation to make peace with the Pawnees, and appeared much disappointed when they learned they had left, in consequence of their trouble with the men who had charge of the mission. These Ponca Indians who came to our camp were large, fine-looking men. Bishop Miller asked them to stay with us a few days, which they did, and appeared much pleased. They soon learned where we expected to winter, and were very anxious to have us all go to their village and stay. They represented that they had a good country, well timbered, and plenty of good pasture and shelter for our cattle. The next day the company sent to join us, consisting of thirty men with their families, arrived. As soon as they had rested, a meeting was called, to know what should be done--winter on Grand Island, without the consent of the Pawnee Indians, who owned the land and timber there, or go with the Ponca chiefs, where we would be welcomed by the whole nation. The council decided to go with the Poncas, and the next day we fitted up our wagons for the journey. The next thing was to load up with as much grain and potatoes as we could get into our wagons, for these were the first we had been able to obtain since leaving Nauvoo in the spring. After we got every corner in our wagons filled with eatables we left a great many bushels of grain and vegetables upon the land to waste, literally fulfilling a prophecy uttered by Bishop Miller, a few days before we started. When speaking to the camp, he said he hoped all who were going in that company were "true Latter-day Saints, full of faith and good works," and added: "All of you who have been with us have seen the power of God manifested in behalf of the traveling camps of Israel, in protecting our leaders from our enemies, and providing food for the Saints, who number thousands. Some may say, 'We were then traveling through a country where we found an occasional farm, from the owner of which we could purchase what we required; but to-day we have left all these, and have nothing but a wilderness before us, without farms, houses or grain.' "Let me say, as I have before said, you shall be blessed in the future as you have been in the past. "What, with food? Yes; I tell you yes! I promise you all, this day, in the name of the Lord, that you shall see the time while upon this journey, that you shall have more grain than you can load in your wagons, and leave many bushels behind you to waste upon the ground." This, my readers, was fulfilling prophecy to the very letter. How often I have seen the sayings of our leaders fulfilled in like manner since I started upon this journey! CHAPTER II. GOING WITH THE PONCAS--BUFFALO MEAT--CAMPED FOR THE WINTER--COUNCIL WITH THE INDIANS--A WAR DANCE--SELECTED TO GO WITH THE PONCAS ON A WINTER'S HUNT. Brother James Emmett, one of our party, understood a little of the Sioux language, and one of the Ponca chiefs could converse in this language. Brother Emmett was asked to find out how far the Poncas lived from the camp. The chief told him three sleeps, or, as he understood it, three days' travel for our cattle: but we afterwards learned that the chief meant three days' and nights' travel with horses (one hundred and fifty miles). The country over which we traveled the first three days was very rough for our wagons. The name of the chief of the Poncas was _Ta-nugar-number_, which means, two buffalo bulls. He was thus named because he once killed two bulls, while they were running through the village. On the fourth day this chief came to us, saying he and the party had killed three buffaloes. Brother Miller ordered the camp to stop near a small stream close by, and send for the dead animals, that we might have buffalo meat for dinner. This was the first time we had had meat for ten weeks. A team was sent, and the meat soon arrived, and was distributed through the camp. It was a novel scene, I assure you, to see us each with a stick and a piece of meat stuck on the end of it, toasting, or broiling it, before the fire. This was the first buffalo meat we had ever eaten, and we all thought it the sweetest and best meat we ever tasted. We remained here until two o'clock, p. m., the next day, when but little remained of the buffaloes, except the bones. Several more were killed before we reached the village. The meat of some was dried, but all the prime pieces were eaten. On the eleventh day we camped within two miles of their village, and three miles from where we located for the winter. No sooner had we unyoked our cattle than we were visited by nearly all the nation, old and young. All wanted to see us. Many of them had never seen an ox before, and but few had seen many white men. A council of the chiefs and braves, or warriors, was called, to meet with our brethren. The chief told his people that he had invited us to stay on their land during the winter. That we wanted timber for building houses and for fuel, and pasture for our cattle. He said they had plenty of both--more than they or we needed--and he wanted his braves to say that we could have it. In return, he told them we would build them houses, plow and plant some land for their squaws, and give them some flour. He then asked for an expression of their feelings. Several of the old men spoke, and all said we were welcome to come and get what we wanted. The Poncas numbered about two thousand souls. After the meeting dismissed some thirty of the braves, or soldiers, favored us with a war dance. The musical instrument used for this was used at all the dances I ever saw while with them. It was like a tambourine, and about the same size. This is beaten as you would beat a drum. The braves formed in a circle, and at every beat of the instrument (and there were perhaps seventy strokes to the minute) they would jump up, at the same time bending forward in a half-stooping position, and passing around as they jumped, yelling and hallooing in a most frightful manner. All they lacked at this dance to make it a perfect war dance, were the scalps of some whom they had killed in battle. This drumming, yelling and jumping continued for about fifteen minutes, when all the Indians left the camp for their own village. We were about one mile from the Missouri River, and near the mouth of Swift or Running-Water River, and where the Indians raise a little corn. The next day the whole village turned out to visit us. They wanted us to trade with them by giving them flour, sugar, coffee, etc., for moccasins, buckskins, etc. A great many exchanges were made, to the satisfaction of both parties. The Indians, however, had by far the best of the bargains, as we found out the next morning, for many of us were minus an ax, a kettle, pan, cup, knife or something that was used daily about our camp; and all these things we learned had been taken by our Indian visitors. As soon as this was known to the chiefs, they ordered all who had these articles to return them to our camp. A few tin cups, saucepans, milk pans and such things were brought back, but not a tithe of what were taken. After this but few were allowed to visit us. The chief appointed two Indians to be at our camp every day, to keep the others away, or keep them from stealing. In about three weeks a number of houses were ready for the Saints to occupy, and about two-thirds of our people were housed for the winter. While this was being done I had been kept busy, shoe-mending; and very often I would be called upon to mend an Indian's bridle or his bullet pouch, which I did cheerfully, and to their satisfaction. About the first of October the Ponca chief came to Brother Miller, and informed him that they were about to start for their winter hunting ground, to hunt buffalo, elk and deer, to get robes and meat, and wished to have a few of our young men accompany them. He mentioned me, stating that I was good and kind to his people, mending bullet pouches, etc., for them. That same evening, after several of our young men had proposed to go with the Indians on their hunt, Bishop Miller said, calling me by name, "I would like you to go with them if you had not those fearful sores on your legs. The chiefs and some braves have taken quite a liking to you, and I feel, Brother S--, as though you would do much good by going among them on this journey, but I dare not ask you to go with such legs." A peculiar feeling came over me while he was speaking, and I was led to say, "Brother Miller, if you say I can accomplish good by going with those Indians, I will go. I have no fears about my legs or myself; if anything should occur, that I should never return, I have no relatives in camp to mourn my loss. This weak, deformed body of mine can be better spared than those who are able bodied, all of whom are needed for the protection of the camp." He there and then appointed me to go, and blessed me in the name of the Lord. He said that I should do much good, and have exceeding faith in the God of Israel, who would guide and direct me in a marvellous manner. The next day we started. Our company consisted of Brother John Kay, who was going to do a little trading with and gunsmithing for the Indians, Frederick Bainbridge, his teamster, four young brethren and myself, with the Ponca nation which numbered two thousand souls, with all their lodges, camp kettles, etc. CHAPTER III. GRAND "PEACE" SMOKE--TABLE ETIQUETTE--NO DISH-WASHING--WHITE FRIENDS DISCOURAGED. Two hours before the Indians left for their winter hunting ground a few of the chiefs came to Bishop Miller to smoke the pipe of peace with him and our camp. This pipe of peace had been smoked with us many times before; and, as it may be a question how this is done, I will explain it to my young readers. When there is a sufficient number to form a circle, they always do so. The chief who invites the party fills his large pipe with tobacco (more than one pipe is used when the company is large). As soon as it is filled, the chief holds the bowl of the pipe upwards, and says a few words appropriate to the occasion, calling always upon the Great Spirit, whom they call "Wurconda." These speeches were always made at feasts of importance, or councils, and at every "big smoke," or when they send off a war party, and when a party goes to make peace with another nation. I was at a meeting once where a number of chiefs were in council, and were about to send off a peace party, consisting of four young braves and a chief, all of whom were present during the ceremony. The pipe was filled, and the head chief held the bowl upwards, made a short speech and passed it to the next chief, who said a few words and handed it to the next. After all had received it and spoken, the chief, who presided lit the pipe, and all smoked. A small, dried bladder was produced after this by the chief. This was passed around with the same ceremony as the pipe was. Some very fine grass was next handed around in the same manner. After this the marrow from a large bone of the buffalo and a piece of plug tobacco were each served in the same manner as the other articles. The pipe, tobacco, grass and marrow were then placed in the bladder and tied up. When this was done the young chief who had charge of the party was asked to step into the circle of chiefs. The bladder and its contents were then held up by the presiding chief, who made a few remarks and handed it to the young man, and he handed it to each chief in turn. After some remarks by the head chief the party started upon their important mission. During this ceremony no one spoke but those in council. It was as quiet as any religious meeting I ever attended. Each speech was like a prayer, and was delivered in a very solemn manner. After this peaceable smoke the Indians shook hands with their white friends and jumped into their saddles and left. It was a novel scene to us, and I am sure it would be to my young readers, to see this Indian nation on the move. In advance could be seen the chiefs and some of their braves on horseback. Next came the squaws, leading horses packed with their lodges and camp-equipage. Next came the old men and old women, with their lodges packed and drawn by dogs with poles strapped on their backs. With these were young men and maidens, all on foot. Those who had babies strapped them upon a board, and carried them as the Utah Indians do. All the young men and boys had bows and arrows; and when traveling they had a good time, testing their skill by shooting rabbits and small birds. When in camp a great deal of their time was spent in shooting at a mark. The first day we traveled about eight miles. We had been invited to stay in one of the chief's lodges, he having three of them and three wives. At sunset the chief invited us to supper, which consisted of dried buffalo meat, boiled, and put into one large, wooden bowl with the liquor it was boiled in. One large horn spoon was provided with which to eat, and the meat was cut up into small pieces. The chief took a spoonful of meat and liquor, then handed the spoon to the one next to him, who did likewise, and so the spoon was passed around until all had used it, and partaken of as much food as they wanted. The meat was as tough as leather and about as palatable, and was truly the hardest and toughest meat I ever ate. We slept in the tent that night, and rested well. My legs pained me some, but I felt that the Lord was with us. Brother John Kay had a little flour with him, and on the following morning, he invited us to breakfast on cakes fried in fat, which we ate with a relish. About nine o'clock, a. m., one of the chiefs went through the village, telling the people that they were going to a certain place that day, and that they could prepare for the journey as soon as they pleased. The women commenced immediately to pack up their things, and take down their lodges, while the men started for their horses. The women among the Indians have most of the work to do. They put up and pull down the lodges, get the wood, cook, make and mend their clothes, and dress all the robes and skins, for their own use and for the market. The men hunt, look after their horses, fight, if necessary, smoke, eat and sleep. We traveled on in this way, eating the same kind of meat, only broiled at times for a change (which was far preferable) instead of being boiled. You may ask if the meat and the dish or bowl we ate from were clean. I thought not, for the meat, the bowl and kettle were carried in dirty, greasy sacks. In fact, all the eatables and cooking utensils were in these sacks, packed upon the backs of horses, when traveling, and when in camp, thrown around a dirty and dusty lodge. I scarcely ever saw a piece of meat, a kettle or a bowl washed by them while I was with them. At first we partook of our meals with but little relish, but after a week's travel, we found our appetites improved. Up to this time we traveled near the Running Water River, without seeing any buffalo, or game of any kind. Here our young brethren became perfectly discouraged, not finding game nor immediate prospects for any, and they concluded to leave. We were then about fifty miles from our camp. I was asked to accompany them, but declined, feeling that I had not accomplished my mission. This far we had crossed a number of small, clear streams, from three to seven feet wide, and often three feet deep. In crossing these I found the water gave relief to my sore and painful legs, and, as often as I could, I bathed the sores and found relief. Three of the sores had entirely healed, and for this I thanked the Lord. We parted here with our young brethren, wishing them a pleasant journey, while we marched on and camped again near the same stream. Soon after we had partaken of our evening meal, two Indians came riding into camp, bringing good news, that buffaloes were a few miles west of us. This filled the Indians with joy, so much so that bonfires were built outside the lodges to give light, so that the young folks could dance, and the old men might smoke and talk over things of the past. It was a very interesting sight to me, to see some eight or ten circles of young men and women, dancing in the same way, and to the same music, that I have described before, as a "war dance." And let me here say that women join the men in a real, genuine war dance, (when they have a scalp of some unfortunate Indian who has crossed their path,) and seem to enjoy it quite as well as the men; for they jump as high, and as often, and do a great deal of horrible yelling. With this dancing by the young folks, and the smoking by the old men, (women never smoke) and the multitude looking at the dancers, it was a happy time for all. After enjoying these pleasures about three hours the whole company, except the guard, retired to their lodges, many, no doubt, to dream of the good time coming--of killing buffaloes and eating fresh meat. At day-break a chief notified the camp to prepare to move. No sooner was the word given, than the people commenced to pack up, and take down lodges, and in one hour we were again on the move. At the time the chief gave the word for the Indians to prepare to move, another chief was giving orders to those who had hunting horses to prepare and leave for the slaughter. By the time we reached a small stream about five miles ahead, we found these hunters with ten fine buffaloes ready for the two thousand hungry souls. Lodges were soon up, fires lighted, and the whole camp busy cooking and eating fresh meat. I had an invitation, with my brethren, to cat roast or broiled buffallo, which I accepted and enjoyed it very much. I believe I ate two pounds of solid meat before I slept that night, without feeling the least inconvenience. We had no bread nor potatoes with it, which, of course, makes a great difference. The camp was up early the next morning and moved on about four miles, without breakfast, when we stopped, hoping our hunters, who were ahead of us, would find more game. At sunset, four Indians brought in two fat deer, and soon others came, bringing two buffaloes. Shortly after the deer arrived, we were invited to dine on deer meat, which we found very good. At first I found it rather strange to eat so much meat and no bread with it; but I soon got used to it. I had been ten weeks living on bread without meat, and if any one had asked me at the time which I would prefer of the two, if I could have but one, I should have chosen bread; but after I had lived on meat a few weeks, I would have said, give me meat, rather than bread alone. CHAPTER IV. LAST TWO BRETHREN LEAVE ME--HOME-SICK--TONSORIAL EXPERIENCE--"WHADEE-SHIPPER," A NEW NAME FOR ME--KINDNESS OF THE INDIANS. The part of the country we were traveling in was so rough and hilly that it was impossible to travel with a wagon, so Brothers Kay and Bainbridge concluded to leave, which they did that morning. I have not forgotten the time when we parted, and I saw them for the last time passing over the top of a high hill, each swinging his hat as a token of good by and good wishes. How different our positions! They were going to their families and friends, while I was to remain with a few Indians, or wild men of the desert. I must confess that for awhile I felt a little homesick. I started for a deep ravine near by, out of sight of the village, where I knelt down and prayed to the Lord for strength and an increase of faith, that I might accomplish the work before me with cheerfulness of heart. After this I felt better, and went to the chief's lodge and got out my journal to write. No one else was in the lodge at the time, but just as I was about to commence writing, a couple of young squaws entered the lodge and sat down beside me. The eldest asked me, as I understood, for my comb, and I took it from my pocket and offered it to her, thinking they wished to comb their hair; but, to my surprise, she leaned her head towards me, asking and making signs for me to comb and braid her hair, as our white women did theirs. At first I concluded something evil was intended, and they were sent to prove me; but I soon changed my mind, and believed them innocent of any wrong. I was somewhat confused, I assure you, in making the attempt to dress a lady's hair, and blushed considerably when I commenced, which they observed, and both laughed. As soon as I had finished one side I handed my comb over to her companion, for her to do the other side, which she did, and much better than I had done. When this was done, lady No. 1 combed and braided the hair of lady No. 2, very nicely. She then returned the comb to me. This was the first and last hair-dressing I was called upon to perform while with them. The next day many of the young women had their hair arranged in the same style. I remained in the same lodge and with the same chief as when I started with them. This same evening several Indians came to his lodge, and, after talking awhile, sent for an old Frenchman who had been with them a number of years, and could speak some English. They told him they were pleased that I was going to remain with them. It was good, and I was a _sargey morie tongar_, [1] which is "hardy American," and they would give me the name of their fire steel (one they use with a flint, to strike fire with, which they call _whadee shipper_). This was my Indian name from that time. This was soon known by the Indians in the village, for the next day all who met me called me by my new name. I continued to pass through every stream we came to, and after awhile I found myself almost free from sores. For this I felt truly thankful and much encouraged. One day two Indians came to the village who had been visiting their sister, who was married in the Sioux nation. These men informed the chief that a band of the Yankton Sioux were short of meat and robes and had but little game on their land, and had been driving off buffalo from the Poncas' lands, which was the cause of not finding buffalo sooner than we did. We took early starts in the morning, traveling sometimes until two or three o'clock in the afternoon without food. All Indians that I saw on this trip preferred traveling before breaking their fast, and after awhile I concluded it was better than starting off after eating a hearty meal. This was the beginning of November; the nights were frosty but the days were very pleasant. We were now in a bleak and cold country, with but little grass or timber. By this time my legs were quite healed, for which I gave thanks to the Lord. Five weeks had passed since I left our camp to accompany the Indians, and thus far I had enjoyed myself. The Indians were very kind to me, and all were anxious that I should learn their language. While traveling, the young men would walk with me, show me the "cut off," or nearest way to a certain point we would have to pass, and every day I would learn a new word or two. I started with one pair of old shoes, which lasted me but two weeks, when one of the chiefs presented me with a new pair of buckskin moccasins. For this kind act I blessed him in the name of the Lord. I found them very easy to my feet, and could walk much better with them than with shoes. After a time, though, they began to show signs of wear, and one day when walking with the son of a chief, he looked at my feet and saw my toe sticking through my moccasin. He immediately said, _pashee_ (which means "no good,") pulled off his own moccasins and handed them to me, telling me to put them on, which I did, and he put on mine. His were new, but he appeared quite pleased that he had them to give to me. Footnotes 1.--_Morie-tongar_, is the name they give to all Americans. _Morie_ is knife, and _Tongar_ is large knife. The first Americans they ever saw all had swords, which they called large knives; hence their name. CHAPTER V. A BUFFALO HUNT--A THRILLING SIGHT--CONVERSATIONS WITH THE INDIANS--SCURVY--ANSWER TO PRAYER. At this time we had an abundance of buffalo, deer and elk meat, killing from five to forty buffaloes in one day, and as I have witnessed several of these buffalo hunts, I will tell my young readers how the Indians proceed in hunting and killing them. In the first place, there is a chief or president over every company starting out to hunt, so that good order may be kept; otherwise the buffaloes would be frightened away, and perhaps only one or two of a large herd be killed. The chief in charge, when first in sight, calculating the number there are, and the distance from them, gives his orders, telling who must follow next to him, and who next, and so on until about twenty of those who have good horses are chosen to follow him. After these, all who have horses follow if they choose to do so. Sometimes it is better to keep at a distance from the buffaloes, until the chief and his chosen men scatter the band, when those behind follow the buffaloes and soon kill them. The chief and party start off, walking their horses, and on the lee side of the buffaloes, until they are seen by the game, which sometimes does not occur until they ride within a few rods of them. As soon as the buffaloes see these horsemen they run from them. The chief, riding in among them, first picks out the best and fattest animal he can find, and kills it. Then follow the others, each doing likewise. By this time the herd is scattered. These men load their guns again and follow them, killing as many as they can. In a short time as many as fifty Indians are after them on horses, and the buffaloes scatter all over the country. They can be seen in twos, threes, or in larger numbers, with Indians trying to catch up with them. Those having the best horses kill the most buffaloes. If the hunt is near a village, which is often the case, the old men and women go out and skin the animals killed, and help themselves to as much meat as they can pack. The robe belongs to the party who killed the animal. At one hunt there were about 400 buffaloes, the largest number I ever saw together while with the Indians. This was the best and most exciting hunt I ever saw, and I know of no scene that I ever witnessed, either before or since, that was so exciting and interesting to me. I saw a sham fight in 1838, when 20,000 British troops were engaged for three hours, and were viewed by Queen Victoria, the Duke of Wellington, Lord Hill, Marshal Soult, and other notables. The troops were well drilled, equipped in splendid style, rode fine horses, and when moving in masses from one place to another with their glittering accoutrements, breastplates, helmets, etc., they presented a grand appearance; yet it was not to be compared for real interest to the spectacle presented by this buffalo hunt. Each Indian had nothing but a blanket or robe around his loins, and carried only a bow and a quiver of arrows (but few having guns) for his weapons. To see those Indians galloping at full speed, with their hair flying in the wind, after the black, wild animals, in a wild and desert country, with only nature for their instructor, was to me the most thrilling and soul-stirring sight I ever beheld in my life, and one I shall never forget. Old as I am (62 years), I would go farther to see another such a hunt, than I would to see a sham fight, such as the one mentioned. Fifty buffaloes were killed in this hunt, and after it was over we remained in camp for three weeks, to give the women a chance to dry the meat and dress the robes, as we had no means of carrying them in their green state. By this time I had learned considerable of their language and was able to converse tolerably well with them; and, when sitting in the evening with some of the chiefs, they would ask me to talk to them about our people, wishing to know where we were going, and why we were going so far from our white brethren, etc. An old Frenchman interpreted for us as I talked, he knowing that I could understand enough of their language to detect it if he did not translate my words correctly. I gave them a brief history of the Church, the principles taught by the Prophet Joseph, his and his brother Hyrum's death, and also of the Book of Mormon (having one with me, which I showed them). I also told them where their forefathers came from, where they first landed, and how they, like us, had been scattered and driven from the rising almost to the setting sun. These conversations were many, and always very interesting to them. I may here mention that, when I left the nation, the chief with whom I stayed asked me for the Book of Mormon, and told me he would keep it as long as he lived, and his son would keep it after him; for he wanted to have the book that could give the history of their fathers always with them. I handed it to him, and he thanked me, kissing the book, and saying it would be good medicine for his people, for he should feel as though his fathers were with them when he had the book. Eating, as I had, so much fresh meat without vegetables or bread, and having but little exercise, I did not feel as well as I had done, and found a kind of scurvy breaking out on my right side. I had seen something of the kind on some of the Indians, but nothing so bad as mine. All I could do was to apply buffalo fat to the parts affected. The time came when we had got our robes dressed and meat sufficiently dried to cache, so that we could leave the next morning. My leg was swollen, and I feared if it continued it might get so bad that I could not walk. I prayed at night that the Lord would cause the swelling to go down, and give me sufficient strength that I might be able to walk the next day. The next morning the swelling was gone, and I was able to walk nine miles. Here we killed more buffaloes, and stayed a few days to dry meat, which we did by cutting it about an inch thick, and putting it upon sticks above the fire in the lodges. We next moved on to the upper forks of Running Water River, and very near to the extent of the Poncas' hunting ground. Beyond theirs were lands belonging to the Brules, a tribe of the Sioux. CHAPTER VI. STRENGTH IN TIME OF NEED--AFFLICTED LIKE JOB, WITH BOILS--SCRAPING WITH A POTSHERD PLEASANT--MY PRAYER ROOM--DRESSING BUFFALO ROBES--DINING ON COTTONWOOD BARK--INDIAN SELF-DENIAL. I suffered much pain at times with the sores that covered my right side, from my face all the way down to my ankle; but, strange to say, the swelling on my knee, which would increase after each day's travel, so that I could scarcely walk across the lodge, would go down when we had occasion to travel, so that I could walk from one camping place to the next. Some of my readers may think I imagined this to be the case, but it was no imagination of mine, for this continued for several weeks just as I have stated. After remaining a few days in camp, I was one mass of boils, from the size of a pea to that of a small marble, and so close together that they touched each other. At times I suffered a great deal of pain, and at other times I suffered with itching, which was terrible. This was when the sores were partially healed, and the surface had become hard, and while in this state I often, on a fine day, would go where I could not be seen, get on the sunny side of a hill, strip off my clothes, and, with a flat stick, scrape my sores. I had read of Job scraping his boils with a potsherd, and pitied him, but if he took as much comfort as I did in scraping mine, he had no need of pity; for to me it was a great pleasure to get rid of the itching, and the scraping tended to relieve me in this respect. The boils, however, would only remain healed about a week, when they would begin to swell for a few days, giving much pain, and then break out again, which caused me to feel faint and weak. Notwithstanding this affliction I felt blessed of the Lord, and was not discouraged. A short distance from the village there was a large patch of plum bush, about two acres in area, with deer tracks through it, and a large space clear of brush in the center. This I chose for my prayer room during my stay there. I asked the Lord to bless and sanctify it for this purpose, which I feel assured He did. I went there three times a day for prayer, and I felt many times, when praying, that the Lord was there. This was about the last of November; the weather was very cold, and there was some snow on the ground. It was a busy time for the women, who were all engaged in drying meat, and dressing robes and skins for sale. We had killed up to date, 1,500 buffaloes, besides other game. It takes from two to three days to dress a robe. In the first place, they scrape it on the flesh side until it becomes thin, then they soak some of the buffalo's brains in warm water, and put this liquor on the flesh side until it will not retain any more. The brain of an animal is sufficient to dress its skin or robe, and sometimes more than sufficient. After the robe or skin has become well soaked through with the brain liquor, it is stretched tight upon sticks, with the skin side to the sun, if the weather be fine, and if cloudy, a fire is made to dry it. While the drying process is going on, the party dressing it rubs it on the flesh side with a piece of sandstone about the size of a brick. This is continued until it is perfectly dry and soft. All robes and skins are dressed in this manner except small skins, which are rubbed with the hands. On a fine day, I have seen as many as 70 squaws at work at one time, dressing robes. These robes and skins are their harvest, as much so as a good crop of grain is to the farmer, as they sell all they do not need to traders, who are licensed to purchase from the Indians by the government. A good robe was worth about two dollars in cloth, ammunition, coffee, sugar, salt, etc. Sometimes the Indians would give three or four robes, or even more for a blanket, which was thought to be much better to wear around them than a buffalo robe. The Indians who could afford to wear a blanket, considered themselves much better dressed than their fellows. The lodges were all made of buffalo skins; it took from five to eighteen skins, according to the size, to make one lodge. These were all made by the squaws. During our lengthy stay at the place last mentioned, the weather was very cold and stormy, and the feed for our horses was very poor; but there was considerable cottonwood timber growing on the banks of the river, and a good many of the young trees were cut, and the under bark used to feed the horses. They were very fond of it, and I was informed by the Indians that this bark, during the winter months or before the buds burst in spring, was nearly as good for them as corn. I may here mention that I remember testing the value of this bark as food, myself, during our return journey. We had no meat for three days, except one deer, which was killed when we were a few miles from our meat caches. We had hoped to find game on our journey, but finding none, we were compelled to go without. The third day I felt very faint, and it struck me that if the under bark of the cottonwood tree would feed horses and they could live on it, that it might also serve to stay my hunger. I got some young branches, and scraped off a lot of the bark, cutting it fine. I then asked the Lord to bless and sanctify it to my use. I took a mouthful, and, after chewing it for some time, swallowed the juice. I was about to swallow the bark, also, when it was suggested to me not to do so, that if I did it would clog my system, but that the juice would not. I therefore merely chewed the bark, and swallowed a few mouthfuls of the juice, from which I found relief. For this, and the suggestion not to swallow the bark, I thanked my Heavenly Father. When the deer was killed upon this journey, it was cut up into small pieces, and distributed to as many as it would supply. Soon after this, I was invited to eat at the lodge of a young chief and his wife. As soon as I reached the lodge, a piece of this deer was handed to me, about the size of one's hand. This was broiled, and intended for me alone. I knew they both had been without meat as long as I had, and I did not think they had partaken of bark juice as I had, just before. I therefore cut a small piece off for myself, and asked them to eat the remainder. The chief said: "No! Indian eat once in three days--good! If not, can buckle up his belt tighter" (which he did); "but white man, or _morie tonger_, needs to eat three times a day." Neither he nor his wife would take it, so I ate it. CHAPTER VII. POLICE REGULATIONS--A MORAL PEOPLE--MARRIAGE CUSTOMS--INVITATION TO A FEAST--SKUNK MEAT AT MID-NIGHT--INDIANS CHEATED BY WHITE TRADERS. The lodges, during our stay on the Upper Forks of the Running Water River, were made comfortably warm by banking up dry sod three feet high around them. Inside of the lodges, the floor, to within about three feet of the fire, all around, was covered with half-dressed robes, at times four deep, which made it good to sleep upon. We had the best of order in our village. Four Indians were appointed every day to act as police. These had their faces blackened when on duty. Fresh ones were appointed daily to guard and see that everything was orderly in the village. I had been informed while in the States that all Indians were very licentious and degraded in their character and habits. It may possibly be the case with some tribes, but from the first day I traveled with the Poncas up to the last, which was six months, I never saw anything that would cause a lady to blush, either in the actions of a male or female. If there had been anything of the kind I would have seen it, for I was at all their feasts of dancing and eating, and attended three of their weddings. If a young Indian wants to marry, and finds a squaw who is inclined to receive his addresses, he goes to the father of the young woman and learns from him the worth of the lady. He also finds out whether he would be acceptable to him as a son-in-law. If the match is agreeable to the parent, he will perhaps ask three horses as the price of her, sometimes more, sometimes less. The price depends somewhat on the smartness of the girl. If she can braid well, and dress robes and skins first rate, and is well qualified for the labors required of her, she is worth more horses than one who is not so smart. When the price is settled and the amount paid, the next thing for the young Indian to do is to prepare a home for his bride. He either hires part of a lodge, purchases one or furnishes the skins for his intended bride to make one. When this is done he goes out and hunts game, brings what he kills to the lodge of her father, and hands it over to the young woman, who cooks some and gives it to him to eat. She also makes him a present either of a robe, pair of leggings or a pair of moccasins. Thus he proves on his part that he is willing to hunt and provide for her; and she, on the other hand, shows her willingness to cook and make what clothing he wishes. This is all that is needed to become husband and wife. It often happens that a young Indian, when wanting to marry, is poor, and does not own any horses. In such a case he promises to help his father-in-law to hunt until he gets a horse, or horses. Sometimes there are a number of young Indians wanting to marry, but cannot do so for want of horses to pay for the young ladies. When such is the case, they occasionally lay their plans (unknown to their chiefs) for a raid on the horses of other tribes or nations, to steal what they need for the purchase of their wives. This occurred once while I was with them. Eight young Indians were gone twenty-three days, and returned without any, finding the horses were too well guarded. At times, when the Indians have had horses stolen by marauding parties from other nations, the chiefs call a council of the braves, and choose a number to go to the aggressors as a war party, and get back their horses that have been stolen, or steal some better ones from them. This party are all fighting men, and often have to fight before they return, whether they get any horses or not. The war parties of the different tribes are continually active; and each tribe has to be on the watch, to prevent its horses being stolen while in herds near its villages. All foreign war parties are looked upon as enemies, and whenever the Indians see them they shoot them and bring their scalps to camp, for the young folks to dance around at their evening entertainments. Sending out these war parties was often the cause of the different nations going to war, and it is the same to this day. When traveling, we would often see a foot track in the sand, or an arrow or moccasin by the way. As soon as an Indian saw any of these he knew by what tribe they had been left. When I asked them how they knew this, they informed me that each nation made shoes, or moccasins, differing somewhat in shape from those of other nations. They also had different colored arrows, so that those of each nation could be easily identified by any one acquainted with the various peculiarities. The various Indian nations are distinguished by the colors of their arrows in the same way that civilized nations are by the colors of their flags. When a chief prepares a feast for some of his friends, an Indian is sent around to inform the party invited. This is sometimes done before the food is prepared, so that they may have a smoke and a talk first. The Indian who goes to invite the guests does not go into their lodges to do so, but calls out their names, and tells what they will have to eat, as he passes their lodges. These are the words they would use if they were inviting me: "_Ah-how Whadee-shipper, moningahow munga war-rattah Wayger-sippeys teah!_" which means: "Oh S----! Walk off! Skunk food at the chief's lodge!" They think skunk meat very fine food. I have been called up at midnight to go to a skunk feast. When dressed and cooked properly the meat is good; if not cooked properly it is very strong, so much so that one can taste it the next day after eating it. I ate quite a variety of food while with them, consisting of fish of various kinds, buffalo, elk, deer, antelope, beaver, otter, dog, wolf, skunk, turkey, duck, crow and pigeon. It was near Christmas, and I had been two months alone with this nation. During this time I had suffered much pain of body, but in spirit I had felt well, and never felt the least discouraged, or even sorry I had left the camp of the Saints. I had learned considerable of their language, and had become acquainted with their customs and manners of life, all of which I knew would be useful to me, and to the camps of Israel, when traveling through the Indian nations, if I lived. I had looked upon these Indians of the desert as the enemies of the white men, and believed they would rob and kill them whenever found. How different my feelings are towards them to-day! No nation or people could have treated me with more kindness. I lived in the best house, or lodge, in the village. I had the best seat (a good pillow) at their councils. I had the best food the nation afforded to eat, and was treated by the chiefs, soldiers, braves and people, both old and young, as though I was their king. I always found they wished to be friendly with the white men if they would treat them aright; but the Indians had been deceived by them in trade and treaty, and for this they had rebelled at times. The old chiefs always taught their young men to be good, and be at peace if others wished peace, and only fight when others were determined to fight with them. They informed me, I am sorry to say, that white men had often been sent to trade with them for their robes and skins, and had cheated them by giving less and poorer goods for their things than they had promised; thus getting their robes for little or nothing, and telling them that they would send them horses, and then never doing it. CHAPTER VIII. SYMPTOMS OF DEATH--NO HOPES OF LIVING--PONCA MANNER OF BURYING THE DEAD--DREAD OF HAVING MY BODY MANGLED BY THE WOLVES--DECIDE TO BARGAIN WITH THE INDIANS TO CUT UP MY BODY AND TAKE IT TO MY FRIENDS--HAPPY ASSURANCE THAT I SHOULD LIVE, ETC. On Christmas day my knee and right side were badly swollen. I had been suffering much pain for two days, and I feared if it continued the disease would strike inwardly, and that if so, I could not live. At noon my knee was nearly as large as my head; but it did not hurt me to walk slowly, and I concluded that I would go and pray, believing it would be the last time I would be able to do so, for my faith about living had left me, and I felt that I could not live twenty-four hours longer. I had always felt very indifferent about what might become of my body after death, but now I felt quite the reverse. The Ponca Indians bury their dead in a shallow hole, packing a mound of sward over the body. The ground was so deeply frozen that if I died and the Indians tried to give me a decent burial, they could not possibly dig up much sod to put over me, not enough to protect me from the wolves, which were very numerous around the camp. The idea of my body being pulled limb from limb, and scattered all over the country, caused me to feel very sad, for you must know I felt sure I should die, and that too in a few hours. It was a most horrible feeling, for I could almost fancy I saw my body being pulled to pieces and my bones picked clean of flesh and sinew, and scattered all over the country. While these horrible thoughts were passing through my mind I was steadily nearing my prayer room, where, on arriving, I knelt down and prayed as I never had before. In presenting myself to the Lord, I stated my feelings as I have described them, asking Him to spare my life if it was His will, for I was anxious to see the Saints again; but if not, I said, "O Lord, Thy will be done!" I asked Him to protect my body, when buried, from the wolves, that it might not be scattered to the four winds. I said, "spare it, oh, my Father, and let it rest in peace, until it is Thy will to visit some of my brethren with dream or with vision, that they may know of my death, and the location of this poor feeble body." Much more was said by me, for the Spirit of God was upon me. After this, and while walking to the village and thinking of what had passed; it was suggested to me that I need not be buried there at all. I had got a good double barrelled gun, and a good suit of clothes at the camp of the Saints. All I need do was to tell the chief that I was sick, and expected to die, and when dead I wanted him to cut into quarters my body, pack it, and send it to my chief (Bishop Miller), that I might be buried with the Saints; and for doing this, I would give him all I possessed. No sooner had this thought suggested itself to me, than I felt it was an answer to my prayer, and I there and then praised the Lord for His goodness and kindness towards me. As soon as I reached the lodge, I got out my journal to write in it, as I supposed, for the last time (for I was suffering much pain inwardly, and gradually becoming weaker), and also to write a note to Brother Miller, authorizing him to give up my clothes, etc., to the party who presented my body to him. I got out my book, tore out a leaf to write this note, dipped my pen (a crow's quill) in the ink, when I felt impressed to speak as follows: "Thus saith the Lord unto you, my servant; thy prayers have been heard and accepted of me, and from this hour thou shalt commence to recover, for thou shalt live and not die; thou shalt return in due time to the camps of Israel; thou shalt be gathered to the place I have appointed for the gathering of my people; thou shalt be blessed with a home and habitation with my Saints; and thou shalt travel much and again see thy sister in the flesh." Much more was at the same time manifested to me by the Spirit. I had no sooner received this than I closed the book, believing all the Spirit had said. I assure all who may read this, that this day's experience was worth more to me than any amount of this world's goods that I could possibly possess. I surely rejoiced that day in the God of my salvation as I had not known how to do before. It is true I had received many testimonies, with promises that I should live, and had in different ways been convinced of the existence of a God, and the truth of the gospel as taught by Joseph Smith, the prophet, but this day's testimony was under different circumstances and feelings. I had given up all thoughts of living; I had no fear of dying; my only trouble was about my body being removed and torn to pieces after burial. But here, when doing my last work, as I then believed (writing a note and the last record in my journal), the Spirit of the Lord rested upon me, and I received the glad tidings that I should live and not die. I was assured that I should again see my friends and brethren in the Church, that I should visit my sister who was (as is now) in England; that I should travel much, and have a home and habitation with the Saints, etc. This, to me, was a greater testimony than anything I had ever before received. All of this has been fulfilled to the letter. I have lived; I have seen my sister three times since then; I have traveled much (for many years past from six to twenty thousand miles in a year), and I have a home and a habitation. How little the outside world know of these things, or of the faith of the Latter-day Saints! It is these testimonies that give strength and faith to us when away from our friends on missions. Had I not been with those Indians as I was, alone and sorely afflicted, I might never have had this testimony. It is so with all who are faithful and who go upon missions. They may meet with trouble and be persecuted, but the Lord will pour out His Spirit upon them to such a degree, that they will rejoice in their afflictions, and be glad afterwards that they have passed through such trials. The Lord has thus blessed thousands who have been sent upon missions, and He will so bless many thousands more, and even more abundantly as our works and faith increase. CHAPTER IX. VISIT FROM THE BRULES--FEAST ON DOG MEAT--SEAT OF HONOR ON THE PILLOW--RETURN JOURNEY--OPENING CACHES--SHOOTING FISH--CURIOUS MANNER OF COOKING FISH. Soon after Christmas we had a visit from a party of Brules. The chief of this nation was a fine-looking man, about sixty years of age. He has died since then. His name was _Wah-bah-hooter_, or "long-mane" (long hair). Only a small portion of the nation came, the others being on a buffalo hunt. Their hunting ground adjoins that of the Poncas on the south, and continues as far as old Laramie Fort, which the Saints used to pass when traveling to Salt Lake Valley. Some nine of the chiefs accompanied this Sioux chief and his band. This visit was for business as well as for pleasure, and considerable trading was done on both sides in robes, skins, blankets, horses, and tobacco. While some were attending to business, others were visiting and feasting, and many of the young men and women were dancing. Here I took my first meal of dog, this being the first great feast of the season (harvest feast, if you please). All the visiting chiefs were invited as well as the ruling chiefs of the Poncas, twenty-two in number. The old Frenchman came to me that morning and informed me of the grand "dog feast" in contemplation. I told him I could not eat dog meat, and should go off from the village until all was over. He advised me not to do that, as it would be sure to make the chiefs angry at me, for I would soon be invited. He also informed me that the dogs they cook and eat are not the common ones. This edible dog is fed and raised especially for the table. It is a kind of poodle. I had often seen the squaws carrying little curly pups in bags at their backs, and had also seen them being fed on boiled meat and broth. These, I now learned were being raised for the "grand feasts." About noon, a chief passed around the village inviting the guests, telling us the feast consisted of _shanoodah warratta_ (dog food). I found on entering the lodge all the visiting chiefs present, all of whom were seated on each side of the Ponca chief. On his right was a large feather pillow or cushion, the chief, _War-bah-hoota_ sitting upon one end of it. As soon as I entered, and was introduced to him and the other chiefs, he and they shook me by the hand, saying, _Ah how cuggee?_ which is, "How do you do, friend?" I was then invited to sit on the other half of the cushion. The pipe of peace was next in order, while our dog dinner was being cooked in a large kettle before us. I well remember my feelings while this was going on, and glad indeed would I have been if I could have fasted instead of feasting. Our smoke ended, the kettle was removed from the fire and the contents (four dogs) were put into the same large bowl I first ate out of. The chief, our host, carved them, giving each a piece, and after a long grace had been said, the eating commenced. I had pictured to myself the eating of dog a great many times, but never expected to engage in the actual practice; but here I was with two nations of people who were dog-eaters, at a dog feast, and, to see them eat, one would certainly think they were "dogged" hungry. The chief had cut me a piece off the hind quarter, that being a choice part. I placed a piece of it in my mouth, expecting it would be very strong; but in this I was agreeably disappointed, for I found the flavor very much like that of a small roast pig, and, as I was hungry, I ate most of what was offered to me. After this, another smoke and a talk occurred, when I was asked a number of questions about our people's history, travels and religion, all of which I answered as I had done when questioned by the Poncas. The Brules seemed to listen attentively, and appeared pleased with my answers, and invited me to visit them some time. Both parties appeared to have a good time, and after the trading was done the Brules left for their hunting grounds, while we packed up and started back for the camps of the Saints, about two hundred miles distant. It was now the middle of January, 1847. The disease with which I was troubled had almost left me, though I still had some sores upon my right side, about the size of the palm of one's hand. We continued to travel, stopping occasionally by the way to open our caches, and get out the meat and half-dressed robes we had deposited as we passed up. Both robes and meat we found in excellent condition, being free from mold of any kind. These _balls_ of meat, as they are called, were large, weighing from seventy to one hundred pounds each, and consisted of layers about three-fourths of an inch thick, which had been dried over the fire or in the sun. The prime pieces, when broiled or raw, are very good eating; the coarse pieces are pounded fine on a rock prepared for the purpose, and eaten with the marrow taken from the bones of buffalo and elk. This marrow, with the dry pounded meat, is very palatable. From the middle of the month the weather was fine and dry, and very good for hunting and the dressing of robes and small skins, although game of all kinds was scarce. When traveling near the river, the young braves, who were very expert with the bow and arrow, could frequently be seen shooting fish. I have often seen them standing in the water, shooting the fish as they passed by them, and have known one Indian (the best shot in camp) to kill from four to seventeen good-sized fish in two hours. This was to me very interesting sport. The Indians' method of cooking fish is very different to ours. After making a good wood fire and getting a quantity of hot ashes, they wrap the fish in clean, wet grass, put it under the hot ashes, add more wood to the fire, and so let it remain until the fish is cooked, which takes from one to two hours, according to size. This may appear a very strange way of cooking to my readers, but it proved to me a very good one, and the fish is much sweeter, I think, than when fried in lard or butter according to our custom. Digressing from my narrative, I may remark that I remember when in camp in Echo Canyon, one of the brethren brought a beef's head to our mess, and when asked by the cook what he was going to do with it, said, "Cook it for breakfast in the morning." We supposed he would boil or fry the meat, but when asked a short time before breakfast how he proposed cooking the "joint," that we might test his skill in the culinary art, he told us it would be roasted and ready when the cook was ready to serve breakfast. He was as good as his word, for as soon as the cook removed the fried meat, biscuits, etc., from the fire, our friend took a fire shovel, scraped the ashes from the fire, and lifted the head, well wrapped and well cooked, from under the ashes. He had been ox guard during a part of the night, and had placed it there at midnight. It was better cooked and sweeter than any I had ever eaten before. CHAPTER X. CHOSEN TO GO AS ENVOY TO THE CAMP OF THE SAINTS--A SOLITARY JOURNEY--SURROUNDED BY THOUSANDS OF WOLVES--PROVIDENTIAL DELIVERANCE--HAPPY SIGHT, A YOKE OF OXEN--TEARS OF JOY--MEET TWO OF MY FRIENDS--SAFE RETURN TO THE CAMP OF THE SAINTS. About the middle of February we had traveled to within ninety miles of our brethren's winter quarters, and about sixty miles from where the Poncas always did their trading with the Frenchmen who were in the employ of Mr. Sarpee, the only licensed trader for the Indians in the country west of the Missouri River. These men were to meet the Indians about the 1st of March, and two Indian runners had been sent to meet these traders with their goods, and inform them where and when the Indians would be prepared for business. Some of the chiefs were very anxious to have our brethren purchase goods and trade with them at the same time, and, in order that they might know the time and place, they requested me to go and inform them. This I was quite willing to do, for I felt that I had done all I could so far as my mission with them was concerned. At sunrise the next morning, I started with a small piece of dried buffalo meat, a small buffalo robe and my gun. The day was fine. I took the Indian trail all the way, and most of the time kept near the banks of the Running Water River. I traveled about thirty miles, and about sunset concluded to look for a secluded place to sleep. About half a mile from the trail I found a small ravine in which there was a quantity of dry leaves under some large trees. After broiling a piece of meat I ate my supper, and, thanking the Lord for His protecting care over me, lay down upon the leaves and soon fell asleep. I did not wake until day-break, when I left my comfortable bed of leaves, washed, and partook of another small piece of meat. I called upon the Lord for protection and strength for the day's journey, and left at sunrise with a light heart and a determination to walk thirty miles before sleeping again. The day was fine but the roads were heavy on account of the melting snow, which I found in large drifts. About noon I was startled by hearing the howling of many wolves to the right of me. I looked in that direction and saw, as I estimated, thousands of them coming directly towards me, and only about a quarter of a mile from me. I felt very much alarmed, for they appeared as though they were coming to devour me. I first thought I would fire at them and frighten them, but feared if I injured any of them they might become desperate and seek revenge. I hurriedly asked the Lord to spare my life, and by this time they were within forty yards of me. I then commenced to yell with all my might and for dear life, for I feared that if they attacked me I should not live a minute. No sooner did I yell than they all stopped and looked at me, and I at them. All fear of them had left me, and they and I continued to look at each other. After taking a good look at me, they divided, half passing to the right and half to the left, all looking at me as they passed. As soon as they had all left me I thanked my Heavenly Father for this goodness towards me in preserving my life. This was the largest pack of wolves I ever saw or heard of. I soon passed on, but with very peculiar feelings, which I must leave the reader to imagine, for it would be impossible for me to describe them. Indeed, I think it would be somewhat difficult for a person to imagine how I felt, unless he had been placed in similar circumstances, where death, in a most horrid form, seemed imminent one minute, and the danger past almost in the next. A little before sunset that day, I felt as though I had walked my thirty miles, or perhaps more, and that I had better look out quarters for the night, that I might rest well, and get an early start in the morning, as I hoped to reach the camp of the Saints the next day. While walking up a small ravine, searching for a secluded place to sleep, I was greatly surprised at seeing a yoke of cattle grazing on the hill near by. I could scarcely believe my eyes, when I soon found them to be not only tame oxen, but actually belonging to my brethren. This was such an unexpected pleasure, that, foolish as it may appear, I cried for joy. I believed that the owners of the cattle were not far off, so I climbed a hill, and saw, at a short distance, a wagon and the smoke from a camp fire. I looked no further for a sleeping place, but started for the wagon. I had not gone far before I met two brethren, named respectively, Mathews and Foutze. They were somewhat startled at seeing me, and, after the first exclamation of surprise, Brother Mathews said, "Why, Brother S----, is it you? You are like one raised from the dead; for we were informed by the Indians that you were killed before last Christmas." Both brethren shook me heartily by the hands, and thanked the Lord that I was alive. Their supper was ready; and here I ate bread for the first time for eighteen weeks. I ate but little else, and soon found that I had taken too much, and I suffered a great deal of pain during the night as a consequence. After this meal I ate but little bread at a time, until I could digest it without pain. The next evening we reached the camp or winter quarters of the Saints. The news of my arrival was soon known, and before I could get out of the wagon I was met by a number of old traveling companions, all of whom gave me a hearty welcome, and such a shaking of the hands as I never had before or since. A number of my brethren invited me to their houses, but I preferred to go to a log house kept for Indians, until I had thoroughly washed myself and changed my clothes. At this time I was free from all sores, except a small patch upon my right side. Thus ended my Indian mission, which (although at times I suffered much) was to me a very interesting part of my life. Through my experience upon that mission, I became better acquainted with the dealings of the Lord with His servants when alone. I know assuredly that He will hear and answer our prayers, at all times, and under all circumstances, if we do and ask aright. Before I close, let me say to those who have read this reminiscence, never allow your faith to fail you, but trust in the Lord and continue to pray to Him, and He will answer you. If He should not at first, pray again, and again, and exercise faith, and I do know you will be answered and blessed of the Lord. ANECDOTES OF ELDER GRANT. BY T. B. LEWIS. CHAPTER I. REPUTATION AS A READY SPEAKER--PUTTING HIM TO THE TEST--SERMON FROM A BLANK TEXT--ENTHUSIASM AT THE CLOSE OF IT--A COLLECTION PROPOSED--THE MINISTER OBJECTS TO PASSING THE HAT--THEY COMPEL HIM TO--HANDSOME COLLECTION--DISCUSSION WITH A GREAT BAPTIST PREACHER--PREACHER NONPLUSSED BY ELDER GRANT'S REPARTEE. When on a mission to the State of Virginia, a few years since, it fell to my lot to labor in that portion of the State which had been visited some twenty-five or thirty years previous by the late President Jedediah M. Grant. From what I could learn of him then, he certainly was a most remarkable man. He seemed to live fresh in the memories of all classes; and they never grew tired of relating to me many reminiscences connected with his fruitful labors in their midst; and I never became weary of listening to these most interesting narrations. His career there, as elsewhere, was marked with abundant evidences in proof of his claim to be "a servant of God, with a divine commission." Through the power of God existing with him, and the inspiration of the Holy Ghost, he was not only prepared to propagate the principles of the gospel, as restored, but also to meet the powerful enemies of the truth that arrayed themselves against him and the Church, as they were wont to do in the early history of the work. Thinking the young Latter-day Saints would be interested in a narration of some of these events, I will give them as they were given me, as near as I can recall them after a lapse of ten years. In the early part of President Grant's ministry in that country, he gained quite a reputation as a ready speaker, frequently responding to invitations to preach from such subjects or texts as might be selected at the time of commencing his sermon, by those inviting him. In time it became a matter of wonder with many as to how and when he prepared his wonderful sermons. In reply to their queries he informed them that he _never_ prepared his sermons as other ministers did. He said, "Of course, I read and store my mind with a knowledge of gospel truths, but I never study up a sermon." Well, they did not believe he told the truth, for, as they thought, it was impossible for a man to preach such sermons without careful preparation. So, in order to prove it, a number of persons decided to put him to the test, and asked him if he would preach at a certain time and place, and from a text selected by them. They proposed to give him the text on his arrival at the place of meeting, thus giving him no time to prepare. To gratify them he consented. The place selected was Jeffersonville, the seat of Tazewell County, at that time the home of the late John B. Floyd (who subsequently became secretary of war), and many other prominent men. The room chosen was in the court house. At the hour appointed the house was packed to its utmost capacity. Mr. Floyd and a number of lawyers and ministers were present, and occupied front seats. Elder Grant came in, walked to the stand and opened the meeting as usual. At the close of the second hymn, a clerk, appointed for the occasion, stepped forward and handed a paper (the text) to Elder Grant. Brother Grant unfolded the paper and found it to be blank. Without any mark of surprise, he held the paper up before the audience, and said: "My friends, I am here to-day according to agreement, to preach from such a text as these gentlemen might select for me. I have it here in my hand. I don't wish you to become offended at me, for I am under promise to preach from the text selected; and if any one is to blame, you must blame those who selected it. I knew nothing of what text they would choose, but of all texts this is my favorite one. "You see the paper is blank" (at the same time holding it up to view). "You sectarians down there believe that out of nothing God created all things, and now you wish me to create a sermon from nothing, for this paper is blank. "Now, you sectarians believe in a God that has neither body, parts nor passions. Such a God I conceive to be a perfect blank, just as you find my text is. "You believe in a church without prophets, apostles, evangelists, etc. Such a church would be a perfect blank, as compared with the church of Christ, and this agrees with my text. "You have located your heaven beyond the bounds of time and space. It exists nowhere, and consequently your heaven is blank, like unto my text." Thus he went on until he had torn to pieces all the tenets of faith professed by his hearers; and then he proclaimed the principles of the gospel in great power. He wound up by asking, "Have I stuck to the text, and does that satisfy you?" As soon as he sat down, Mr. Floyd jumped up and said: "Mr. Grant, if you are not a lawyer, you ought to be one." Then, turning to the people, he added: "Gentlemen, you have listened to a wonderful discourse, and with amazement. Now, take a look at Mr. Grant's clothes. Look at his coat! his elbows are almost out; and his knees are almost through his pants. Let us take up a collection." As he sat down, another eminent lawyer, Joseph Stras, Esq., still living in Jeffersonville, arose and said: "I am good for one sleeve in a coat and one leg in a pair of pants, for Mr. Grant." The presiding elder of the M. E. church, South, was requested to pass the hat around, but replied that he would not take up a collection for a "Mormon" preacher. "Yes you will!" said Mr. Floyd. "Pass it around!" said Mr. Stras, and the cry was taken up and repeated by the audience, until, for the sake of peace, the minister had to yield. He accordingly marched around with a hat in his hand, receiving contributions, which resulted in a collection sufficient to purchase a fine suit of clothes, a horse, saddle and bridle for Brother Grant, and not one contributor a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, though some joined subsequently. And this from a sermon produced from a blank text. At another time, Elder Grant was challenged by a very eminent Baptist preacher, named Baldwin, to a discussion. Brother Grant consented. The place chosen was the fine, large church of his proud and imperious antagonist. Mr. Baldwin was described to me, as a man who was overbearing in his manner--a regular brow-beater. When the time came for the discussion, the house was densely crowded. Umpires were chosen, and everything was ready to proceed, when Brother Grant arose and said, "Mr. Baldwin, I would like to ask you a question before we proceed any further." "Certainly so," said Baldwin. "Who stands at the head of your church in South-West Virginia?" Mr. Baldwin very quickly and austerely replied, "I do, sir; I do." "All right," said Brother Grant; "I wished to know that I had a worthy foe." Mr. Baldwin looked a little confused for a moment, and then said: "Mr. Grant, I would like to ask you who stands at the head of _your_ Church in South-West Virginia?" Brother Grant arose and with bowed head replied, "Jesus Christ, sir." The shock was electrical. This inspired answer completely disarmed the proud foe, and the humble servant of God again came off victor. CHAPTER II. CURIOUS COINCIDENCE--IMPRESSION UPON MISS FLOYD--HER ACKNOWLEDGEMENT--CHALLENGED BY MR. RUBY--MEETING BY CHANCE--ELDER GRANT'S ESTIMATE OF MR. RUBY--THE PREACHER COWED. It was the good fortune of Elder Grant to be the first to open the door of salvation to the people of South-Western Virginia, upon whom he made an impression that time does not seem to remove. This impression was the result of his honesty and truthfulness, and his readiness to meet the foes of truth, added to his peculiar clearness, force and power in preaching the divine principles of the gospel. He was an earnest worker. Through his earnestness, sincerity and practical common sense, he was often thrown into the society of men and women of the highest culture and intelligence that the State contained. In this connection a rather singular coincidence is related. About the time of his first appearance in Burke's Garden Tazewell County, Virginia, he held his meetings, generally, at the residence of Colonel Peter Litz, a man of considerable wealth and influence at that time. At one of these meetings, I think about the second, a very large concourse of people had assembled, and it was decided, on account of the size of the congregation, to hold the meeting in the orchard, there being a beautiful blue grass lawn beneath the trees. It was the Sabbath day. That morning, a Miss Floyd, sister of the late John B. Floyd, who lived a few miles distant, was reading the Bible, and accidentally turned to the passage, "Prove all things; hold fast that which is good." She arose immediately, ordered her carriage, and said: "Inspired by that injunction, I will go and hear what that 'Mormon' has to say." When she arrived at the place of meeting, she gave orders for her carriage to be driven around to a position where she could remain seated in it, and still be able to hear the remarks of the speaker. The moment her carriage stopped, Elder Grant arose and announced his text: "Prove all things; hold fast that which is good," from which he preached a most powerful sermon. Colonel Litz told me he never heard anything so clearly set forth as the principles of the gospel were on that day. The evidence adduced as to the divine authenticity of the doctrines preached by the Saints was overwhelming, and the testimony borne was most powerful. At the close of the meeting, Miss Floyd alighted, walked up and introduced herself to Elder Grant, and invited him home with her. Miss Floyd was a lady of rare qualities of mind, and had taken advantage of every opportunity for intellectual advancement. Her information was vast, and of a solid nature. She was the best genealogist in the country, and was thoroughly posted in religious matters. She was so deeply impressed by the sermon, that she made the remark to the Elder after the close of it: "Mr. Grant, I am a Catholic; and if Catholicism is not true, 'Mormonism' is. I am fully persuaded that 'Mormonism' is next to Catholicism." She was ever afterwards a true friend to Brother Grant. That and other discourses of the same kind did a powerful work, and laid a foundation upon which Elders are building up branches of the Church in that region to-day. Elder Grant had not the advantage of a collegiate education, and naturally had a dread of meeting with men who were highly educated. He often expressed this feeling to others. But when he came in contact with men of that type, they seemed to be mere pigmies in comparison with him, when discussing the principles of the true gospel. One very amusing incident was told me, which shows the peculiar way Brother Grant had of testing the material with which he had to deal. The Lutheran church in Burke's Garden had a minister, the Rev. Ruby, who was a very fine scholar in the Latin and Greek languages, and was considered a thorough theologian. A certain man in the place, who was very fond of fun and debate, urged the Rev. Ruby to challenge Elder Grant to meet him in discussion on religion, stating to him that Elder Grant was uneducated and ignorant, and by so doing he would expunge the "delusion" from the community and do a great good. Thus urged, the challenge was given and accepted. The two, Rev. Ruby and Elder Grant, had never met, nor even seen each other. A few days before the time appointed for the discussion, the two parties chanced to meet at a public gathering of some kind, and the waggish instigator of the discussion was there also. The latter stepped up to Elder Grant and said: "Mr. Grant, allow me to introduce you to the Rev. Mr. Ruby, the Lutheran preacher." Brother Grant stepped back and gave the reverend gentleman a thorough inspection, and then said: "Did I understand you to say _preacher?_" "Yes, sir.' "Well, well! if I was secreted in the bushes along the side of the road for the purpose of waylaying a preacher, and Mr. Ruby should pass along, I wouldn't even snap a cap at him." The reverend gentleman was completely thunderstruck. He had no more use for Elder Grant, and remarked: "If that is the kind of a man he is, I don't want to have anything more to do with him." It was enough; there was no discussion. Thus, Brother Grant disarmed his foe, and marched on triumphantly to victory, scattering the seeds of eternal truth, which have taken root in the hearts of many and sprung up, and in their turn produced fruit. It can be truly said of Elder J. M. Grant that he has left "footprints on the sands of time," for I saw them and took courage. May the sons of this noble man emulate the glorious traits of a father who was so honored of heaven. WAR HILL. BY J. MORGAN. ELDER J. M. GRANT CHALLENGED TO DEBATE--BOONE'S HILL CHOSEN AS THE PLACE--HIS ANTAGONIST GETS SIX MINISTERS TO HELP HIM--DEMORALIZED MINISTERS SEND FOR ANOTHER TO ASSIST THEM--INGLORIOUS DEFEAT OF THE EIGHT--ONE OF THEM ABSENT-MINDED--CHANGE OF NAME TO "WAR HILL." Traveling through the State of North Carolina, I met with many reminiscences of President Jedediah M. Grant, who performed a mission there many years ago, making a vivid impression on the minds of the people, and converting quite a few to the truth. An old gentleman, who is not a member of the Church, but who was a warm friend and ardent admirer of Elder Grant, relates a graphic and interesting account of a debate that the latter held with some ministers, in what is now Surry County. Upon the advent of the "Mormon" preacher into that particular locality, a minister of one of the denominations challenged him to debate, which challenge was promptly accepted, and the necessary preparations were immediately made. A chairman and judge were selected, rules adopted to govern the discussion, and the well-known locality of Boone's Hill was chosen as the place to hold the debate. It was the birthplace and former home of Colonel Daniel Boone, the first white settler of Kentucky, and the building located there was known far and near as Boone's Hill Church. After the preliminaries had been arranged, the minister appeared to have become a little nervous, and requested the privilege of bringing in a friend to assist him. Elder Grant's reply was, "Yes, as many as you wish." The result was that when the day came, he found seven sectarian preachers pitted against him. He claimed and obtained the privilege of replying to each speaker consecutively. The church proved much too small to accommodate the people; so a platform was erected at the rear of the building, and the people seated themselves under the shade of the trees. The discussion opened, and the polemical battle waxed hot, and hotter, as hour after hour of debate went by. The Elder followed them whithersoever they saw proper to lead, and, with Bible quotations and historical facts, he struck blows so rapid and strong that his opponents became demoralized on the second day, and posted a runner on horseback off eighty miles, to bring to their assistance a noted divine. By a rapid journey, this theological Hercules soon reached the appointed place, and by his presence revived the drooping spirits of his friends. But the Elder, after four days of continuous debate, only seemed to have got fairly into a condition to talk well, and doubly astonished the priests and people by the hurricane of thought, truth and logic that came rushing through his lips with such force as to sweep away their arguments and sophistry, holding spell-bound the audience, while he contrasted the man-made system of modern theology with the grand and glorious truths of God's revealed religion. He portrayed the sublimity of holy writ in its forecast of the glorious work of the latter days; the restoration of the gospel; the visitation of angels; the believer blessed with the gifts and signs following; the building up of the kingdom of God; the redemption of the human family and of the earth; until, at last, turning to the crowd of ministers who had been opposing him, he called upon them to turn from their erroneous doctrines and aid him in the promulgation of the true gospel, that must "be preached in all the world for a witness." He promised that if they would do so they should reap eternal life. Raising his hands towards heaven, he declared that he had spoken the truth to the people, that his hands were washed clean of their blood, and that his testimony was recorded in the archives of heaven, to be brought forth on the great day of God's judgment; and said, "you ministers, and you people, will meet it there that day." At the close of this remarkable scene the men who had been opposing him began hurriedly leaving the platform. So excited were they in their movements, that the leading one of them left his Bible, cane and hat behind him. Noticing these articles left behind, Elder Grant called and requested some one to carry them to the absent-minded owner, and one of the bystanders did so. Elder Grant then dismissed the congregation, and from that day to this, Boone's Hill has been called _War Hill_, in memory of the religious battle fought there. SIGN-SEEKING. BY J. H. VAN NATTA. PERSECUTING THE MISSIONARIES--A DISCUSSION--NOT CONTENT WITH BIBLE PROOFS--A SIGN DEMANDED--NO SIGNS PROMISED TO UNBELIEVERS--WARNED TO REPENT, OR ENDURE THE CURSE OF GOD--THE RESULT. In the year 1841, three Elders--James M. Adams, James M. Emmett and Hiram Page--were traveling in Erie Country, Pennsylvania, preaching the gospel. The opposing power, which is always ready to contest the ground with the Elders, inch by inch, manifested itself there in a most violent manner. As usual, this opposition came from those who professed to be Christians. A Baptist minister and his sons disfigured Elder Emmett's pony by clipping off its hair, daubing tar on it, etc., and the Elders were also threatened, though the threats were not put into execution. The Elders were finally challenged to debate with a number of preachers, on the subject of the gospel. The challenge was accepted on condition that the preachers would confine their arguments to Bible proofs, which they agreed to do. The discussion accordingly opened by Elder Adams preaching a discourse on the first principles of the gospel. He spoke in such a plain, pointed and forcible manner, that the opponents to the truth were disconcerted. When their turn to speak arrived, they laid aside the volume of inspiration which they had agreed to take as their guide, and commenced reading from Howe's "Mormonism Unveiled," a book written by one D. P. Hurlbut. This book contained the most glaring falsehoods and inconsistent ideas that wicked men could invent. The umpires informed the preachers that they must not deviate from their written contract, but confine themselves to Bible proofs, as they had agreed to do. If the "Mormon" doctrine was false, it must be proved so from the Bible. After the old preachers had tried in vain to produce any scripture proofs, or logic either, to sustain their false views, and the powerless form of religion which they held to, they were reinforced by a young Free-will Baptist preacher, named Solon Hill. It was soon evident that he could offer nothing in the way of argument, for he soon drifted into the same strain of slander and vituperation in which the others of his party had sought to indulge Finally, however, he hit upon a plan which he seemed to think would enable him to come off victor. Turning to Elder Adams, he said, "If you are a servant of God, as you boldly say you are, I demand a sign of you, to convince me that you are genuine." Elder Adams told him that he had taken a dangerous stand; that signs followed believers, but did not go before them; that signs came by faith, not faith by signs. He informed him who the first sign-seeker was--Satan, whose children had always been faithful in following his example. He testified that the truths of heaven had been plainly laid before them, that the Spirit had given unmistakable evidence of its truth, and that unless he repented of his sins, rendered obedience to the gospel and lived up to its requirements, the curse of God would rest upon him. The meeting was dismissed without the preachers being able to disprove any of the truths advanced by the Elders; the people were left to reflect at leisure upon what they had listened to, and the preacher, Hill, to accept the consequence of disobeying the servant of God. * * * * * * * After a lapse of sixteen years from the time of the events just narrated, I happened to be in the same part of Pennsylvania upon a mission. Calling one day at a house to water my horse, I saw one of the most deformed and repulsive looking beings I ever beheld. On arriving at my destination, I informed my brethren of the hideous sight I had met with, when I was told that the being I had seen was what was left of the man who had demanded a sign from a servant of God. In 1878, Elder Butler, of Ogden, was on a mission to the same place, and I wrote to him for information concerning Hill. His reply was, "He is still alive, and an object of charity." There are two ways of knowing the truths of the gospel. One is to obey and live up to them. The antediluvians took the other way and were overwhelmed; and the man who wanted a sign also took it, and, as a consequence, had to drag out a long and most miserable existence, manifesting by his appearance to every beholder, that the curse of the Almighty was certainly resting upon him. MISSIONARY INCIDENTS. By H. G. B. CHAPTER I. A BUSY MISSION--A RICH HARVEST OF SOULS--JUDGMENTS UPON OUR OPPONENTS. I am writing from a place (Mount Airy, Surry County, N. C.) that I visited as a missionary first in 1868. Then I labored in company with Howard K. Coray, in this and Stokes Counties, N. C., and in some three or four Counties of Va., for two years and three months, during which time we baptized nearly three hundred souls, one hundred and sixty of whom accompanied us home to Utah. It is of some of the incidents of this mission that I wish to write. I remember very well, that after laboring some months in Virginia, and baptizing some thirty persons, we left Burke's Garden, Va., the 20th of January, 1868, reaching this point after three days' travel. We were absent from Burke's Garden just two months to a day, and during that time we held fifty-four public meetings, baptized thirty persons, and organized them into a branch of the Church. In addition to our public meetings, we visited from place to place among the people, constantly teaching, both day and night, often till after midnight. It was generally understood where we were to visit, each day and night, for a week ahead, and at each of these places, crowds of the neighbors would assemble, coming from their homes, guided through the darkness of the night by their pitch-pine torch-lights. When, on these occasions, we met with the people, we had to do a vast amount of teaching and singing (Elder Coray being an excellent singer), and answer hundreds of questions. What one could not think of another would. And thus we had to teach and explain and answer the demands made upon us day after day, and night after night, until our instructions in this manner covered hundreds of discourses, and until we were so nearly worn out, that we had sometimes to retire to the woods and hide, to get a little respite from our too-constant labor. We indeed literally sowed the seed in tears and in peril, in the midst of opposition and bitter persecution. But the Lord fully magnified His name, His cause, and His servants, in all that we had to do and to bear. The new Methodist church in this place, which was denied us to preach in, was, two days afterwards, struck by lightning, and so nearly demolished that, I am told, it was never repaired. A man, who was a class leader, who abused his sister for going to our meetings, and shamefully lied about Elder Coray and myself, and said all manner of evil, falsely, against the Latter-day Saints and the gospel, was found by his wife, the next morning, dead by her side; and because his body did not get cold like ordinary corpses, he was not buried for nearly a week after his death. Two wealthy and prominent men, who used their influence and the power of their wealth and position-to retard the work of the Lord here, met with sudden and unexpected deaths. Many other incidents of like nature might be mentioned that occurred here during our stay. So many of them, in fact, occurred, that great fear came upon the people. While we labored in poverty, in all humility, contrite in spirit, reaching out in our weakness after the honest-in-heart, many souls were added to the Church. The poor had the gospel preached to them, the Lord giving us a harvest of sheaves. The people hung upon our words as the words of life; every expression and every movement was narrowly watched. They read their Bibles as they had never read them before; "They that erred in spirit came to understanding, and they that murmured learned doctrine;" and they rejoiced in the Holy One of Israel. How faithful then ought we messengers of the gospel to be, in the trust that is reposed in us, to carry this glad message to our poor, fallen brethren and sisters in humanity! In conclusion, I wish to offer a little advice to the boys and young men who may read this: Be very diligent in storing your minds with all useful knowledge--with all the truths of the new and everlasting gospel. Live pure lives in the sight of heaven, and the angels that constantly watch every act of your lives. Be truthful, honest, sober, virtuous and faithful in all things. The Almighty wants you, with your innocence and purity and strength, to redeem the nations that sit in darkness. And you may yet stand before rulers, kings, emperors, and the great of all nations of the earth, when they will tremble and quail before you, because of the power of God that will rest upon you. CHAPTER II. VISIT TO A BAPTIST MEETING--ABUSE OF THE VARIOUS CHURCHES, ESPECIALLY THE "MORMONS"--BOASTED BIBLE-NAME AND RELIGION--RETURN TO THE TEXT--THE "HARD-SHELL" WAIL--REPLY TO THE FALSE ASSERTIONS--THEIR "BIBLE-NAME" DISPROVED--THE TRUE SCRIPTURE NAME POINTED OUT. While Brother H. K. Coray and I were laboring as missionaries in North Carolina, we attended a Baptist meeting, rather on his account than mine, as he had never been to such a meeting. It was on Saturday, and the meeting was held in a bowery in the edge of a wood, in Stokes County. Shortly after our arrival, the meeting was opened in the usual way, by the minister, the Rev. Mr. Mourning, the leading preacher of that denomination. He arose and read his text from the Song of Solomon, 8th chapter and 8th verse: "We have a little sister, and she hath no breasts," etc., after which, the preacher launched out in a discourse made up from abuse and slander of other denominations. First he commenced a tirade against the Methodists, by saying: "There is the Methodist church; I do not read in the Bible of the Methodist church; therefore, that church cannot be the true church. Neither do I read of the Presbyterian church; it is, therefore, not God's church. Nor do I read anything in the good book about the Lutheran church; nor does the scriptures say anything about the Campbellite church, nor the Catholic church, nor the Quaker church." Thus he went on, mentioning all the leading sects of the present day, saying none of these could possibly be the true church, because the Bible was silent as to their names. He seemed to take some pains to save the "Mormons" till the last, so as to be thoroughly warmed up, that he might be the better able to do justice to their case. After awhile, getting all the steam on--mustering all his force, he opened his battery upon the "Mormon" Church, saying the "Mormon" Church was not mentioned anywhere in the scriptures, nor the "Mormon" religion; neither the "Mormon Bible," nor "Joe" Smith, nor Brigham Young, not even the word "Mormon" was mentioned there. He finished up his abuse of the "Mormons" by saying they were the most dangerous, and altogether the worst of the whole bad lot. "But," said he, referring to the Baptist church, "ours is the Primitive Baptist church--a Bible name. Ours is a Bible church, a Bible religion," etc. "Sometimes," he added, "we are called 'Iron Jackets,' sometimes, 'Hard Shells,' but these are nicknames. Our true Bible name is 'Primitive Baptists.'" By this time he had been talking an hour, and had not once referred to the text. But having apparently satisfied himself and a few of his hearers in abusing other denominations in general, and the "Mormons" in particular, he suddenly assumed the old "Hard Shell" wail, or preaching tune, and drawled out: "But my dear friends and breethring-ah, we have a little sister-ah, and she hath no breasts-ah. I am very much afraid, my dear friends and breethring-ah, that in that great day when we shall be spoken for-ah, that some of us will be brought into that awful presence-ah, and there find we have no breasts-ah. And oh, my dear friends and breethring-ah, will not this be an awful condition to be found in-ah?" Honestly, this is no exaggeration! Thus he held forth for an hour longer, expressing no two sentences without the phrase, "my dear friends and breethring-ah," being sandwiched in between. I am very sorry I cannot give my readers the music, for it would be a rich treat. As he was about to close the meeting, I asked for permission to speak for a few minutes. "Not," said he, "till we dismiss our meeting; then if the people wish to hear you I have no objection." When he had dismissed his meeting, all the congregation sat down again, thus giving me to understand they wished me to talk to them. I commenced by stating to the audience that I wished to correct some mistakes made by Mr. Mourning, relative to the name of the Church to which I belonged. We were called the "Mormon" Church, which was a nickname given us by our enemies, the true and legal name being, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; also that there could be no other appropriate name for Christ's church. Churches that are not His, should always be called by some other name than His, illustrating to them that the church of Christ was never called by any man's name. Christ's church in the days of Noah was not called Noah's church. Neither was His church called the church of Abraham in his day, nor the church of Moses when Moses lived. Nor was it ever called the church of John the Baptist in the day that he was upon the earth. I closed by saying that I never in the Bible had read anything about a "Primitive Baptist church." In the absence of anything better to say, he asked me if I did not like John the Baptist. I answered "Yes," and that he was called the Baptist because he had baptized the people in all Judea and Jerusalem, and the region round about Jordan, as Mr. Cloud (referring to a man that sat near me) had made shoes for all the people near where he lived, and on that account was called a shoemaker, but it did not follow that those for whom he had made the shoes were also called shoemakers. I requested him, if there was any evidence in the scriptures to establish the Bible name of his church, to open his Bible and read it to the people. This he could not do, for the simple reason that there was no such evidence in the Bible. Nor do I believe that this great Baptist minister ever knew, till I brought this fact to his notice, that there was no evidence in the scriptures to establish a "Baptist" church. And the members of his church seemed to be disappointed and utterly astonished that he was unable to produce the proofs asked for. To prove that ours was a scriptural name, I referred to, and quoted Matt. xvi. 18; Col. i. 18; Acts xx. 28; I. Cor. xiv. 33, and other passages. When I concluded my remarks, a large number of the assemblage gathered about me, that is, the portion that were not Baptists, manifesting towards me in various ways their good feelings. They were like their prototypes, the Pharisees and Sadducees of old. When the Savior overthrew some pet dogma of the Pharisees, as He often did, the Sadducees would gather about Him, feeling very much elated; and when He, in like manner, demolished some tenet of the Sadducees, as very often happened, then the Pharisees rejoiced. But in the end all the parties united against the Savior. So it is in these days. The only thing in which the sects of this day are united, is in their opposition to and persecution of the Saints--the true followers of Christ. CHAPTER III. MINISTERS APPOINT A MEETING TO EXPOSE "MORMONISM"--WE APPOINT ONE FOR THE SAME PURPOSE, AND THE SAMEDAY--MINISTERS FAIL TO APPEAR--OTHERS PREACH INSTEAD--WE FOLLOW--A BAPTIST ATTEMPTS TO REPLY--HIS CONTRADICTORY STATEMENT--FELLOW-PREACHER'S CHAGRIN--THE PREACHER'S CONCESSION. In Surry Co., N. C., in 1868, Elder H. K. Coray and I had made out our appointments ahead for the first, second, fourth and fifth Sundays in August, but failed to get out an appointment for the third Sunday, although we had made every effort to do so. On the morning of the first Sunday, Esquire William Hill came to us and reported that some Methodist ministers had given out an appointment for the bowery, at Cross Roads, at eleven o'clock a. m., on the third Sunday of that month, for the purpose of "exposing 'Mormonism.'" The squire seemed very anxious for us to make an appointment for the same day and place, at two p. m., which, after due deliberation, we did, referring to the other meeting and its purpose, and then stating that we would, at our meeting, continue the exposition of "Mormonism." The news of these appointments soon spread far and wide, as connected therewith was also the idea of a discussion. Arriving at the place a little before eleven o'clock a. m., we found the people had filled up the bowery, and the woods also seemed to be alive with them. But those ministers, after hearing that we would reply to their slander in the afternoon, failed to put in an appearance. However, four others, two Methodists and two Missionary Baptists, attended the meeting. Discourses were delivered by two of these divines, one of each denomination, neither of whom alluded to our people, or doctrines; but each, at the close of his sermon, gave liberty to any other minister to reply to any doctrines that had been advanced. No one replying, their meeting closed at half-past one o'clock, at which time we announced that there would be a recess for thirty minutes, when our meeting would commence. The intermission afforded them time for all to take dinner, as nearly all had brought lunch from their homes. During the forenoon meeting, crowds of people were strolling through the adjacent woods, among the carriages, wagons and horses, and crowding about the well. But when our meeting commenced, all gathered in and about the bowery, into a vast and compact assemblage. The contrast was apparent to all, and especially was it gratifying to us. The Rev. Mr. Cordell, a Baptist, took his seat upon the stand with us. The Rev. Mr. Gray, a Methodist, sat in front and near the stand tilting himself back in his chair, with both thumbs inserted in the arm holes of his vest, looking as if he thought St. Paul's overcoat too small to make a vest pattern for him. The two others sat near Mr. Gray. Our meeting opened. The discourse was upon the first principles of the gospel--faith, repentance, baptism, the bestowal of the Holy Ghost, the gifts and blessings enjoyed by the members, and the organization of the Church with Apostles, Prophets, etc. Quotations from the Bible, in abundance, were brought forward to fully prove these points of doctrine. The preachers and many of the people seemed to be very much astonished that it was such an easy matter to establish these doctrines by the scriptures. Especially did the Rev. Mr. Gray forget all his assumed dignity, and, leaning forward in his chair, looked as amazed as he could be, evidently realizing that he, for the first time in his life, was listening to the gospel. At the close of the discourse, liberty was extended to any person present to make remarks upon the doctrines we had set forth. The Rev. Mr. Cordell arose, and said, "I have belonged to the Missionary Baptist church for thirty years, and have been a minister of that church for twenty-five years of that time, and I have just listened to a discourse, setting forth the doctrines I have always, during that time, believed in and preached. Yet, I will not believe except Mr. Boyle will work a miracle, and, even then, I will not go to Utah." Now this great preacher (for as such was he esteemed by the people who knew him), when he arose to his feet, was white as a ghost, and trembled from head to foot, really not knowing what he was saying. I must confess that I was surprised at what he said, and so were nine-tenths of those present. I could see the people all through the audience exchanging glances of astonishment, and many were really chagrined, and some actually laughing at the absurdity of what he was saying. All knew what he said was false, when he asserted that he had always believed in and preached what he had just heard. When he sat down, I called the attention of the people to the inconsistency of calling for a miracle, to make him believe what he professed to have believed and preached for twenty-five years. As to whether he had really made a truthful statement, I said I would leave them to decide, as they were all acquainted with his reverence and I was not. I also referred to the idea he seemed to entertain, that some one wished him to go to Utah. I was sure I had not invited him to go to Utah, neither did I believe any of my friends had. His brother preacher remarked, next day, to Squire Hill, that he would not have had "Brother Cordell" so disgrace himself for five hundred dollars out of his own pocket. The result of the meeting was good. The report of it went far and wide, and helped us to a great extent in our subsequent labors. A great many were soon afterwards baptized in that section, among them 'Squire Hill and five or six of his family. We afterwards looked upon it as providential that we did not get out an appointment sooner for the third Sunday in August, 1868. Apropos to this incident, I may mention that when I was in North Carolina, recently, I was informed by a number of persons that Mr. Cordell often asserts that the Latter-day Saints can prove all their doctrines by the scriptures, and that he never speaks evil of them. CHAPTER IV. MY FIRST SERMON--REMARKABLE INSTANCE OF HELP FROM THE ALMIGHTY. Never shall I forget the first time I was called upon to make an effort to preach the gospel. It was in Pittsylvania County, Virginia, in the month of June, 1844. I had been ordained an Elder and set apart to take a mission to Virginia, in company with Elder Sebert C. Shelton. My extreme youth prevented me from realizing the responsibilities of a mission. Being a beardless boy, it never occurred to me that I would be called upon to preach. Up to that time I never had been upon my feet to say a word in public. At a meeting which had been advertised for two weeks, at the Methodist camp meeting ground, in a grove, in the County before mentioned, were gathered an assemblage of six or seven hundred men, women and children, priests, doctors and lawyers, the largest meeting I had ever witnessed up to that time. I came to this meeting from one part of the County, and Elder Shelton was expected to come from another quarter. But the time to commence meeting had arrived, and Elder Shelton had not. The audience was impatient. A party of three or four of the leading citizens waited upon me, to know if I would not address the meeting. There never had been a "Mormon" meeting in that County before, and they could not afford to be disappointed. I was sitting near the center of the meeting (not realizing that the stand was my place) when these men made the inquiry. If a battery of artillery had been discharged in our midst, I do not think it would have so startled me, as did this request. For the first time I began to realize that it was my duty to try to advocate the religion I professed. Just as I was going to answer that I would make an effort, Elder Shelton walked upon the stand, and this seemed to lift a mountain from my shoulders. Brother Shelton looked wearied and sick, but opened the meeting with singing and prayer, and sang again before he discovered me in the audience. Then he immediately called upon me to come to the stand and preach, as he was too sick and feeble to attempt it. To say I was scared, would scarcely convey a proper idea of my condition. I was in a tremor from head to feet, and shook like a leaf in a storm, scarcely knowing what I did. I took up Elder Shelton's Bible which lay upon the front board, and without any premeditation, I opened at the third chapter of John, and read the fifth verse. By the time I had finished reading, all my trembling had left me, and I felt as calm and collected as the quiet that succeeds the storm. The subjects of the first principles of the gospel were opened to me like print, only plainer and more powerful. Faith, repentance, baptism for the remission of sins and the laying on of hands for the reception of the Holy Ghost, came to me in succession and in their order. And those priests, doctors, lawyers and people did not appear to me more formidable than so many butterflies. No miracle ever performed by the power of God, could have had a more convincing effect upon me, than did the help that came to me through the power of the Holy Ghost on that occasion. And I am fully convinced in my own mind that never since have I preached a more effective discourse, nor one accompanied by more of the power of God. CHAPTER V. MY SECOND SERMON, WHICH WAS NOT A SERMON--CONFIDENCE IN COMMENCING--SUBSEQUENT CHAGRIN--THE LESSON I LEARNED. After delivering my first sermon or discourse I indulged in some very extravagant reflections and ideas relative to my great success. I thought it easy enough for a "Mormon" to be a preacher. I considered it no wonder that Brother Jedediah M. Grant was such a splendid speaker. I never afterwards expected to have any trouble so far as preaching the gospel was concerned. It never occurred to me that there was any chance for a failure. As the power and inspiration enabling me to preach came from God, it was, I thought, simply impossible for there to be any failure. However, in this I was never more disappointed, as I will show: In a few days after I preached my first sermon, and in the same neighborhood, we held another meeting, when Brother Shelton called on me again to preach. And when, in obedience to the call, I arose to my feet, it was with all the confidence and assurance possible. But to my surprise and chagrin, I could scarcely utter a word. I was spiritually, mentally, and almost physically blind, and the power of darkness seemed to have complete control over me. After struggling with this power for a few minutes, I sat down in confusion and shame, not having been able to speak one connected sentence. Immediately, something seemed to say to me, "Now you have learned two important lessons: what you can do when the Lord helps you, and what you cannot do, without His help." No doubt some of my young friends are ready to ask, "Why did you fail?" It may have been that I was not sufficiently humble, and perhaps had not given God the glory to that extent that I should. The best reason, however, I think, was that the Lord designed to teach me a valuable lesson, which I am proud to say I have never forgotten; and to this day, when I arise to preach the gospel, I say: "O! my Father, help me on this occasion by Thy Holy Spirit." JOURNEY ACROSS THE PLAINS. BY PRESIDENT JOHN TAYLOR. SURROUNDED BY INDIANS--PREPARE FOR AN ATTACK--SIGN OF PEACE--A LETTER--PIPE OF PEACE--THREE OF US ACCOMPANY THE INDIANS TO THEIR CAMP--CHAGRIN AT THE REPULSE--ROAD SWEPT CLEAR OF SNOW--MISSOURI RIVER FROZEN OVER--WE CROSS ON THE ICE, WHICH BREAKS AS THE LAST WAGON LEAVES IT. In the latter part of October, 1849, a number of missionaries started from Salt Lake Valley to go to the States, among whom were several of the Twelve, who were going to introduce the gospel to foreign lands. Elder Erastus Snow was appointed to Denmark, Lorenzo Snow to Italy, myself, in company with John Pack and Curtis E. Bolton, to France, and Franklin D. Richards to England. We were accompanied to the States by Elder Jedediah M. Grant, Bishops Edward Hunter, A. O. Smooth, Edwin D. Woolley, Joseph Heywood and a number of other Elders and brethren. Several merchants also accompanied the expedition. While journeying, we had a variety of singular adventures, and experienced some remarkable interpositions of providence during the trip, some of which I will relate. When we arrived at a point some distance west of Laramie, as we turned out our horses, at noon, suddenly a large body of Indians, amounting in number to a hundred or a hundred and fifty, appeared in sight. They were evidently on the lookout for a body of Crows, a hostile tribe of Indians, who had hovered around us for some time on our journey. As they first came in sight they swept along with all the abandon of the red man, and their appearance was really very imposing. They were perhaps a mile from us when we first saw them. I was very much interested in their appearance, as they came dashing down upon us on their fiery steeds, in warlike costume. The manes and tails of their horses were painted various colors; and the Indians themselves, painted and arrayed in their richest and gayest styles, prepared for war, presented a magnificent aspect. But our personal safety soon led us to other reflections. While a part of the company immediately gathered up the horses, another part attended to our firearms; and before the Indians reached us, we had formed a line for defense, with our guns and pistols all prepared for anything that might transpire. The Indians rode to within about two rods of us, and then made a halt; and as we had our guns leveled at them, they immediately assumed a hostile attitude. Some of them having flint-lock guns, commenced pecking their flints and making ready for firing, and others wet their finger ends and placed their arrows in their bows, preparatory to an encounter. While thus engaged on both sides, waiting for anything that might transpire, a fat, jolly-looking Indian came lumbering up on horseback, not having been able to keep pace with his more youthful companions. He held up both hands, and, as I understood this was a sign of peace, and that he evidently desired to avoid any collision, I went out to meet him. He then produced a paper, which stated that these Indians were peaceable and friendly. It was signed by a Major Sanderson, who was then commanding at Fort Laramie. Although their attitude did not bespeak the most pacific intentions, we, of course, received the statement with as good a grace as possible. While waiting, several Indians attempted to pass us on the flank. When he saw this, Brother Grant, who had assumed command of the company for the time being, ordered a number of men to level their guns at them, which caused them to remain. As we could not talk with them nor they to us, and as no interpreters were present, we had to judge by signs as best we could. They pointed out to us several sentinels placed on the tops of mountains in different directions, and intimated by signs that they wanted these men to go to them, so we permitted them to pass. The chief then touched his mouth or tongue, and we supposed that they desired something to eat. I made a motion for the chief to move his men back, which he did. They sat down and we furnished them with beef, crackers, tobacco, etc.; but we found that they were not hungry, and that they were anxious to talk with us. We smoked the pipe of peace with them, and then harnessed our horses and prepared to start, when they formed a line on each side of us; each of our men, as a precautionary measure, taking his gun in his hand as he drove his team. The chief expressed a desire to have some of us go to his camp, which, he informed us by signs, was not far off. Lorenzo Snow, Bishop Hunter and I accompanied him, and our train moved on its course. The camp, which was about three miles from our own encampment, we found to be very large. The Indians were very well-formed, athletic men, and good specimens of their race. There were a great many respectable-looking lodges, and I should suppose about three thousand horses grazing about. When we met them the chief seemed somewhat chagrined, and we thought that the repulse of his men by us was the cause. There was a Frenchman at the camp, who acted as interpreter during our interview. In our conversation the chief asked us why we had assumed a warlike attitude towards his people. We told him that we were not acquainted with them, and thought it best to be prepared. We did not know but that they were some of the Crows, who had been hovering around us. They were anxious to know about the Crows, having heard that they were going to steal some horses from them. After a short and pleasant interview, we left and joined our camp. That night we put out a strong guard around our horses, and the same night the Crows stole a good many horses from these Indians, as well as the horses of some trappers who were in the immediate vicinity; but ours were not molested. On reaching Fort Laramie we were very courteously received and kindly treated by Major Sanderson. As it was late in the fall, the snow began to descend and the whole country was covered to about twelve inches in depth. Immediately after we crossed the south fork of the Platte River we met with a very remarkable circumstance which we were led to look upon as a providential occurrence and the interposition of the Almighty in our behalf. Along the road that we traveled all the way from there to Fort Kearney, the snow had been blown from the road the entire distance, as if swept by a broom, leaving a clear track for us to travel upon. It was very difficult to find nutritious food for our animals, the grass having been killed by the frost, and before we reached the Missouri River many of them failed and a number died. The very last day before we arrived, we encountered a very severe snow storm, which made it extremely difficult for the animals to move, and many of them gave out. After much difficulty we arrived at an old deserted fort, on the Missouri River, parties bringing in the wearied animals as best they could. Although an old deserted log house, with large openings between the logs, and without windows and doors, was the only shelter afforded us, I am not aware of any time in my life when I experienced a greater sense of providential interposition and relief than I did with that temporary refuge from the storm. We stayed there the next day and found a family, in the immediate vicinity who cooked and provided for us. We found that the ice was running very strong in the Missouri River, and that it was impossible to ferry across. The succeeding was one of the most severely cold nights I ever experienced, and in the morning some of our party went down to the river and found that the floating ice had lodged and formed a bridge across. A company was selected to see if it was safe, and they returned and stated that they thought the ice, though very thin, would bear us. We immediately made preparations to cross the river, and, although it was very rough, we took our wagons over without much difficulty; but found that towards the last it began to be shaky and uncertain. Mr. Kinkead, a merchant, who was along, having a lot of gold dust in his possession, was afraid his team would sink before he got over, and he carried it over on his shoulders, leaving his man to bring the team over as best he might. After using all the energy we could to get our teams over, the last one had only just crossed the river when the ice gave way and floated down the stream, thus exhibiting another remarkable manifestation of the providence of God towards His Elders who were going forth on missions to proclaim the gospel of salvation to the nations of the earth. Many people would be apt to look upon these things as natural occurrences; I ascribe them to the power of that Being who says the hairs of our heads are numbered, and that a sparrow cannot fall to the ground without our Father's notice. STORY OF A HAT. ELDER PHILLIPS IN NEED OF A HAT--BROTHER HOBBS TOLD IN A DREAM TO PROVIDE ONE FOR HIM--HIS TROUBLE AT NOT BEING ABLE TO DO SO--THE HAT PROVIDED IN AN UNEXPECTED MANNER. The following incident in the life of Elder Thomas Phillips, of Scipio, shows how mindful the Lord is of His servants, even in what may be deemed small things. We will give it in Brother Phillips' own words. "I have witnessed the providences of the Lord in various ways, while traveling without purse or scrip, preaching the gospel of Jesus Christ, and have realized that to such, when faithful, the Lord has manifested His loving kindness, and that His watchful care over them is sensible to their understanding. "One item, although it may appear small, is of particular interest to me. It is as follows: "I was traveling in the towns and villages in a part of the County of Surrey, England, preaching the gospel as revealed from the heavens through the ministry of holy beings. Under these circumstances, food and raiment were sometimes hard to obtain; consequently, at one time I had a hat that was very much the worse for wear. "In a village called Hersham, in that county, lived a brother by the name of William Hobbs, whose house at I sometimes visited, and received food and lodgings. "One night Brother Hobbs dreamed that a personage came to him and told him that Brother Phillips would be at his house on a certain day, naming the time, which I think was four or five days from the time he dreamed. He was further told that he must get a new hat for Brother Phillips; for the one he wore was very shabby. "This dream was very much impressed on the mind of Brother Hobbs, and troubled him sorely, for it found him without money and some miles from any town where he could buy a hat. "Brother Hobbs was the overseer of a small number of men, whose work was to keep some miles of railroad in repair for the safety of the trains. "When the day came that I was to be at his house in the evening, he went to his work very low-spirited, not having obtained the hat. While at work on the track, a long train of cars came along, and when passing the place where Brother Hobbs and his hands were at work, a hat, suitable for the finest gentleman in the land, flew out of one of the windows. "Brother Hobbs shouted, 'That's the hat for Brother Phillips! Thank God!' "When Brother Hobbs came home in the evening, I was there, it being the time specified in the dream. "He walked up to me and said: "'Brother Phillips, I was to give you a hat, and here it is.' "To our surprise, it fitted me well. "As a matter of course I was anxious to know who was so thoughtful for an Elder of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; and, in answer to my questions, Brother Hobbs told me the dream. "Then I knew, and still know, that the providences of our Heavenly Father were, and are, working in favor of the servants and Saints of the Most High." A PROPHECY AND ITS FULFILLMENT. ELDER TAYLOR'S LABORS IN LIVERPOOL--VISIT TO M'GAFFEY'S HOUSE--A PROPHECY CONCERNING MR. TAIT--VISIT TO IRELAND--M'GAFFEY GETS DRUNK--THE PROPHECY FULFILLED. When the Twelve Apostles, under the presidency of President Brigham Young, went to England, it fell to the lot of Elder John Taylor (now President Taylor) to go to Liverpool to labor. At that town he was the means, in the hands of the Lord, of raising up a branch of the Church. Among others who were baptized was a man by the name of McGaffey, an Irishman. Sometime after his baptism he invited Elder Taylor to make a visit to his house, which he did. He met there a man by the name of Tait, also an Irishman, whose home was in Ireland, but who had come to Liverpool on some business or a visit. The conversation was kept up till a late hour in the evening, the principal topic, of course, being the gospel. When Elder Taylor arose to depart, Brother McGaffey accompanied him to the door, with a light, to show him the way out. While standing there making the parting remarks, and taking leave of each other, Elder Taylor felt suddenly led to predict to Brother McGaffey that his friend, Mr. Tait, would be the first man baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Ireland. He had no sooner made this prophecy than he became startled at what he had said, for at that time there were no Elders in Ireland, and none had been there, and, so far as Elder Taylor knew at the time, none were likely to go there. Yet the Spirit of the Lord inspired the prophecy, and the Lord prepared the way by which it would be fulfilled. It was a prediction which a man could not fulfill, without God had inspired it and arranged circumstances to bring it to pass. Time rolled on, and Brother McGaffey desired to make a visit to his old place of residence in Ireland, and he was anxious that Elder Taylor should accompany him. He had received the gospel himself, and whatever his own weaknesses might be, he valued it then, and wanted his kindred and acquaintances in Ireland to have it also. So it was arranged they should go together, and they repaired to a town called Newry. In that country, and there are others very like it in this respect, when friends have been long separated, there are some who think that the best way to manifest good feeling and joy, at the reunion, is to drink whisky together, and they think these meetings hardly satisfactory unless they can get drunk. McGaffey had a good many neighbors and friends, and he had, or thought he had, to drink with them. The consequence was he got drunk, not once, but several times. Probably the first time he got drunk he was so ashamed of his conduct, he a man professing to be a Latter-day Saint, that he got drunk the next time to hide his shame. There are people, of whom we have heard, who take just such a foolish, ridiculous course as this. But whatever his motives were, he got intoxicated, and the people of the town knew it. This would have been bad enough under any circumstances; but worse when it was known that he was a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, for, drunk as he was, he had taken pains to let everybody whom he met know what Church he belonged to. This is a habit that many drunken people have. He not only told them what he was, but you may be sure he did not fail to tell them that he was accompanied by one of the Twelve Apostles, and he boasted about him, how eloquent he was and what a knowledge of the scriptures he had, and told many other things of a similar character. This, you will readily understand, was scarcely the way that Elder Taylor wanted the gospel introduced for the first time to a people or a nation, and, we doubt not, he was terribly mortified at the ridiculous conduct of his companion. But he was there, and he had to make the best of it. They succeeded in obtaining, what in that country is called the "Sessions House," which we would call the "Court House," to hold meetings in, in which he preached and gave out another appointment for the next evening. The people, knowing probably of McGaffey's conduct, were very uneasy and restless, and kept going out and coming in, so much so that Elder Taylor told them that he did not feel like talking to them. He had plenty of appointments to fill, and abundant opportunities of speaking to people who would be glad to listen to him, he said, and as they seemed so indifferent about paying attention, he would not speak at that time. He added, however, that if there were any there who wished to ask questions, or to converse with him, they would find him at a certain place, mentioning to them the number of the house and the name of the street where he stopped. After this, they went out into the country, and held meeting in a large barn. This was well attended by the people and good order prevailed. Among others who were present, were a number of young men who were being educated at a college in that vicinity, who had many inquiries to make about the principles of the gospel. In taking the route back to where they could get a conveyance to carry them into Lisburn, they had some little distance to walk, and Elder Taylor had his valise with him, which he had to carry. On the road they passed near the farm of the Mr. Tait, whom Elder Taylor had met at McGaffey's in Liverpool. Brother McGaffey thereupon proposed to Elder Taylor that they call upon him. They found him at home, and when they arose to pursue their journey, he accompanied them, and insisted upon carrying the valise. The conversation, we may naturally suppose, was upon the gospel and its principles. They had not gone very far when they came to a "loch," the name which is given to a lake in that country. Upon nearing this, Mr. Tait spoke out to Elder Taylor, in the language of the eunuch to Philip (_ Acts viii._, 36): "See, here is water; what doth hinder me to be baptized?" Elder Taylor replied: "If thou believest with all thine heart, thou mayest." Mr. Tait answered: "I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and I believe also the principles which you teach." And right there, Elder Taylor baptized him, and confirmed him a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and ordained him a Priest. Thus did the Lord bring about the fulfillment of the prediction which he had inspired His servant to make, and Mr. Tait was the first man baptized in Ireland, in this dispensation, by the authority of the holy Priesthood. GUIDED BY PROVIDENCE. By JOHN MORGAN. ELDER LISONBEE'S MISSION--URGED BY THE SPIRIT TO TRAVEL ON--FINDS A LISTENER--INVITED TO PREACH--A PROTEST AGAINST IT--SUCCESS--HIS GREAT WORK--HIS DEATH. Among the Elders selected to go upon missions in the fall of 1875, was James T. Lisonbee. He was assigned to the Southern States, and went to the State of Mississippi. There he met a few relatives, whom he visited, and sought an opportunity to preach the gospel to the people, but found no opening. After a brief visit, he packed his books and clothing into a valise and started afoot across the country northward, intending to go to Tennessee and join Brother D. P. Rainey, whom he found, after a long and weary journey, almost bedfast with chills and fever. After spending only a day and night with him, Elder Lisonbee started for the mountains of Northern Alabama, seemingly urged on by a spirit that would not let him rest. He had no idea where he was going, or what he would find. Day by day he walked on, footsore and weary, without money and in a land of strangers. He often had to travel till a late hour in the night, before obtaining a place to sleep or a little supper. He met rebuffs and then kindness; was sometimes well-cared for, and again hungry; and was often refused food and shelter. He did not feel to stop by the wayside to preach, but pushed steadily ahead. He crossed the Tennessee River, climbed Sand Mountain, and one night found shelter with a man who sat up and talked till a late hour with him on the principles of the gospel. When morning came Elder Lisonbee was putting his books back into his valise, preparatory to another start, when his host suggested that he stop and preach to them, which was readily assented to, on condition that a place could be obtained and anyone would provide for him during his stay. Both of these things the man said he would attend to, and for the first time in several weeks he lay by for a rest. A log church was secured, the people notified, and on Sunday a goodly crowd gathered to hear the new, strange doctrine that was to be preached. Close attention was paid, and after the meeting, when he was again packing his books, preparatory to continuing his journey, one of his audience asked him to dinner, and suggested that some of the people might want to talk with him on the Bible. Accompanying his newly-found friend home, which, by the way, took him in the direction he wanted to go, he found quite a few gathered together to hear something new. A lengthy and interesting fireside talk was held during the afternoon, and he was urged to hold another meeting. An appointment was made for Tuesday night, at a private residence, where the room was filled, and still another appointment was made. A general desire began to be evinced to learn what the Latter-day Saints taught. The ministers became alarmed, and besought the people not to hear him, and a mass meeting of the law-abiding (?) citizens was called to protest against the Elder being allowed to teach any longer. He continued, however, to hold his meetings. Friends sprang up on every side. He soon found some who desired baptism, and eventually succeeded in baptizing about thirty people, who immediately made preparations to emigrate. They disposed of their property, combined their means together and thereby helped the poor, and the Elder had the privilege of leading out, by the same road he traveled coming up the mountain, a goodly company, numbering some sixty or seventy souls. These people eventually located in San Luis Valley, Colorado, and are becoming good and prosperous Latter-day Saints. They will doubtless recognize, in this little sketch, a history of the manner in which the gospel came to them. It will also serve to call to mind many incidents connected with the wise, prudent and unselfish labors of Elder Lisonbee, who was called upon to pass beyond the vail while on his return from his mission. While upon that mission he performed a work that will add to his glory while eternities shall endure, and set an example to young Elders every way worthy of imitation. FULFILLMENT OF PROMISE. By M. F. COWLEY. THE LORD'S PROMISES SURE--AN ELDER IN WANT OF A PAIR OF SHOES--HE PRAYS FOR THEM--THE PRAYER ANSWERED--CASE OF HEALING. The people of the world generally have no faith in the promises made to the Saints, on condition of their obedience to God's commandments, and when they witness the fulfillment of those promises they prefer to attribute it to some other than the real cause. The Latter-day Saints, however, like saints of former days, have been placed in positions to test the truth of these promises, and know that they are indebted to the Almighty, and to no one else, for their fulfillment. Especially is this the case with the Elders who go upon missions to the nations of the earth and faithfully discharge their duties. Those who have learned the ways of the sectarian churches know that their ministers are supported by salaries, given them for preaching; that is, they "preach for hire and divine for money," in fulfillment of Micah's prediction. But the Lord has, in our time, agreeable to the ancient pattern, called men to "go into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature," "without money and without price." "Freely ye have received; freely give!" is the injunction, with a promise that if they respond to the call and put their trust in God, He will provide for their wants by raising up friends unto them, who will aid them in their travels and give them food and shelter. Hundreds of Elders could testify that they have realized the fulfillment of these promises while traveling among the nations of the earth without "purse and scrip." When in want they have petitioned the Lord by the humble prayer of faith to aid them in the hour of need, and He has never forsaken them. A young Elder in one of the Southern States, not long since, when his boots were the worse for wear and his toes in danger of protruding, asked the Lord, in a very plain and simple style, to provide him with a pair of shoes. A day or two later, at the close of a meeting, a gentleman came to the Elder and asked him to accept of some money which would aid him in obtaining a pair of shoes. The following day a shoemaker, who had made the acquaintance of the Elder, happened by where he was stopping, and having discovered that the Elder needed some shoes, told him that he had just made a pair for himself, but through some mistake they would not fit him, as they were too small, and asked the Elder if he would not accept them as a present. He did so with gratitude, and found them to be as good a fit as if they had been made for himself. Thus he received a literal answer to his prayer and more too. Yet neither of these people had he asked for money or for shoes. This is one example among numberless instances of a similar nature that have occurred in the experience of scores of Elders. By such means, also, the Elders learn who are their friends, and will give a favorable account of such people before the Lord, and they will receive at His hands a just reward. The people, also, who befriend the servants of God, have been remarkably blessed, not only temporally, but in many instances have been raised from beds of sickness by the power of God. An instance may be cited which occurred not long since in one of the Southern States. A lady, whose husband and herself had treated the Elders with kindness, was taken quite sick, and the affliction soon proved to be very serious indeed. Three physicians were called to attend her, which they did for several weeks, with little or no prospect of her recovery. Finally they gave her up. The Elders having returned to that neighborhood from a tour in another County, this lady sent for them to come to administer to her the ordinance of the gospel for the healing of the sick. She had heard them allude to such an ordinance in their preaching, and found that what they taught agreed with the pattern given in the New Testament. They laid their hands upon her, at her earnest request, and after repeating the ordinance several times, with prayer and supplication, she arose from her bed of sickness to which she had been confined for ten months. She requested baptism, and soon after rode a horse to a stream of water, and was baptized and confirmed by the servants of God. Numbers of astonished witnesses were present and she was looked upon as a living miracle. She and her husband, with others, soon afterwards gathered with the Saints in Southern Colorado. Another instance of healing was in the case of a little girl who had been seized with fits, in which her limbs were drawn up and caused to quiver, and her eyes turned back as if she were dying. The Elders, being present, administered to her, and, through the ordinance of the gospel and the prayer of faith, she was healed by the power of God. Scores of similar manifestations occur in the travels of the Elders abroad in answer to the humble prayer of faith. Such instances, and the remarkable way in which God preserves and provides for His messengers who are sent to proclaim the everlasting gospel to the nations, confirm the faith and increase evidence to the testimony of the Elders of Israel, and when studied with honest and prayerful hearts by the youth of Zion, tend to promote faith in their minds and prepare them to assist in building up the kingdom of God upon the earth. Many who are now young and inexperienced will probably soon be called to bear the gospel message to the nations, and they should prepare themselves for the noble work. "YOU SHALL NOT BE CONFOUNDED." BY BEFF. SENT OUT TO PREACH WHEN A BOY--FIRST EXPERIENCE IN PREACHING--QUESTIONED BY AN INFIDEL--ANSWER GIVEN BY THE LORD. One of the most astonishing attestations of the promise which the Lord makes to His servants, that they "shall not be confounded," that I have ever heard, was related to me by an experienced missionary, in whom I place great confidence, and for whose character I have great respect. The incident and attendant circumstances, as nearly as I can recollect, were as follows, and I am sure I give the same in a manner substantially as related to me: Brother A--first heard the gospel when a youth, in his native country--England. He was soon convinced of its truth, was baptized at the age of eighteen, and immediately after his baptism was ordained an Elder, and sent forth to preach the gospel. He was an unlettered, unsophisticated, bashful youth, one of the last, it would have been thought, to be selected to preach the gospel. He started forth and arrived at a strange village, where, at a late hour, and after some interesting adventures, he was taken in by a kind-hearted man and his wife, who made him very comfortable. On the next day he conversed with them upon the gospel. They thought it remarkable to see such a boy as he was, out as a missionary of a new religion, became interested, and asked him to hold a meeting in their house. He had never preached in public, but he said he would do the best he could. The appointment was spread, and the house was full at the appointed hour. The young Elder astonished himself at the ease with which he preached a long discourse on the first principles of the gospel. Among those who had come to meeting was a hardened infidel, who was a very cunning reasoner, and who had made it a practice for many years to argue against the divinity of the scriptures. Nothing pleased him more than to draw some minister into a debate, and then to present some of his "unanswerable" arguments against the Bible. He had vanquished every minister in the village, and every itinerant preacher who had held meetings there for years, whom he could succeed in drawing into a debate. When the young missionary had ceased preaching, some of the audience commenced to ask him questions. Presently the infidel, evidently thinking to easily vanquish so weak an adversary, commenced with his usual routine of questions, and at length asked: "So you believe the flood actually drowned all the animals in the world except those in the ark?" "Yes, sir," answered the Elder. "We know that, not very long after the flood, many kinds of animals were found in various parts of the world at a great distance from where the ark landed, and even upon islands of the sea, far from the mainland, and under such circumstances as would render the theory of transportation by human means an absurdity. Now, how did those animals come to exist in the different and distant islands and continents?" This question was the infidel's "trump card." At the right juncture in his debates he always asked it, and had never yet met with a minister, or any other Bible believer, who could satisfactorily answer it. The young missionary felt his utter inability to answer this question. In trying to frame a reply, he sat gazing abstractedly at the ceiling of the room. The audience who remained knew that this was the great argument of the infidel, and did not, for a moment, suppose that the boyish preacher could meet it. Suddenly there appeared before the young missionary's eyes, as if it were suspended in the air, a scroll. On the scroll appeared, in brilliant golden letters, these words: "In the days of Peleg the earth was divided." (_Gen. x._, 25). Instantly an explanation of the infidel's problem burst upon his mind. He calmly and deliberately proceeded to explain that, prior to the days of Peleg, this whole earth was one vast continent, inhabited in its various portions, with different kinds of animals; that in the days of Peleg this vast continent was broken up into smaller divisions of land, islands, etc., and that, in this manner, the animals upon its surface accompanied the land in its divisions. The infidel was confounded, the multitude astonished, and the young, illiterate missionary triumphant. Several remembered the passage of scripture, and none could gainsay the missionary's explanation. The latter, however, had no knowledge of any such a passage in the Bible, as he had read but very little of it, and, had the answer not come to him by revelation, he would have been confounded. The scroll was so plainly visible to him that it seemed as though others could see it, but they did not. AN EFFECTIVE PLEA. ARRESTED ON A NOVEL CHARGE--ELDER PARRISH'S DEFENSE--ELDER PATTEN'S INDIGNATION--CONSTERNATION PRODUCED BY HIS SPEECH. In the early history of the Church, Apostle David W. Patten and Elder Warren Parrish were traveling, in the State of Tennessee, preaching the gospel and organizing branches of the Church. In one locality, where considerable interest had been manifested and the usual opposition met with, the latter culminated in the arrest of the two missionaries upon the charge of being prophets, which was preferred by some of the people, when they were actually carried before a committing magistrate to be tried on the accusation. The court was called, a jury summoned, and a great crowd of people gathered to see the result of so remarkable a trial. Elder Parrish was somewhat of a lawyer, in addition to being a good public speaker, and begged the privilege of pleading his own case and that of his fellow-prisoner, which the court readily granted, and, after some preliminary work, the trial opened. Witnesses were examined as to the teaching of the two Elders, much contradictory evidence was given in and a great amount of wrangling indulged in by the prosecuting attorney in trying to make a case against the prisoners. After the prosecution had made up its case and the attorney had concluded his speech, Brother Parrish replied in quite a lengthy _sermon_ on the first principle of the gospel, and then taking up the legal bearings of the case, he claimed immunity from prosecution on the ground of constitutional right to free speech. During his speech it was quite evident that he had changed the popular feeling very much, and that many of the audience were in sympathy with the Elders. Apostle Patten seems not to have relished the entire proceedings, doubtless looking upon it as equal to or worse than a farce, and considering that it was a disgrace to the courts of a free country. As the defense closed and rested the case, he arose to his feet, and with a look of indignation on his face, turned full upon judge and jury; he raised aloft an immense walking stick, and in a voice of almost superhuman force, he exclaimed: "If the Lord Almighty will turn this stick into a sword, I will cut heads off faster than He ever rained quails on Israel in times of old." The judge dodged from his chair, the jury tumbled off the jury bench, the nearest bystanders sought safety by increasing the distance between themselves and the indignant Elder, and general consternation prevailed in the midst of the panicstricken crowd. Turning to Elder Parrish, Brother Patten said, "Follow me," and both of the Elders walked out of the court room, mounted their horses and quietly rode away, not a word being said or a hand raised to stop their progress. A LIFE SKETCH, CONTAINING A FEW MORAL LESSONS. By W. B. LACK OF EDUCATION--EARLY MARRIAGE--RESISTING TEMPTATION--GRAIN INCREASED BY THE POWER OF GOD--ANSWER TO PRAYER--LARGE FAMILY, RESULT OF EARLY MARRIAGE. Thinking some incidents from my experience might be of interest to the young Latter-day Saints, I submit them for their perusal. I was born in the year 1835, was reared in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and shared in its persecutions. At the age of thirteen, in 1848, I drove a team from Winter Quarters to Salt Lake Valley without any accident worth mentioning. The team consisted of five cows and one ox, making three yoke of cattle. After we arrived and got fairly settled, my parents died, and left me without an education, as was the case with many more young folks who were driven with the Saints, and on this account deprived of schooling. In this condition, I concluded to make a home for myself. Before I was seventeen, it being the counsel to marry young, I went to President Young, as I was well acquainted with him, and told him what I thought of doing. He advised me to get married. I took his counsel, got married and lived with my wife's folks for a short time, as they requested. Now, my young readers, we had not the value of fifty dollars, all told. I imagine, too, you think this was rather young for such and undertaking. It was then, and is now the counsel to marry young--of course, at a proper age--and I bear my testimony to the good effect of early marriages. My vocation was that of a farmer. The drawbacks we had in consequence of crickets, grasshoppers, drouth, alkali, etc., can be better imagined than described. A few circumstances will suffice to show how my wife and I were blessed by the Lord. In the spring of 1855, seed wheat and bread-stuff were very scarce. I had none; but a neighbor of mine owed me a few bushels of wheat, and I went to collect it. He was absent from home, but his wife, being acquainted with me, sent me to the granary alone to help myself. When I had put up all the wheat that was due me except the last half bushel, and while in the act of filling that, the temptation came to me to steal some of my neighbor's wheat. He had plenty and I had none, except the little I was then getting. I might take it without being detected, and he would never miss it. The thought had scarcely got through my mind when I knew it was from the evil one; and, as a punishment to myself for entertaining the temptation, I emptied part of the half bushel that was then in my hand back into my neighbor's bin, and did not take all that was my just due. I took my wheat home. It was not as much as I wished to sow, but I was satisfied, and thankful for it. I placed it in a room adjoining the one I lived in, got my ground ready, and, as fast as I required it, I took wheat from my small store to sow it with. I sowed all the ground I wished to, and sowed it thickly, as I wanted a good crop at harvest time. I afterwards noticed that I still had some sacks with wheat in left. I saw that they were my sacks, and it must be my wheat. I called my wife's attention to the matter, and then it was that the Spirit of the Lord rested upon us and convinced us that it had been increased by Him for our good. I got the remaining wheat ground, and we had flour to last us till harvest, for which we gave God the glory; and I bear testimony that my wheat at that time was increased by the power of the same God that increased the widow's oil in ancient times. In those days, most people that had teams had to depend upon the range for food for them. This was the case with me, and it often took me till ten or twelve o'clock in the day to find my team. When I found it I would return, tired out, and go to work. On one occasion I could not find my team. I knelt down and asked the Lord to direct me where to find it. After arising, contrary to my former intention, I went home. I found my horses tied up. They had come up themselves. These things taught me to rely upon the Lord, and to ask Him when I needed help. On another occasion I lost my team. I was satisfied it had been stolen. I was in Salt Lake City a short time after the occurrence, and was speaking to my uncle about my team being lost. He advised me to go to an old lady close by, and she would tell me where it was by means of cards. I told him I would do without the cards. When I returned home my wife and I knelt down and prayed that the person who took my team might be prevented from taking it out of the country, and that we might get it again. The team was taken in the summer, and in the fall of the same year a man came to me, in my field, and asked me if I knew of any person that had lost such and such animals, describing my horses. I told him they belonged to me. He then directed me where I should go to find them. I thanked him for his information, and asked him how he happened to come to me, as we were strangers to each other, and my horses were not branded. He said he did not know, only that he felt impressed to ask me. Early next morning I started after my horses. That night I found them in charge of a man who told me that a person came to him in the summer time and desired to stop with him over night. The fellow had a band of horses which his host believed he had stolen. In the morning, as they were both looking at the horses, he said to the man who brought them there, "Here are two stray horses; I will take charge of these and get them to the owner." He accordingly left my two horses and took the rest of the band with him. You can see, my young readers, how literally our prayers were answered. We recovered our horses in good condition, and thanked the Lord. These, with many other blessings, served to keep us humble and faithful to our covenants. Now, the result of our early marriage is this: my family numbers twenty-four. I am the father of nineteen children, four of whom are married, and I have seven grand-children, and my present age is forty-four. I have filled many positions of trust, and I think to the entire satisfaction of my superiors. I am now a Bishop in Zion, and I think I have the faith and prayers and confidence of the Saints over whom I have the honor to preside. I mention this to show what can be done by being faithful and observing the counsel of those whose right it is to guide and direct. CASES OF MIRACULOUS HEALING. BY G. W. HILL. GREAT ASSEMBLY OF INDIANS--BAPTIZING THEM--THE SICK INSTANTLY HEALED--CURIOUS ACTIONS OF INDIANS AFFECTED WITH EVIL SPIRITS--THE OLD CHIEF'S FAITH--CHILD CURED OF FEVER--THE DEAD REVIVED. I have witnessed a great deal more of the power of God in my administration with the Indians then I ever experienced with any other people. In quite a number of cases I have seen Indians who were sick healed instantly, when the ordinance for the healing of the sick was performed in their behalf by the Elders. I remember several cases of healing that occurred on August 1st, 1875. A large party of Indians had come in from Wind River, to see what our Indians were doing, as they had heard that I was working with them, trying to teach them the principles of the gospel, as also how to live as the more civilized man does, by cultivating the earth. They were very anxious to find out whether an Indian would be allowed to settle down and cultivate the earth as other people do. They also wished to ascertain what our religious views were that we were teaching to those Indians, as they were interested with them, because they not only belonged to the same nation, but were related to each other as well. On the date mentioned I was holding a meeting with them. Our bowery was filled to overflowing. There were from four to five hundred Sho-sho-nees from Wind River, from one hundred and fifty to two hundred Bannocks from the far north, and our local Indians; in all probably about one thousand present. During our services, Elder Lorenzo Snow, Sister Eliza R. Snow, and quite a number of the authorities from Brigham City came to pay us a visit, and were surprised to see us engaged preaching to so large an audience. They came into the bowery, and all took their seats as quietly as they could except Sister E. R. Snow, who continued to stand up, that she might have a better opportunity of seeing the effect the preaching had on the congregation. Brother Lorenzo Snow spoke to us a short time; the rest preferred to look on. I expect they thought it was a queer spectacle to see a man trying to preach to a congregation such as I had. But a more attentive congregation I never saw, nor one that paid more respect to the speaker. After the meeting was dismissed, the cases of healing to which I referred took place. The Indians hurried me to the water, as there were so many that wanted to be baptized. I did not stop to visit with the brethren and sisters who came to see us, but went immediately to the river. I baptized over three hundred before I came out of the water. Among the number were several who were sick. Some had been sick for a long time, and all, without an exception, on being baptized for their health, were healed. There was one man who had been sick a long time. He had been so bad that he was unable to walk a step for four or five months. It took three men to carry him into the water to be baptized. I baptized him for his health and for the remission of his sins, when he walked out of the river with one man walking on each side of him to steady him, and he got well immediately. There were in this company of Indians, some eight or nine persons that were possessed of the evil one, or something of that kind. The first of these was a large, strong woman. Now an Indian is no more afraid of water than a duck is; but when I raised this woman out of the water, she wilted and dropped on my arm, as lifeless, to all appearance, as if she had been dead a week. The old chief was standing on the bank of the river, preaching to the Indians all the while I was baptizing. When he saw this, he shouted "one!" the second chief also shouted "one." I did not know what this meant, but the old chief, noticing my embarrassment, said, "Do not be in a hurry, father, she will soon be all right." In about a minute her breath returned to her, and she walked out of the river all right. As I said before, I baptized eight or nine of such cases that day, the old chief keeping count all the time. He told me that they had been practicing their witchcraft and working with their black art so much, that he did not expect anything else of them; but it caused me to reflect a great deal. Some of those that were operated upon in this way were men, and when I would raise them out of the water they would hang upon my arm breathless, and as limber as a half-filled sack of wheat. The old chief took sick about a week after he was baptized, and called for baptism for his health. I baptized him, and he got well immediately. The power of God was made manifest in his case to such an extent, and made so much impression upon him, that, on being taken sick last summer, he started to come a distance of between two and three hundred miles on horseback to be baptized for his health. Now, if he had never been healed himself, nor seen anybody else healed, he would never have started that distance on horseback to have that ordinance performed. The Lamanites are very much like other people; some of them have great faith, and will be healed of any sickness, no matter how severe the attack, while others will not seem to be benefitted in the least. I have frequently administered to them when they were burning up, as it were, with mountain fever, and before I would get my hands off their heads, their faces would be covered with large drops of sweat, and the fever would be entirely gone. I remember one case of this kind among many others that took place on Salmon River, in the fall of 1855. A band of Indians came in from their hunt, with a little girl, very sick of mountain fever. Their relatives told them that we practiced the ordinance of laying on hands for the healing of the sick. When the father came after me, I told him that we did not make a practice of administering to those who did not belong to the Church; and if we went and administered to the child, and it recovered, I should expect him to be baptized. He said it was a bargain. Accordingly I took David Moore, of Ogden, and B. F. Cummings, Sen., with me, and we anointed the child and laid our hands upon her. When we took our hands off her head, her face was literally covered with large drops of sweat; the fever was gone, and the child got well immediately. On the Sunday following, I baptized fifty-six, her father being the first in the water. Lest I should weary your patience, I will relate but one more instance. On August 11, 1875, the soldiers had, through the instigation of the people of Corinne, come up to Corinne, to drive the Indians from the farm where they made their first start, in the spring of that year, to cultivate the earth and settle themselves. When the officers and I had got through with our talk, and were getting ready to return, an Indian by the name of Tattoosh, came for me to go and administer to his child, telling me to hurry or it would be dead. I took some Indians with me and went. When I got to his place, I found the child's mother sitting out in the sun, trying to warm it in that way. The child seemed to be dying; its flesh was cold and clammy, and a death sweat was upon it. We anointed it, and while administering to it I seemed to see the child at different stages until it was grown. I blessed it, accordingly, to live, and told its mother it would get well. The child seemed to remain in the same condition until the next day about three o'clock. The major had come up and changed the orders of the previous evening, which were for me to tell the Indians to go on with their harvesting, as he would not disturb them. Now the orders were if the Indians had not broken camp by 12 o'clock the next day, and started for some reservation, he should use force and drive them to one. As I was going to the camp to get the Indians to leave, I met Tat-toosh, who told me that the child was dead. I said, "No, I cannot believe it!" He repeated that it was, and that its mother and friends were crying about it. I had no time to go and see it, as I had to hurry to the camp. They had no opportunity to bury the child there, consequently, they wrapped it up in its blankets, and packed it upon a horse, intending to carry it until they could find time to bury it. It took some three hours to get the camp on the move, and after carrying the child in that way some ten miles, they discovered that it was alive. This was on Thursday, and on the Sunday following I saw its father in Cache Valley. He said he never saw a child get well so fast in his life; and it is now quite fat and hearty. ANSWER TO PRAYER. EARLY EXPERIENCE IN CALLING UPON THE LORD--PRAYERS ANSWERED--FAITH DEVELOPED--A POCKET-BOOK LOST--FOUND IN ANSWER TO PRAYER. In proof of the fact that the Lord hears and answers "the prayer of faith," the writer has had abundant evidence. Not only has he known the sick to be healed in almost numberless instances, when anointed and prayed for by the Elders of the Church, but he has had his own prayers answered in regard to other things very many times. These answers have sometimes come, too, in such a signal manner as to leave no room for supposing that they were the result of chance. From childhood he was taught by his parents to have faith in the Lord, and to appeal to him for help when in trouble. In doing so he ever experienced such relief and comfort, that it seemed the most natural thing for him to do when in need of help. When a small boy, as was the case with most other boys who grew up in these valleys years ago, he was occasionally required to herd cows. Sometimes his cows would wander off and get lost, and he would be filled with dread at thoughts of going home without them. At such times, if he could get off alone, where no other person could see him, he always liked to kneel in humble prayer and ask the Lord to prompt him to go in the right direction to find the missing animals. In looking back now at those early experiences, he cannot recall to mind a single instance in which he failed to have his prayers answered. Thus in his early years an acquaintance with the Lord was cultivated, and he grew to regard Him as his best friend--a friend whom he could appeal to, without anyone else knowing it, with perfect confidence of having his requests granted. This was a great comfort to him, for he was a very bashful boy, and could not have asked favors of others with so much freedom as he did of the Lord. Indeed, he never dared, when a boy, to let anyone know how he prayed to the Lord when beset by trouble, and how his prayers were answered. He would even shrink from saying anything about it now, were it not that he hopes an account of his experience may tend to inspire some others with faith in the Lord. On one occasion when riding on the range on the west side of the Jordan river he lost a pocket book, containing a considerable amount of money and valuable papers, from his pocket. When he discovered his loss he had traveled perhaps about twenty miles, and had no idea where he had lost it. Much of the distance he had traversed was over the rough prairie where there were no roads and where sage and rabbit brush grew in abundance. Any person acquainted with the condition of that region of country when in its wild state, can understand how fruitless a search for so small an article as a pocket book would be likely to prove on the Jordan range. One might almost as well hunt for a needle in a haystack. However, with many anxious forebodings, caused principally by the fact that much that the pocket book contained was not his own, and that he could not replace it, if lost, he mounted a fresh horse and started upon his search. He made his way as nearly as he could judge, without any track to guide him, over the same route he had first traveled till he got some distance out on the range. There, when far out of sight of human eyes, he knelt and called upon the Lord in earnest prayer. He asked with all the faith that he could command, that he might be led to the place where the lost treasure had fallen. Mounting his horse again, with a hopeful feeling, he allowed the animal to choose his own course, when, imagine his joy, after going a short distance, to see the pocket book lying directly in front of his horse. With a light heart and full of gratitude to the Almighty, he returned home, feeling that a more direct answer to his prayer could scarcely have been given him. JOSEPH SMITH'S FIRST PRAYER. BY G. M. Humbly kneeling, sweet appealing-- 'Twas the boy's first uttered prayer-- When the power of sin, assailing, Filled his soul with deep despair; But, undaunted still, he trusted In his Heavenly Father's care. Suddenly a light descended, Brighter far than noonday sun, And a shining glorious pillar O'er him fell, around him shone; While appeared two heavenly beings, God the Father and the Son. "Joseph, this is my beloved! Hear Him!" Oh! how sweet the word! Joseph's humble prayer was answered, And he listened to the Lord. Oh! what rapture filled his bosom, For he saw the living God. 
9402	----	BE COURTEOUS: OR, RELIGION THE TRUE REFINER. BY MRS. M. H. MAXWELL. [Illustration: MARY AND THE SICK CHILD--SEE PAGE 56.] PREFACE. The scenes and characters of this story are those once familiar to the writer. The story itself is but a disconnected diary of one who, early refined from earthly dross, lived only long enough to show us that there was both reason and divine authority in the words of an apostle, when he exhorted Christians to "Be Courteous." CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. THE PLAIN--THE ISOLATED DWELLING--BLUE-BERRY PARTY--TAKING A VOTE--TREATMENT OF NEW ACQUAINTANCES--THE FAMILY AT APPLEDALE--THE YOUNG PEOPLE UPON THE PLAIN----SINCERE MILK OF THE WORD--A CALL AT THE LOG-HOUSE--THE RIDE HOME--ORIGINAL POETRY CHAPTER II. THE KIND "GOOD-MORNING "--THE HIGH HILL--UNEXPECTED MEETING--ROMANCE AND REALITY--THE GOOD FARMER--IMPRESSIONS OF CHILDHOOD--WORSHIPING-- BEARING THE CROSS CHAPTER III THE POOR WOMAN OF THE PLAIN--THE NOTE--MOURNFUL MUSINGS--THE CUP OF TEA--THE STRUGGLE--CHARITY AND SELF--EMMA'S HISTORY CHAPTER IV. THE LITTLE TIME--HOW IMPROVED--FITNESS FOR REFINED SOCIETY--MORNING REFLECTIONS--RUTH AND BOAZ--CHARITY AND COURTESY--THE VISIT CHAPTER V. THE OLD PEDDLER--BITTER WORDS--THE MEEK REPLY--THE EFFECT--ACTING A PART--SOFTER FEELINGS--THE DEATH-SCENE--THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS--SIMPLE CHRISTIAN COURTESY BE COURTEOUS: OR, RELIGION THE TRUE REFINER. CHAPTER I. THE PLAIN--THE ISOLATED DWELLING--BLUE-BERRY PARTY--TAKING A VOTE--TREATMENT OF NEW ACQUAINTANCES--THE FAMILY AT APPLEDALE--THE YOUNG PEOPLE UPON THE PLAIN--SINCERE MILK OF THE WORD--A CALL AT THE LOG-HOUSE--THE RIDE HOME--ORIGINAL POETRY. Not more than a mile and a half from a pleasant village in one of our eastern States is a plain, extending many miles, and terminated on the north by a widespread pond. A narrow road runs across the plain; but the line of green grass bordering the "wheel-track" upon either side, shows that though the nearest, this road is not the most frequented way to the pond. Many reasons might be assigned for this. There is a wearisome monotony in the scenery along this plain. There are no hills, and but few trees to diversify the almost interminable prospect, stretching east, west, north, and south, like a broad ocean, without wave or ripple. The few trees scattered here and there stand alone, casting long shadows over the plain at nightfall, and adding solemnity to the mysterious stillness of that isolated place. It is not a place for human habitation, for the soil is sandy and sterile; neither is it a place for human hearts, so desolate in winter, and so unsheltered and dry during the long warm summer. Yet midway between the village and the pond was once a house, standing with its back turned unceremoniously upon the narrow road with its border of green. It was a poor thing to be called a house. Its front door was made, as it seemed, without reference to anything, for it opened upon the broad ocean-like plain. No questions had been asked relative to a title-deed of the land upon which that house stood, or whether "poor Graffam" had a right to pile up logs in the middle of that plain, and under them to hide a family of six. Through many a long eastern winter that family had lived there, little known, and little cared for. Nobody had taken the pains to go on purpose to see them; yet, during the month of July, and a part of August, some of the family were often seen. At all times of the year, in summer's heat and in winter's snow, the children going and returning from school, were wont to meet "poor Graffam," a short man, with sandy hair, carrying an ax upon his shoulder, and bearing in his hand a small pail of "dinner;" for Graffam, when refused employment by others, usually found something to do at "Motley's Mills," which were about half a mile from the village. Sad and serious-looking was this poor man in the morning, and neither extreme civility nor extreme rudeness on the part of the school children could procure a single word from him at this time of day. Not thus at evening. "Let us run after Graffam, and have some fun," the boys would say on returning home; and then it was wonderful to see the change which had been wrought in this mournful-looking, taciturn man of the morning. Sometimes he was in a rage, repaying their assaults with fearful oaths and bitter curses; but it was a thing more general to find him in merry mood, and then he was himself a boy, pitching his companions about in the snow, or talking with them largely and confidentially of landed estates and vast resources all his own. It is needless to inform my sagacious young reader, that the cause of this change in the poor man was rum. We have referred to the month of July and a part of August; it was during this season of the year that the plain, on account of the rich berries tinging its surface with beautiful blue, became a place of much resort. These berries, hanging in countless clusters upon their low bushes among the shrubbery, were at least worth going to see. It is the opinion of most people, however, (an opinion first entertained in Eden,) that fruit pleasant to the eye is desirable for the taste. Such was the opinion prevalent in that region; and the sight of merry "blue-berry companies," sometimes in wagons, sometimes on foot, was among the most common of our midsummer morning scenes. Equally familiar was the sight of like companies returning at evening, weary, but better satisfied; glad that, with well-filled pails and baskets, they were so near home. This was the time of year when the young Graffams became visible. The blue-berry companies often encountered them upon the plain, but found them shy as young partridges, dodging through the bushes, and skulking away as though kidnappers were in pursuit. There was, however, one boy among them, the eldest, (if we remember rightly,) who was quite familiar with the villagers. He was a little boy, not more than ten or eleven at the time of which I now write, and for two or three summers had been in the habit of bringing berries to the village, and offering them for any small matter, either for food or clothing. Both the kind-hearted and the curious had plied this little boy with questions, relative to his manner of life, his mother, brothers, and sisters; but his answers were far from giving information upon any of these points. He always declined a proposed visit by saying, "Mother don't want no company." This seemed true enough; for when any visitor to the plain called at Graffam's for a drink of water, they were never invited to enter. The water was handed them through a small opening, and the mother was seldom visible. It was one of the brightest of our July mornings, when a blue-berry company started from the village before-mentioned. Two wagons filled with young people passed along the principal street at an early hour, raising a cloud of dust as they turned the corner where stood a guide-board pointing out the _plain_ road to the pond. Onward rolled the two wagons, the tin-pails and dippers dancing and rattling in the rear, keeping time with the clatter of untamed tongues in the van. "Shall we call at 'Appledale?'" asked the driver of the first wagon, coming to a sudden stand. "Go along!" laughingly answered a gay girl in the second. "Our horse is putting his nose into your tin rattletraps." The question was repeated. "They are strangers to us," replied a black-eyed young lady, "and from seeing them at church I should think them precise. A refusal would be mortifying; and if the prim Miss Martha concludes to go, that will be still worse. We cannot act ourselves, and all the fun will be spoiled. What say you, Fanny Brighton?" Fanny, a bright-looking, but rather reckless girl, replied: "They shall not go, neither Miss Martha nor Miss Emma; not that I care a fiddlestring for their primness or their precision; nobody shall prevent me from thinking, and acting, and doing as I please to-day; from being, in short, what I was made to be--Fanny Brighton, and nobody else." Fanny spoke with her usual authority, and expected obedience; but to her surprise Henry Boyd, the young driver of the first wagon, still hesitated, and stooping down, he whispered to a mild, lovely-looking girl, who, seated upon a box, was holding her parasol so as to shield from the sun's rays a sickly little boy. "Take a vote of the company," whispered the pretty girl, whom he called Mary. "If it be your minds," said Henry, rising to his feet, "that we call at Appledale, and invite Miss Martha and Miss Emma Lindsay to be of our company, please manifest it by raising the right hand. It is a vote," he quietly continued, taking his seat. "Mary Palmer!" called out Fanny; "you are a simpleton, and so fond of serving people as to court insult." Mary's cheek flushed a little. It was not the first time that she had been called a simpleton, or some kindred name, by the out-spoken Miss Fanny; for this young lady prided herself on not being afraid to speak plainly, and tell people just what she thought of them. As we before said, Mary's cheek flushed a little; but she instantly thought to herself, "It is Fanny, and I won't mind it." So she smiled, and said very gently, "I am sure, Fanny, that no sensible person will insult me for trying to be courteous, though I may not exactly understand the way. It can do the Misses Lindsay no harm to receive such an invitation from us, and we cannot be injured by a refusal." "For my own part," said Henry, "I think that the question whether we are to be neighbors or not should be settled. They are strangers, and it is our business to make the first advance toward an acquaintance. If they decline, we have only hereafter to keep at a respectful distance." "Precious little respect will they find in me," said Fanny. "I am too much of a Yankee to flatter people by subserviency, or to put myself out of the way to gain acquaintances about whom I care not a fig. But drive on: while we are prating and voting about the nabobs at Appledale the sun is growing hot." Henry gathered up his reins, and away the wagons clattered down the long hill, and with a short, thunder-like rumble crossed the bridge between the Sliver Place and Appledale. Perhaps the writer may be called to account for this romantic name: he will therefore give it here. Appledale was once called Snag-Orchard, on account of the old trees whose fugitive roots often found their way into the road, making great trouble, and causing great complaint from the citizens, who yearly worked out a tax there. The people of that place would never have thought of calling it anything else, had it not been for Susan and Margaret Sliver, who sometimes wrote verses, and thought that Appledale sounded better in poetry than did Snag-Orchard. These ladies, (they called themselves young, but we must be truthful, even at the expense of courtesy,)--these ladies, Margaret and Susan, said that this old place was decidedly romantic; but the plain people living in that vicinity knew but little of romance. If they saved time from hard labor to read their Bible, it was certainly a subject for thankfulness. Most of them thought that Snag-Orchard was a gloomy place, and that it was a pity for so much good ground to be taken up with overgrown trees. It suited Mr. Croswell, however, who was the former proprietor. He had but little interest in the land belonging to this world, for all his relatives, nearly every one, had gone to the land that is "very far off." He loved the trees, and seemed to us like an old tree himself, from which kindred branch and spray had fallen, leaving him in the world's wilderness alone. Some thought him melancholy; but he was not: he was only waiting upon the shore of that river dividing the "blessed land" from ours; and one spring morning, very suddenly to his neighbors, he crossed that river, and found more, infinitely more than he had ever lost. After he was gone, the house was closed for a time; and through the bright days of the following summer, when the foliage became heavy upon the old trees, casting so deep a shadow as to make noonday but twilight there, and when the night breeze sang mournfully among the pines in the rear of that old house, people coming from the pond by the way of the plain looked stealthily over their shoulders at Snag-Orchard: but they knew not why, for nothing was there--nothing but loneliness and desertion. There was a report among the school children that the Croswell house was haunted; and in his merry moods poor Graffam had told the boys, how many a time upon a dark night, when going from Motley's Mills to his house upon the plain, he had seen that house brilliantly illuminated, and once or twice had heard old Mr. Croswell call to him from the window, and say, "Beware, Graffam, beware." Little, however, was thought of these stories, for we all knew that the unhappy man often went home at night with a fire upon his brain, and had no doubt but that he got up his own illuminations; and as for the admonition, "Beware, Graffam, beware," it doubtless came from the frogs, and was interpreted by his own conscience. Snag-Orchard, however, was evidently dreaded until the Lindsays came to live there, when it became less gloomy: for though the old trees with their heavy foliage were still there, descending in long sentinel-like rows down the hill-slope, until the last row drooped their branches into the bright waters of the brook, yet the rank grass around the house, that had so long raised its seedy head, and looked in at the windows, was mowed down, and sociable-looking flowers had taken its place; and then at evening, the traveler returning from the pond by the way of the plain, realized what had once been but the brilliant phantasy of poor Graffam's brain--for though Mrs. Lindsay was a widow, she was neither poor nor deserted. The reason for her coming there was not at that time known among us. A gentleman who was projecting the plan of a settlement at the pond, in reference to mill and factory privileges, bargained for the Croswell place, and early in the spring this family took up a residence there. Three months had passed away, and they were still strangers. This was not from any want of sociability upon the part of their neighbors,--or from studied indifference upon their own part, but from the time of their first coming they had seemed fully occupied with company. Gay parties upon horse-back had frequently issued from the large gate, where in years gone by oxen had walked demurely in, bearing a three-story load of hay. The long riding-dresses and feathered caps of these gay riders, inasmuch as they were new in that old-fashioned place, were judged of according to the several tastes of the farmers' wives and daughters. Some thought it pretty business for girls to be figuring about with men's hats, when there was work enough for women folks within doors: and others thought (very justly too) that the matter of this riding was no concern of theirs; and having business enough of their own, they concluded to let Mrs. Lindsay and her guests do as they pleased. This was a wise conclusion, since it daily became more and more evident that they had no intention of doing otherwise than as they pleased. Some of the family always presented themselves at church on the Lord's day, but among them Miss Emma, and an elderly woman supposed to be the housekeeper, were the only constant attendants. Thus much of the new family at Appledale. The reader will learn more as we progress in our story. "I would see Mrs. Lindsay and the young ladies," said Henry Boyd, as the servant opened the door. Henry was shown into the same room, where many a time he had sat and talked with old Mr. Croswell, but which now seemed to him like another place. A handsome carpet now covered the white oaken floor, and rich curtains partially concealed the windows once shaded by simple green. Where stood the old "sideboard" was now an elegant piano, and luxurious chairs and lounges had taken the place of Mr. Croswell's high-backed, upright-looking furniture. But Henry was self-possessed; and though there were a number of young ladies in the room, dressed in handsome morning _dishabille_, he neither stammered nor turned red, but bowing easily to Mrs. Lindsay, gave Misses Martha and Emma an invitation to go with him and the young ladies to the plain. Mrs. Lindsay saw that Martha, on glancing from the window at the rustic-looking company, could scarcely suppress a smile, so she courteously thanked Henry, and was about to excuse her daughters, when Emma entered the room. Henry could not accuse either Mrs. Lindsay or Martha of impoliteness, but he felt somehow as though there was a great contrast between this courtesy and that shown him by Emma; for she offered him her hand, and said, "It is very kind of you to call for us, and if mamma pleases, I should like to go." "I have no objection, my love," said Mrs. Lindsay, "provided you return before night." Henry assured her that they should, Martha respectfully declined the invitation, and Emma ran up stairs. "I am going," said she joyfully to the elderly woman with whom she was often seen at church. "I am going, Dora; and that dear little Mary Palmer is there." Dora arose, and pinned a thin shawl upon the neck of the delicate girl, and while she did so, looked affectionately into her white face. "Of what are you thinking, Dora?" asked Emma. "I was thinking," said she, "that my lily could shed her fragrance beyond her own garden to-day." "O, I am no lily," said Emma, half laughing, "only a poor blighted thing going out to steal fragrance from other flowers." "Well, darling," said Dora, "you can have it without theft, for we can make for ourselves a garden of spices anywhere, and then you know who will come in and eat our pleasant fruit." Emma smiled, and nodded a good-by, as she left the room. "What a singular girl is Emma," said one of the young ladies who looked from the keeping-room window, as she entered the wagon. "I was glad that they had the courtesy to offer her a cushioned seat; but she has refused it, and is riding off upon a box. Dear Mrs. Lindsay, Emma is excessively polite." "_Mysteriously_ polite, I call it," said Mrs. Lindsay. "She seems more and more to lose sight of herself, in a desire to make others happy; yet before we left the city she often offended me by her disregard of fashionable etiquette." "Yet Emma never was offensive in her manners, mamma," said Martha. "She was truly beloved, I know it, dear," replied the lady; "but her great truthfulness kept me in constant jeopardy. Just think of her telling Madam Richards that people considered her too old to dance." "Well, it _was_ a shame," answered the first speaker, "for a lady of such excellent qualities to make herself ridiculous by a single foible." "So Emma thought," said Mrs. Lindsay, "and had the frankness to tell her so. It turned out well enough in her case, it is true; for she told me when I went to apologize, that Emma had shown so much heartfelt interest and concern in the matter of her being a public laughing-stock, that she was obliged not only to forgive, but to love her the better for what I called a rudeness. But," continued Mrs. Lindsay, "singular as she is, I would give worlds to have her----" Here the lady paused, and Martha said quickly, "She is better, mother. She sleeps very well now, and her night-sweats are not so profuse." The mother made no answer. It was not because Martha's hopeful words were unheeded, but because mournful memories were at work in her heart; and to avoid further conversation she arose and left the room. "Mamma will look upon the dark side," said Martha, "but _I_ am much encouraged. Our physician says, that rambling about in the country, running in the fields and woods, climbing fences and trees, if she is disposed, will do wonders for Emma: and I believe it; for how wonderfully she has improved during these three months--so full of life, and so full of interest in everybody." Emma had refused the cushioned seat, because she saw at a glance that the young boy occupying that seat was more feeble than herself. The name of this little boy was Edwin. Emma had met him frequently in the woods, and down by the brook where he went to fish. They had thus become pretty well acquainted, and from him Emma had learned the name of the pretty girl who sat in the pew in front of their own at church--the little girl who wore a black ribbon upon her bonnet, and whose manner in the house of prayer was both quiet and devout. Edwin had told her that the name of this pretty girl was Mary Palmer; that just before their family came to Appledale she had lost a little sister; and that since then, though very quiet and kind before, Mary had been very patient, even with Fanny Brighton. Emma, therefore, was not wholly unprepared for the off-hand greeting bestowed upon her that morning by Fanny. On first getting into the wagon, she pressed Mary's hand without waiting for the ceremony of an introduction, for she knew her name. Mary loved to have Emma so near her; for though they had never spoken together before, a mutual affection existed between them; but the modest girl felt that Henry ought to have given Emma a seat beside some one who knew more than herself. "Fanny Brighton," thought Mary, "is so amusing when she chooses to be; Alice More is so witty; and the Misses Sliver so learned, Henry ought to have seen that Emma was where she would be pleasantly entertained; but I will make amends for this when we get to the plain--I will introduce her, and leave her with them." Emma, however, seemed well satisfied with her company. "I have long wanted to speak with you," said she. "That is very polite," thought Mary; "I suppose it is what well-bred people generally say. I have _really_ wanted to hear her speak, though I won't say so, for she will think that I am only trying to be polite." Emma took off her sun-bonnet when riding through the woods, and told Mary how happy it made her to hear the birds sing, and to breathe the sweet fragrance which came from the hay-meadows; but Mary felt diffident, and did not reply warmly, as she felt. She called Emma Miss Lindsay; so Emma felt obliged to call her Miss Palmer, though she longed to put her arms around her, as they sat upon the box, and call her _Mary_. All this time the company in the rear were talking in this way:-- "I suppose," said Fanny Brighton, "that this little chicky-dandy thinks she has done us a great favor, by condescending to ride in a wagon, and upon a box. If she shows off any of her aristocratic airs to me, I will soon make her understand that her room is better than her company." "What a milk-and-water looking thing she is," said Alice More; "they had better have kept their cosset at home; she will be calling, 'ma! ma!' before night." "And we will answer, 'bah!'" said Josh Cheever, as Susan Sliver put her hand over his mouth, for fear that he would give a sample. Arrived at the plains, the wagons were turned a little into the shrubbery, so as not to obstruct the passage of the narrow road; then the company alighted, while Henry and Joshua led the horses to one of the large trees, (of which there were, as we have already said, but few,) each carrying a bundle of hay under his arm. In the mean time Mary introduced the young ladies severally to Emma. Alice More professed herself very glad to see her; but this profession, for some reason, seemed to give Emma pain. Fanny made no professions at all, only coldly nodding a "how-d'ye-do," without appearing to notice that Emma wished to shake hands. The Misses Sliver were cordial enough, but too sentimental for the occasion; Miss Susan, using the language of some novel she had read, said, she hoped to find in Emma a "kindred spirit;" at which remark Fanny laughed outright, saying she hoped that "Sliver Crook" and "Snag Orchard" would not become etherialized. "I cannot talk in that way," thought Mary; "so I will go by myself, and pick berries, leaving Miss Lindsay with them." Mary felt, however, that she should like to be somewhere near Emma; so she only withdrew a little way, sitting down where she could see her through the bushes. Alice chattered away very freely for a time, and then wandered off in pursuit of Fanny, who, from the first, had not addressed a single word to Emma. But the Misses Sliver kept near her, and seemed to be making themselves very agreeable. Mary heard them mention at least a dozen books, of which she had not heard even the titles before, and she was glad for having left Emma with those who could talk of such matters. She watched her though, as she bent over the blueberry bushes, and fancied that she looked sad. Then after a time she saw her sit down upon a log, looking very languid and weary. Mary had brought a bottle of nice milk from home that morning, and the thought crossed her mind that a draught of that milk might be refreshing to Emma; so she took a bright little dipper from her basket, and ran off toward the wagon. "Where are you going, Mary Palmer?" said Alice, whom she met on the way. "Miss Lindsay looks very pale and tired," said Mary. "I am going to carry her some of my nice milk." "I would do no such thing," said Alice; "she is used to having a host of servants at her heels, and thinks that we country girls will act as her lackies. If she wants refreshment, tell her where it is, and let her go for it herself." "Why, Alice," replied Mary, "you told her this morning that you were very glad to see her, and now you have no interest in making her either comfortable or happy." "To be sure," said Alice; "do you suppose that I was going to say, 'I am not at all glad to see you, Miss Prim--I am mad enough with Henry Boyd to pull his ears, because he went to your house for you?' You would not have had me say so; but these were my feelings; so what am I to do?" "I know what _I_ would do," said Mary, firmly. "I would pray to God until I had better feelings; so that I could say from my _heart_, I am glad to see you." "O good!" exclaimed Alice, laughingly; "you _are_ getting to be religious, and I shall tell Fanny: so look out, little Miss Courtesy." "You are very kind," said Emma, as she took the bright dipper of milk from Mary. "I ate but little breakfast, and am very fond of milk. This looks so nice too, so pure and white, in this clean, shining dipper:" and Emma sat looking at the milk, as though it were a pity to drink it up; and Mary stood looking at her, until she thought that perhaps it was not polite to do so, and turned away. "Don't go," said Emma, "unless you choose to be by yourself. Sit down here just a minute. I have queer thoughts about this milk; and since we are all alone, I will tell you what they are. You read the Bible, Ma--,--I mean Miss Palmer?" "Yes; but call me Mary, if you please. I am not used to being called Miss." "Well then, Mary dear," said Emma, drawing closer to her, as they sat upon the log, "you remember where the Bible speaks of the _sincere milk_ of the _word_" Mary smiled; for she was much pleased, and a little surprised. Mrs. Lindsay and her family, with their Sabbath rides and evening dancing parties, were not of course considered religious people. "What do you suppose," continued Emma, "is meant by the sincere milk of the word?" "When a very little girl," replied Mary, "father bought me a small book called 'Milk for Babes,' and said it was for children who wanted to learn the first principles of the doctrine of Christ. That little book was all about _charity_." "Was it?" said Emma, with animation, "how strange that I should have the same thoughts, without knowing anything about it! When you gave me this milk I thought of that passage, and of the one about the cup of cold water; and now, Mary, please to say why you took all this pains for me. Was it just to be polite?" "No," replied Mary, smiling; "I was afraid that you might think me _im_-polite for offering you milk in a tin dipper, but I saw you looking pale and tired, and thought that it might do you good." "That was giving it to me in the name of a disciple," said Emma, in a low voice, looking at the milk again, as though it was now hallowed and blessed of God. "It is delicious," said she, taking the cup from her lips, "and I feel better. I am not so weary; my head aches less, and my _heart_ is refreshed." "Then I have not lost my reward," said Mary. "But here come Fanny and Alice. They are very entertaining, and the day will be less tedious if you can manage to keep with them. Fanny is plain spoken, but people call her a good-hearted girl; and Alice is so funny." "If you please," replied Emma, "I had rather be with you. I am not afraid of plain-spoken people, if they are kind. Dora is very careful to tell me my faults, but then her manner is such that I can't help feeling that it is because she loves me so well; so I am neither pained nor vexed. I used to be very partial to _funny_ people; but I feel serious now nearly all of the time. I can love Fanny and Alice; but, Mary dear, I had rather be with you, if you please." "O," replied Mary, "I love to have you with me." She was prevented from saying more, for Alice now called out, "Forward, march! Do you hear the drum?" "It is not probable," said Fanny, "that a _religious_ person like Mary Palmer will march to the tune of Yankee Doodle upon a kettle-drum." Emma looked at Mary, and saw the deep blush upon her face, and the tear that, in spite of herself, trembled in her mild blue eye. "How unkind," thought Emma, "and so _rude_ too! This plain-spoken girl has not a good heart, if people do think so. I shall ask Dora about her." "It is the signal for dinner," said Mary, recovering herself in a minute, and turning with a smile toward Emma. "Henry wants us to go to the wagons." So they walked along arm-in-arm, while Alice and Fanny whispered together about this sudden intimacy, and prophesied that hot love like that would soon be cold. "I mean to tell Mary just what I think of it," said Fanny; "for I am not afraid to speak my mind to anybody." "Well," replied Alice, "I cannot imagine what Miss Emma likes in Mary, or why Mary is so charmed with her. This much I will say, but don't you name it to any one--neither of them is at all to _my_ fancy." It was not wonderful that Alice did not know the secret of that affection between two who were comparatively strangers to each other. The reason was not plain even to Emma and Mary, for neither of them yet knew it by the Scripture name, which is "unity of the Spirit." Each had loved the other while as yet no word of communication had passed between them, because each had a portion of that Spirit which binds heart to heart. Alice would not have understood this had it been told her, for she had never entertained this gentle Spirit. She might have done so, for it knocks at every human heart; but there are other spirits there--spirits that must be cast out, before that which is long-suffering, meek, and good, will come in and sup with us. Alice would not cast emulation, pride, envy, and jealousy out of her heart, that the good Spirit might enter. Would she have done so, she might not have found it so difficult to understand what Emma and Mary saw in each other to love. The company was now assembled under a large tree near to the roadside. Henry had constructed a rude table, over which was spread a cloth, and, assisted by Joshua, he was now bringing the dinner from the wagon, while the Misses Sliver arranged the dishes. "Here is a comfortable seat, Miss Lindsay," said Henry, when the dinner was ready; and he led her to a rock beside the table, which was covered with moss. "One of nature's verdant cushions," said Susan Sliver. "Nature is very polite to the aristocracy," whispered Fanny, loud enough to be heard; but Emma lifted little Edwin to the rock, saying that it was just high enough for him. Fanny had determined to show that she was not afraid to act herself anywhere, so she talked about matters not at all interesting to the company, taking care to think differently from every one who expressed an opinion. Again the question arose in Emma's mind, whether such rudeness could be the fruit of a good heart; but she quieted herself by saying, "I will ask Dora about it." After the dinner was over, Miss Margaret Sliver began to talk of some verses that Susan had written for this occasion, and insisted on drawing them from her pocket. Susan pretended great unwillingness; but her sister easily possessed herself of the copy, which, with great pathos of manner, she read to the company. "Splendid! elegant!" exclaimed Alice; but at the same time she stepped upon Fanny's toe, and gave her a merry sidelong glance. "Beautiful! are they not, Mary Palmer?" "I am no judge of poetry," said Mary, modestly; "so my opinion is not worth having." "_You_ cannot say so, Miss Lindsay," continued Alice, "for I heard you repeating some lines this morning." "Did you," asked Emma, coloring a little, "then I think they must have been from a hymn by James Montgomery, of which I am very fond, and sometimes repeat unconsciously." "Of course," said Fanny, looking suddenly at Emma, "you think Miss Sliver equal to Montgomery." "This is not the place for me to say whether I do or not," replied Emma, quietly. "I know," said Fanny, "that there are some people who think that the truth is not to be spoken at all times; but I have never yet been afraid to say what I think." "There are things," said Henry, "of which we may not think rightly, and, understanding this, some are slow to speak." "And who is to be the judge of our thoughts," asked Fanny, "whether they be right or wrong?" All were silent now; not because they had no answer for Fanny's question, but because they were not willing to give the _right_ answer. At last, Mary, in a low voice, replied: "The Bible should be our rule, both for thought and word, and conscience must judge between that and us." "And does the Bible teach you to flatter people with your tongue, while you are laughing at them in your sleeves?" asked Fanny. "No," replied Mary; "but it teaches us to love our neighbor as ourselves, to be courteous, and pitiful." "Then I keep one requirement," said Fanny, jumping over the log, seated upon which she had eaten her dinner; "for I do pity people who are too mealy-mouthed to be honest--pity, or _despise_ them, I cannot tell which." All now had withdrawn from the table, except Emma, Mary, Joshua Cheever, and little Edwin. "Your milk is very nice, Mary," said Eddy, "but it does not cure my thirst; O I do want some cold water." "There is none nearer than the pond," said Joshua, "unless you go to Graffam's; but they are so piggish, I would choke before I would ask water of them. The last time I went there, the old woman sent one of the young ones to tell me that the village folks were an unmannerly set, and she wanted them to keep their distance. I told the girl to give my love to her mother, and tell her that she was the sweetest poppy upon the plain. So you see that it wouldn't do for me to go there again; I might get my head cracked with one of Graffam's rum-jugs." "I am not afraid to go," said Mary. "I have no doubt but that the blueberry parties are a trouble to Mrs. Graffam." "_Mrs_. Graffam!" exclaimed Joshua, laughing. "Nobody else calls her anything but Moll, and her husband, Pete." Emma now lifted Edwin from his seat upon the rock, and taking his hand, while Mary brought the bright dipper, they started for the log-house, which looked in the distance like a black stump. "It is loving your neighbor _better_ than yourself,"--said the little boy, looking smilingly up into Emma's face,--"I am sure it is, to come all this way with me." "Well, we ought to love our neighbor better than ourselves," replied Mary, who was walking behind. "We shall, Eddy, if we are like----" "Like Jesus?" asked Eddy. "Yes," said Mary. "He didn't love himself at all; but he loved us, even unto death." "How wonderful!" said Emma. "Talk some more about him, Mary dear, if you please." But they were now at the poor door, which swung upon its wooden hinges: they were about to knock, when they saw a forlorn-looking woman come from a dark closet, with a sick child in her arms. "Poor little thing!" said Mary, going toward her.[*] "What is the matter with him, Mrs. Graffam?" [Footnote *: See Frontispiece.] "He is very sick," she replied, glancing from her to the door, when Emma courtesied politely, and Edwin pulled off his hat. "Walk in," said Mrs. Graffam; "my children are all out upon the plain, but you can help yourselves to seats." Then turning to Mary she said again, "He is very sick, and I cannot tell what is the matter with him, unless it is want of----." Here she paused, and after a time added, "He is losing all his flesh, poor thing!" "Yes," said Mary, "he looks as my dear little sister did just before she died!" "When did she die?" asked Mrs. Graffam. "Just as the grass was getting green," said Mary. "It was a fit time for her to die, Mrs. Graffam; for she was born in the spring, and it seemed exactly as though the sweet bud had to go back to the summer-land before it could bloom." "And if your little baby dies, Mrs. Graffam," said Eddy, "he will be a flower in God's garden; won't he, Mary?" "Yes," whispered Mary, while the poor woman's face flushed, and her lip quivered. Mary glanced at Edwin, and remembered her errand. "Mrs. Graffam," said she, "I know that the blue-berry parties must be a great trouble to you, and we would not have come here for water, only Eddy is not very well." "You are welcome to as much water as you want," interrupted Mrs. Graffam, "and so is any one who can treat us with civility. We are very poor, it is true, and that is not our greatest misfortune either; but it is hard to be despised." While Mary was gone for the water, Emma sat looking at the sick baby, and noticed, that though the weather was warm, its skeleton limbs looked blue and cold. She was going to advise the mother to wrap it in flannel, when the thought that perhaps the poor woman had none, prevented her speaking: for Christian courtesy never says to the poor "Be ye warmed and clothed," while it provides not the things which are necessary; and fortunately Emma thought it time enough to speak of what the poor child needed, when she had _supplied_ that need. Edwin was greatly refreshed by his drink of cold water, and kissing the sick child, he thanked Mrs. Graffam, and was ready to go. "There is a good old lady living with my mother," said Emma, "who is used to sickness, and might know what to do for your babe, Mrs. Graffam; shall I ask her to come with me, and see you?" "I shall be glad to see anybody," was the reply, "who is like you or your little friends;" and bidding the poor woman a good-by, they went back to the plain. Henry Boyd remembered his promise to Mrs. Lindsay, and before the sun was down the company were on their way home. The talk and clatter of the morning were now hushed. Joshua whistled, while his horse plodded lazily along, until Fanny peevishly bade him "hold his tongue." "Anybody does that," said Joshua, "when he whistles!" but he good-naturedly stopped. Margaret Sliver undertook to repeat some poetry composed by Susan, upon the setting sun:-- The setting sun is going down Behind the western hills; It glitters like a golden crown,---- "What is the last line, Susan?" asked Margaret; but Susan was not flattered by the way her poetry had been handled at the dinner-table, and now she refused to supply the missing rhyme. The setting sun is going down Behind the western hills, pursued Margaret; It glitters like a golden crown, "_On top of Motley's Mills!_" added Alice; while Fanny, calling out to Henry Boyd, repeated the whole verse as Susan's poetry, bidding him ask Miss Lindsay if Montgomery could beat that. Susan was highly offended, saying that she considered herself insulted, and chose to walk the remainder of the way. "O no, Miss Sliver," said Joshua; "never mind Fanny Brighton--she is only one of the blunt sort, saying right to your face what other folks would say behind your back." This explanation from Joshua was rather more favorable than Fanny deserved; for she had not the faithful Christian charity, which, while it unflinchingly speaks truth to those whom it concerns, is careful to speak no evil anywhere. It was well known, that though Fanny boasted of not being afraid to tell to people's faces what she thought of them, she was not less fearless in talking of the same things in their absence; so that she differed from common backbiters only in having more--shall we call it impudence? It is a harsh name, but let us analyze the principle. What spirit possesses the human heart, when it shows a disposition to make others uncomfortable? Is it frankness--we know that it is sometimes dignified with that name; though it is little akin to the true Christian faithfulness, which, always at peace with truth, never offends against true courtesy. Charity regards the little foibles incident to fallen human nature with a lenient eye, never pointing them out to the scornful gaze of another, but remembering that they are to be touched tenderly, if touched at all; _secretly_, too, apart from the scrutiny of another, and by disinterested friendship alone. "The Sliver girls make fools of themselves, and of each other," said Fanny, when Margaret and Susan, arrived at their own house, coldly took leave of the company. "I know it," replied Alice. "To think that they will associate with us girls, pretending to be young, when everybody knows that they are not: dressing, prinking, reading novels, and making poetry; while their poor old slave of a mother is making butter and cheese." "It provokes me when I think of it," answered Fanny; "and how you can flatter them so, calling their dresses becoming, and their poetry beautiful, I cannot imagine, when you know, Alice, that it is all a lie." "Well," said Alice, laughingly, "I do it for fun. It is so amusing to see their languishing airs; and then, Fanny, to tell the truth, I have no objection to people's playing the fool, if it makes them feel better." "But I shall hate you, by-and-by," said Fanny, "for being a hypocrite." "Guess it won't be any put out to you," replied Joshua; "for you are as full of hate as an egg is of meat." CHAPTER II THE KIND "GOOD-MORNING"--THE HIGH HILL--UNEXPECTED MEETING--ROMANCE AND REALITY--THE GOOD FARMER--IMPRESSIONS OF CHILDHOOD--WORSHIPING--BEARING THE CROSS. "Good-morning, Mr. Graffam," said Emma, who was in the garden when the poor man of the plain passed along the road on his way to the mills. We have before said that morning was not the time for this man to talk, and now he felt inclined, as usual, to pass this early salutation without notice; but it had been a long time since he had been accosted in that manner. It was no uncommon thing for people to address him in this way: "Good-morning, Pete! Feel sober after your last night's high, eh?" But a respectful "Good-morning, Mr. Graffam," now met his ear. "Can it be," thought the fallen man, "that I am still _Mr._, or are they mocking me?" He looked up, but saw neither jest nor scorn upon the fair face looking over the garden-wall. "Good-morning, sir," repeated Emma; "it is a fine morning." Poor Graffam looked with his dull swollen eyes upon the bright-blue sky, and then upon the wood-crowned hill, and the shaded dell, where the waters rippled and murmured, and the birds sang cheerily, and his heart caught some apprehension of beauty, for he answered slowly, "So it is, miss,--a very fine morning." "And pray, how is your dear little babe, sir?" asked Emma, in a voice of tender concern. This question seemed fully to rouse him. There was a glance both of surprise and intelligence in his eye, as he replied, "The child is very sick;" and then repeated, as though it were a fact new to himself, "Yes, that poor child is very sick indeed." "I was at your house yesterday," continued Emma, "and promised Mrs. Graffam that I would bring a good old lady living with us to see her; but I am not well enough to go to-day." "Sorry if you are sick," murmured Graffam. "Thank you," said Emma. "I was going to ask if you would have the kindness just to call at the gate tonight, and take a small package for Mrs. Graffam?" "I will," said he, with a tone and manner something like self-respect and respect for his wife,--"I will, miss, with pleasure;" and he pulled his old hat from his head, and bowed low, while Emma bade him good-by. "Go out upon the hills, my love," called Mrs. Lindsay from her window to Emma; "it will do you no good to be tying-up flowers, and talking with ragged old men by the roadside. Put on your bonnet, and walk briskly over the bridge, and let me see you from my window upon the top of yonder hill." Emma cheerfully obeyed, and though she felt extremely languid, compelled herself to walk briskly as her mother had desired; but coming to the foot of the hill she paused, and looked doubtfully upon its steep sides and lofty top. "It reminds me of 'the Hill Difficulty,'" thought Emma; "but the Christian pilgrim did not allow himself to stop and think over the difficulties, but 'addressed himself to his journey.' So must I:" and ceasing to look at the top, but only at the place for her feet, step by step, she at length gained the summit, and waved her handkerchief toward the house. The signal was answered from her mother's window, and then she sat down upon a rock to rest. But the morning was too dazzlingly beautiful there. She felt oppressed by the glory of distant mountains, sparkling rivers, and wide-spread fields of corn and grain; but looking down a gentle slope of the hill she saw a delightful place--it was a bend of the little brook gliding through the meadow-ground of Appledale. The pines had cast their spiral leaves there, so that the hill-side and the borders of the rill looked as though covered with sunlight, though there was in fact nothing but shade, for the trees clustered together, and locked their green arms, as if to shut the brook from day-light; yet close upon the borders of that brook Emma saw a large flat rock, around which the waters played, looking so cool and inviting that she longed to be there. She put her hand into her pocket, and found, to her joy, that the dear companion of her rambles was there: it was her Bible. Happy for Emma, she had learned to prize its gentle converse above that of human tongues; and now, sitting down upon her feet, she smiled to see how glassy the pine leaves had made the hill-slope, for she could slide along with but little exertion, and soon found herself upon the broad flat rock. Taking her little Bible, she was just turning to some passages Dora had marked, when she heard a deep sigh, and saw, to her surprise, Susan Sliver seated upon a moss-turf, crying bitterly. "I am close to Sliver Crook," thought Emma, now for the first time noticing the house not far beyond the trees. "This may be Miss Susan's place of retirement, and I have no right here; but I cannot get away now without being seen; and then she seems unhappy. I should be glad to comfort her, if I could without----" Just at that moment Susan looked up, and saw Emma, who sprang from the rock, and running toward her, said: "I was not aware of a trespass upon your grounds, Miss Sliver. You will pardon me. It looked so inviting here, that I was constrained to come down from the hill." Susan, however, did not appear at all embarrassed at being caught in tears. She wiped her face with her apron, and then Emma saw an open book upon her knee. "My dear Miss Lindsay," said Susan, "it is no intrusion. I am glad to find a congenial spirit anywhere. My joy at this meeting is inexpressible; for now I know that there is one in this cold-hearted place, one beside my sister Margaret, who can appreciate my feelings." Emma was silent; for she did not understand what those feelings were, or whether she appreciated them or not. "Prom my childhood," continued Susan, "I have been among the people of my race, but not of them. I have stood alone, in a shroud of thoughts, which were not their thoughts; but few understand me, my dear, for I live in an ideal world, and whatever calls me back to this gross creation, makes me perfectly miserable: say, my dear Miss Lindsay, are these your feelings?" "Alas, no," replied Emma; "I love the world too well, and have spent many wretched, sleepless nights because I was unwilling to leave it: but that time is passed. If I have any fear now, it is that my work on earth will not be well done before I am called away." Susan turned a wondering eye upon the pale, weary-looking girl, and for a moment forgot her intense sympathy for herself. "You are sick," said she, with an expression of real interest and concern. "Yes," replied Emma, "that is evident. My friends have tried to hide it from me, and from themselves. They have sent me from place to place, but death is following me everywhere. _I_ never felt it so surely as I do this morning:" and Emma laid her head upon the moss-turf beside Susan. She looked like a faded lily, as she lay there; her white dress scarcely more white than the forehead and cheek upon which her dark damp hair rested heavily. Susan took a handkerchief from her pocket, and wrung it in the clear, cool waters of the brook, and kneeling upon the ground beside Emma, wiped her pale face, and tucking up her sleeves, chafed her poor withered arms, until Emma revived. "Thank you," said she; "I was a little faint. Mamma is so desirous for me to exercise in the open air, that I go every day to the farthest limit of my strength. I was not able to climb that hill this morning." Susan made no reply, but sat looking mournfully into her face. All the morning she had been weeping over the sorrows of an imaginary being whom she had found in a novel wandering about, and falling at every step into the most superlative misery. It was hard for Susan to read, and not identify herself with this beautiful suffering shadow; but now she had come from her ideal world, and was forced, for a time, to forget both the shadow and herself. Close to her father's old farm-house, and in the woods of Sliver-Crook, she saw what, described in a romance, would have been pathetic enough, but which, seen in reality, called out from her heart the good rational sympathy which, though buried in sentimental rubbish, was not dead. "Do you really think," said she, bending over Emma, "that you must----" Emma smiled, as she replied, "What difficulty we find in pronouncing that word! One would think that there was a sting in the very _name_ of death: and so there is, Miss Sliver, until God gives us the victory, through Jesus Christ." "Jesus was a beautiful character," said Susan, taking up Emma's Bible, beside which the red-covered novel lay blushing as if in an agony of shame. "I have often felt," she continued, "a strong desire to visit the places hallowed by his personal ministry; the garden where he kept his sad night-watch, Miss Lindsay; the Mount of Olives, and the clear-gliding Kedron. O," continued Susan, enthusiastically, "I should like to stand where the Marys stood, on the dreadful day of his crucifixion, and visit the tomb where they went, bearing sweet spices. O, wouldn't it be delightful?" "Yes," replied Emma, languidly; "but we should not find him there now,--upon Calvary, or the Mount of Olives; by the sweet-gliding Kedron, or in the Garden of Gethsemane,--unless we were like him, meek and lowly, and such can find him anywhere, Miss Sliver. The spirit of Jesus would hallow _this_ book, making it blessed and holy like the waters of Kedron; and this high hill might be to us what the Mount of Olives was to the disciples--for that was sacred only because Jesus talked with them there. Dora told me last night that the Holy Spirit could make any place holy." Susan was silent. Emma had spoken words to which something within bore witness as truth, and she knew not what to say. Emma, too, lay musing for some time; and then raising her head, and resting it upon her hand, she said: "How wonderfully self-denying Jesus was, Miss Sliver. Nobody appreciated the Saviour when he was upon earth, not even the disciples; yet this was nothing to him, for he did not seek his own glory. He went cheerfully about his Father's work, never thinking of himself, and never feeling himself degraded by the presence of a poor, sick, sinful multitude." "I know it," said Susan, thoughtfully; "but the world will never see another Jesus, Miss Lindsay." "O, it will, it will," replied Emma, with animation. "When human hearts are willing to let his Spirit dwell in them, human hands will do the work which Jesus did; and so his kingdom will come, and the world will see and acknowledge their King." A shrill blast from a horn, at the farm-house across the brook, now interrupted their conversation. "It is time for me to go home," said Susan; "but I shall not consent to leave you to climb that hill again today--you must go to our house, and stay until you are rested." This kind decision of manner, so unlike anything she had before seen in Susan Sliver, quite interested Emma. She did not feel averse to a further acquaintance, and taking her arm they crossed the rustic bridge, and were soon at the farm-house. An elderly man, wearing a Quaker hat, had just entered, and Emma heard him talking to a good-looking old lady, who, both warm and tired, was vehemently beating a minute pudding. "Thee looks tired, Sarah; where are the girls?" "Can't say where Susan is," was the reply. "Margaret is up stairs, sewing." "Well, there is a time for everything, and the girls are old enough to know it; but here comes Susan. Come, Susan, thee ought to be helping thy mother these hot days; but who is this friend?" "Mrs. Lindsay's daughter," said Susan. Emma might have saved her graceful courtesy this time; for the old gentleman did not return it by taking off his broad-brimmed hat: yet she felt the sincere politeness of his manner, as, offering his hand, he said, "I am glad to see thee, child; how is thy mother?" "Very well, thank you," said Emma, taking a seat upon the cushioned chair, which Susan brought and placed near the open door. The old lady was not less cordial in her manner toward their visitor; but she seemed in a great hurry to get dinner upon the table, for the men were coming from the field, and the sun had crossed the noon-mark. Emma was glad to see Susan taking hold to help her mother; and presently Margaret came down stairs, dressed a little too much, and a little too girlish, but appearing very kind and good-natured. "What shall I call thy name?" asked the old gentleman. "Emma, if you please," was the reply. "Well, then, Emma," he continued, "thee is welcome to our table; take thy chair along, and eat dinner with us." Emma felt but little appetite for a farmer's dinner; but she saw that the family would feel more comfortable if she was at the table with them, and prompted, not by appetite, but by true courtesy, she did as she was desired. The farmer folded his hands, and the whole family sat for a moment in rigid silence. Emma was not accustomed to any form of thanksgiving before meat; but she understood this silent expression, and sympathized therein. "Thee looks delicate," said the old man; "what shall I give thee to eat, Emma?" "Anything, sir," answered Emma, with habitual politeness, though she did feel a preference for the milk which came up to the very rim of a large pitcher upon a corner of the table. Margaret began to apologize for the coarseness of their meal: but her father interposed, saying, "It is good enough for well people, and as good as we generally have; but if thee has anything a little nice for a poor appetite, bring it to thy friend." "Now," thought Emma, "Christian politeness bids me put them at ease in this respect." So she said frankly, "I would rather have a glass of your nice milk than anything else." "Thy wants are easily supplied then," replied the good man, as he filled her tumbler, and laid a slice of bread upon her plate. Again Emma thought of the "sincere milk of the word," and looking at the plain old farmer, she wondered if he had not grown to the stature of a Christian, by means of this simple charity. "Has thee been long out of health?" asked the farmer. Emma was not startled by this question, though her mother and sister, had they been present, would have considered it a rudeness. "I was very healthy when a little child," replied Emma. "This feebleness came on me by degrees,--I can scarcely tell when it commenced." "Very likely," replied the farmer. "I lost two sisters by consumption; they appeared much as thee does." "Father!" exclaimed Margaret; and the old gentleman recollected himself. "I don't conclude from this," said he, "that thy case is one of consumption:" and he looked kindly into Emma's face, as though desiring to be both considerate and sincere. "It would not alarm me to hear you call it by that name," replied Emma. "I am in the habit of regarding death as at the door; and wish so to do, because I am thus constantly reminded that what my hands find to do must be done with my might." "I am glad to hear such a testimony from thee," said the old man, earnestly. "It is a pity that any of us should forget the work to be done in this world, and the shortness of time." The dinner was now over, and Emma, greatly refreshed, shook hands with the farmer and his family, promising to call again; and then took the short way of the main road to her own home. The old man looked after her, as her white dress glanced through the green trees by the roadside, until she descended the hill, and was out of sight. "What does thee think of that child, Sarah?" he asked, turning to his wife. "Well, Enoch," was the reply; "_I_ think that she is ripening for glory." The good woman was not of the same religious persuasion with her husband; but this small matter never interrupted the most cordial interchange of religious sympathy between them; and now his eyes filled with tears, and he felt as he had often done before, that "the Spirit" moved Sarah to give this testimony. "Margaret," said he, turning to his daughter, "thee can learn a great deal from that child, though she is much younger than thyself." Margaret felt the slight pettishness which always attended a reference to her age, and was about to ask her father how he knew her to be much older than Emma Lindsay; but a more rational feeling had been roused in her heart, and for once it predominated over this folly. Margaret was not like her sister in the matter of romance and abstraction from every-day scenes and pursuits, though she loved to regard Susan as something wonderful, and show off her literary productions. Margaret's foible, on the contrary, was too great a love for the present world. Unfortunately, she had fixed her heart upon what is too evanescent for the love of an immortal. Youth, beauty, and the graces of fashion were the shadows at whose shrine she worshiped, though the substance was gone. Thus precious time was spent in seeking to repair its own breaches, and she saw not that they widened day by day--saw not how the cunning device by which she sought to hide the footprint of years, only left that foot-print more visible. God had given both Margaret and Susan better food for the immortal mind, but they, like many others, chose to feed upon the wind. No wonder that they were ever unsatisfied. The plain people of that region, who boasted of nothing superior to _common_ sense, regarded the Sliver girls as curiosities. Some called them _soft_, and thought there was a lack of head wisdom; many laughed about them; but no one, save Fanny Brighton, laughed _at_ them. Their parents were highly esteemed; and it may be a matter of wonder how they came to be what they were. The cast of human character is usually taken in childhood--an important fact to those charged with so responsible a trust; and it was during Margaret and Susan's childhood, that a vain and sentimental lady sojourned for two summers at their father's house. The unsuspecting farmer and his wife never thought of examining the stock of books with which she loaded the old case in the "fore-room." Having no time for reading except Sundays, uncle Enoch never expected to get through "Barclay's Apology," without neglecting his Bible, and this he had no intention of doing. It was not, therefore, to be expected, that he would spend time to read even the titles of Mrs. Coolbroth's books. But Margaret and Susan, bright, sensible children then, were beginning to feel the thirst often felt in childhood--the restless craving of the spirit for something new: no wonder, then, that they seized the fruit so "pleasant to the eye," and as it seemed to them "desirable to make one wise." Thus the poor girls were lured from the plain homely path, which, plain and homely as it is, always proves at last the way of pleasantness and the path of peace. They knew that people called them odd, and in this they gloried. Fanny Brighton they regarded as a rude girl, who, though she vexed them, never put them out of humor with themselves. But now, strange as it may appear, the quiet Christian words and manner of Emma Lindsay had done this, and they could not tell why. Those words and that manner, so courteous and kind, were not calculated to wound, yet they felt wounded. Emma had not done it--it was the _truth_ dwelling in her heart, and showing itself in its most appropriate dress, which is Christian courtesy of manner. Margaret sat down that afternoon, with a desire to redeem some of the time which, when she thought of Emma, seemed indeed to be passing away; and Susan, when she meditated on what Emma had said of Him who never scorned the humble paths of usefulness, and through his life-long went about doing good, felt that it was time to examine the spirit that would worship, without _bearing_ the Saviour's cross. CHAPTER III. THE POOR WOMAN OF THE PLAIN--THE NOTE--MOURNFUL MUSINGS--THE CUP OF TEA--THE STRUGGLE--CHARITY AND SELF--EMMA'S HISTORY. Seated upon her low door-stone was Mrs. Graffam, the poor woman of the plain. It was almost night; the sun had gone down, leaving a long red line upon the western horizon, which cast a lurid ray upon the gathering twilight. The poor children of that log-house were fast asleep: for all that day they had been out upon the plain, where the sun, from a cloudless sky, glared down upon them; and now the evening shade was beautiful, and so soothing too, that neither the hard pallet of straw, nor the hungry musquitoes could drive sleep from eyes so weary. The sick babe was asleep too: all day it had moaned in its comfortless little cradle, for the mother had work to do--hard work, and abundant--for a family so large and poor. Heavily sat poor Mrs. Graffam upon the door-stone, waiting, she could not tell for what. Many years before she had waited at twilight for her husband's return, and listened, as the wind rustled the leaves, because she loved to go out and meet him as he neared their home. But those years were gone, and with them the lovelight and beauty of both heart and home. The contrast between that barren, desolate plain and her former home, was not greater than the contrast between the glad heart of other years, and the one sinking despairingly as she sat upon the door-stone that night. At last she heard a heavy step along the path leading from the narrow road to that lone hut; but the sound of that step only deepened the shadow that gloomed around her. She sat motionless; and there was something in her manner like the resignation of a stricken, but trusting heart: but it was not that; it was only the sullen gloom of despair. Nearer and nearer drew the footstep, and she rose from her seat, that her poor besotted husband might pass to his bed of straw; but he did not pass in,--he only looked at her for a moment, and then averted his eye, for very shame because she had perceived that he was not drunk. The bag which he had carried week after week to the mills and brought home every night empty, because he deemed rum more necessary for himself than food for his family, was now filled with flour; but he said nothing, and she too was silent, as she followed him into the hut, and took the large basket which he offered her. Opening this basket, she found a note, and returning to the door, read as follows:-- "MRS. GRAFFAM:--_Dear Madam_,--I was not able to come and fetch our good Dora to see you to-day; but your husband has kindly promised to call this evening, and take the little matters which I have put up for the dear sick baby; and to-morrow, if it please God, we will see you at your own house. "Your friend, EMMA LINDSAY." Graffam looked at his wife as she came in with the note, and, notwithstanding she had lately spoken very harsh words to him, he pitied her, and somehow felt as though she was not greatly to blame for calling him an "unfeeling brute." On the other hand, as Mrs. Graffam took the things from the basket, she glanced toward her husband, and thought to herself, "He is sober to-night, and it is all owing to the kind politeness of that dear girl. His self-respect is not entirely gone, for he would not appear drunk before Emma. If I could command patience to treat him with civility, there might be some hope in that;" so turning toward him she asked, "Have you taken supper, Mr. Graffam?" The poor man hesitated. He was really hungry; for that which had proved to him both victuals and drink, was now wanting; but he feared to speak of his hunger, lest his wife should say, "The children have no rum to drink, and it takes all the food _I_ can supply, to keep them from starving." "Here is a nice loaf of bread," continued Mrs. Graffam, cheerfully, as she took the things from the basket, "and a paper of tea; Miss Emma could not have intended these for poor little Sammy: so, if you please, Mr. Graffam, just light a fire under the kettle, and I will make you a cup of tea." "And a cup for yourself," said Graffam, as he lighted the dry sticks in the large stone chimney, and then peered into the corners of the room in search of his children. "They are all asleep," said his wife; and the poor man turned quickly toward the fire again, for he feared that she would add, "The poor creatures have been out upon the plains all day: Heaven knows what we shall do when the berries are gone." But Mrs. Graffam said nothing more. She set out the pine table, and going to an old chest brought a white cloth; it was of bird's-eye diaper. Graffam remembered well who wove it; and a pleasant vision came along with that white table-cloth. He saw his mother, as in olden times, weaving; while he stood by her side, wondering at the skill with which she sent the shuttle through its wiry arch, and noticing how the little matter of adding thread to thread filled the "cloth beam" little by little, until the long "web" was done. "Such is life," thought Graffam; "the little by little of human action goes to fill up the warp of time, and decides the worth of what we manufacture for eternity." Then he looked sadly over his own work, and could but say to himself, "It is all loose ends, loose ends. What a web for eternity!" "Supper is ready," said Mrs. Graffam, and the poor man turned toward the table. The white loaf was there, and a basin of the berries his little ones had picked from the plain. In a solitary cup (for it was the only one saved from their wreck of crockery) Graffam saw his tea, and offered to exchange with his wife for the broken mug, into which was poured a scanty portion for herself. "No, thank you," said she, "this is very well;" and they were seated at the table. It was upon the whole a cheerful meal. It seemed as though each one had been a long journey, and had just returned; they were pleased with each other, and talked of old acquaintances, and other days, themes upon which they had held no converse for a long, long time past. As their supper was finished, the little one in the cradle moaned again, and Mrs. Graffam brought from the basket a long flannel dress, and put it upon "wee bit," gently rubbing its blue limbs; then, with something of the freedom and confidence of other days, she laid poor baby upon its father's knee, and going again to the friendly basket, brought thence a bottle, from which she dropped a little fine-flavored cordial into warm water. The babe opened its large eyes upon its mother, as though wondering what it could be that was so good upon its poor little tongue and lip; then rubbing its tiny hands up and down the flannel dress, it looked smilingly into the father's face, and uttered an expressive "goo!" The parent was not quite dead in that father's heart, though long buried beneath the waves of selfish indulgence. He looked upon that poor little creature, and wondered that he could ever forget one so suffering and dependent. "The baby feels better," said Graffam to his wife; and he thought to himself, "I too should feel better, could I break my chains and be a man." Through most of that night Graffam thought the same thing, and wondered if it could be done. "I have dug my own grave," thought he, "and officious hands have helped me in; they have cast over me the dirt of scorn and ridicule, until I am well-nigh buried alive. O, if there was left in others one particle of respect, I might come forth from this grave! I know that I might, from the little of kindness and civility shown me this day. I was once respected, and so was my wife; but I have dragged her down, down with me. It is a shame, for she is worthy a better fate." Thus thought poor Graffam through many hours of that night, and in the morning he turned from his hut again, with but little hope of seeing it as he did then, with open eyes, from which his soul looked forth; thinking, hoping, fearing, yet ready to struggle once more for life. It was a beautiful morning, and Emma sat beside the open window, less languid than she had been the day before. Dora was putting things in order, when Emma asked this question:--"Through what medium do we see people, Dora, when we discover nothing but their faults?" "Through the medium of self," was the ready reply. "If there is anything offensive in a person, self is nettled on its own account, and in its excitement sees nothing but the offense." "How would charity act toward a person whose manners are extremely rude?" asked Emma. "Charity is always giving," replied Dora, "while it exacts nothing. It is never jealous of its own dignity. It never behaveth itself unseemly; but beareth, hopeth, and endureth all things, even from those who know nothing of its own sweet expression--courtesy." "I must see Fanny Brighton again," thought Emma, "and ask Charity to lend me her eyes, that I may see if there is nothing good in her; or if I can manage to put out the eyes of self, by seeing nothing through this medium, perhaps charity will become eyes to the blind." It was by the blessing of God upon the humble efforts of that pious old lady called Dora, that Emma had become what she was. Mrs. Lindsay was a worldly woman, and the time had been when she had no higher hopes for her children than to see them richly gifted with worldly accomplishments. Her two eldest daughters, Helen and Amanda, had been models in this respect; and for a season the mother rejoiced in this pride of her eyes. But there is a strange intruder often found where he is least desired, and never retiring simply because his presence is deprecated--that is death. Who has not entertained this uninvited guest? When Helen and Amanda began to droop, as Emma now did, Dora was the oldest servant in Mrs. Lindsay's family, and highly esteemed, both on account of her fidelity and her pleasing manners. "There is something peculiar about Dora," Mrs. Lindsay would say, "she is never untruthful and never impolite; two ideas which, in the eyes of fashionable etiquette, seem antagonistic. It was not, however, until her daughters began to show symptoms of decline, that Mrs. Lindsay understood this peculiarity in Dora. "You must turn that religious woman out of your house," said the physician, "or I cannot save your daughters." And Dora was severely reprimanded by her mistress for the extreme discourtesy of offering to read to the young ladies from the Bible. "What can she think?" asked Helen, with concern. "The doctor says that I shall be well in a few days; but Dora looks serious, and offers to read to me from the Bible. You will not have me deceived, mamma?" "No, love," said her mother, trying to persuade her own heart that there was no cause for alarm. "Dora is religious, and such people always have fits of being disobliging." "She is extremely kind to me in everything else," said the poor girl; "it is only in this thing that she makes me unhappy." "She shall make you unhappy no more; I will forbid her to approach your room." And so she did. Dora was accused of impertinence, and felt most keenly that truth and the world's etiquette were at war. Days passed on, and there were serious faces, more than one, in that house where it was impertinent to speak of death and eternity. It is true, that for a time gay visitors were admitted to Helen's chamber, and there was hollow laughter there, as they talked of balls, parties, and new fashions, and told the poor girl that she was looking better every day: but Dora saw them whisper, and shake their heads to each other as they passed out; and she saw that every day the mother grew more fearful as it regarded the daughter, and kinder toward herself. At last she was told that Helen wanted her; but she was charged to be careful, as the poor girl was extremely weak. "Dora, Dora," said Helen, "_you_ will tell me the truth. Mother said that I should not be deceived; but I have been, O, I have been cruelly deceived." Dora talked soothingly of Him who is the resurrection and the life: but the poor girl had opened her eyes all too suddenly upon the startling picture of death; and now shrinking from his cold embrace, she could not hear of hope and comfort. Her dying words were to the mother fraught with keenest anguish, for she spoke of this cruel deceit unto the last. Amanda soon followed her young sister to the tomb; but the mother was spared the self-accusation and bitter sorrow attendant upon Helen's death. Early in her sickness Amanda was consigned to the care of Dora. It was in vain that the physician expostulated; Mrs. Lindsay feared nothing so much as again to hear words of reproof from a dying child for having deceived her. Dora kept her post with Christian fidelity, and Amanda entered the dark valley and shadow of death fearing no evil. Emma was at that time five years of age, and Martha ten. "My dear madam," said Dora, "fashion has robbed you of a great treasure. Your daughters, predisposed to consumption, cannot safely obey its whimsical demands." "Nonsense, Dora!" replied Mrs. Lindsay. But when alone, she thought seriously upon what the good woman had said. Memory brought before her mind pictures from which she could not turn. The thin-soled shoes, and silken hose, in which fashion had required her delicate daughters to promenade the damp walks of the city; the flimsy ball-dress, the prolonged dance, and joined with these, the sudden exposure to a wintry air, were shades upon the bright picture of pleasures past,--dark shades indeed, but awfully true. "Perhaps Martha and Emma may be spared to me," said the mother to her fashionable friends; "but how can I think of the conditions!" and her friends talked over the matter among themselves, and concluded that, after all, a person's life was of but little value, if they must live secluded from the world; and they gave Mrs. Lindsay a remote hint, that it was best to let her daughters live _while_ they lived. Mrs. Lindsay, however, had more than once stood upon the threshold of another life, having followed a husband and two daughters to the silent tomb: and in her secret heart she suspected the small value of what she had purchased at so great a cost. It seemed hard indeed to deprive her beautiful children of a fashionable education, and the struggle was very severe; but the mother triumphed over worldly vanity, and Monsieur de la Beaumont was told that his services in the family as dancing-master were no longer desired. "One strange ting!" said monsieur; and the world at large thought the same. Mrs. Lindsay considered herself as having made a great sacrifice to affection, and sometimes feared that she might live to see the day when she should wish her little novices out of sight, somewhere. One thing she determined on, however; and that was to take as much of the world as she could get herself, and thus solace herself for what she was to lose in her daughters. It cannot be supposed, that with this resolution the mother would reserve time for the care and culture of these little ones, who were given over to Dora with but one hope--the forlorn one--that she would save them alive. This the old lady could not promise to do; for she understood that having the sentence of death in ourselves, we are not to trust human means and precautions, but only Him who raiseth the dead. She, however, cheerfully undertook the precious charge committed to her trust; glad from her heart that the poor lambs had been saved from the slaughter, and praying most earnestly that they might be claimed by the Great Shepherd, and gathered to his fold. Martha was a very quiet, thoughtful child, with speech and manner much beyond her years; she was not, therefore, strictly confined to the nursery, but allowed to mingle freely with her mother's guests. Emma, on the contrary, was much younger, and full of wayward humors. She greatly needed a mother; but the sacred writer has declared, "She that liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth." How many little hearts have proved the bitterness of that truth! God in mercy saved little Emma from this sad experience, by raising up for her infancy and childhood such a friend as was the pious, faithful Dora. "It is a promising bud," thought the good woman, "but it may wither even without the blight of fashion; so I will try to secure for it an immortal bloom." Thus in the morning Dora sowed her seed, the "good seed" for an immortal harvest; and soon the tender blade began to appear--a most ungainly thing in the eyes of her mother; for the first fruit of Dora's good seed, as shown by little Emma, was a great love of truth--a love which as yet she knew not how to regulate or apply. She was a beautiful child; and for a time her mother's vanity was gratified by having her brought from the nursery to her drawing-rooms, to be caressed, admired, and praised for her smart speeches; but after a time her truth-telling propensity became too evident. The polite occupants of the drawing-room began to whisper among themselves that Miss Emma was a spoiled child, and had better be kept in the nursery. Mrs. Lindsay was soon of the same opinion; for scarcely a day passed when Emma's truthfulness did not prove a nettle to her own vanity. "The child is rude," she would say to Dora,--"insufferably so. She told Madame A. that she looked like an apple-tree; which might have been taken for a compliment, had not the saucy little sprite explained herself by pointing to that old tree in the garden which the flowering shrubbery has decked with every variety of blossom: Mrs. A. is extremely fond of fancy colors. And when I took her to Bowker's the other day, that sick Miss Ellenwood was examining his new French goods, and called my attention to a splendid piece of muslin, and asked if it was not of beautiful texture. 'Dear Miss Ellen-wood,' interposed Emma; 'you will not want a _figured_ muslin for a _coffin_ dress.' Think of that, Dora." "Well, my dear madam," replied Dora; "the child heard some of your friends say that this vain sick girl, who is spending all her slender income in dress, would want money soon to pay for a shroud." "Certainly, Dora, that has frequently been said; but the child should know better than give such a hint to the young lady herself! Several ladies were in the store, and I felt extremely mortified and shocked." Such complaints were frequent; and at last the good Dora answered all, by begging the mother to have patience both with herself and with the child. "This truthfulness," said she, "is of excellent quality, but it is now rough from the quarry. By-and-by charity will make its rough places smooth; for love not only refines and purifies, but it _polishes_ the hewn stone after the similitude of a palace." Mrs. Lindsay did not understand these words, and derived but little comfort therefrom. She could not see how Emma's bluntness was to be refined, save by putting her into fashion's crucible; and this she more than once resolved to do, at any risk. With this resolution, however, there always came a fearfulness, which seemed a warning voice from the tomb, bidding her "beware;" and to this voice of warning she took reluctant heed. Pursuing a quiet course of study under private tutors, Emma was still left morally and physically to the care of her pious friend. Dora planted in hope, and now the precious shoot was caused to spring forth by Him who giveth the increase. This precious shoot of moral strength, ungainly, and without form or comeliness to the world, she watered, tended, and watched, with earnest faith for the Husbandman, whose pruning knife should convert it into a goodly tree. Emma sometimes came to her friend with puzzling questions; among those most frequently asked were the following:-- "How mamma could be 'not at home,' when she was in her chamber?" "How she could be extremely glad to see people who, she said, were 'bores, and not to be endured?'" "Why it was more impolite to tell people what was foolish in their appearance, than to laugh about this appearance in their absence?" It was difficult to answer these questions, without casting a shade over those whom Dora wished the child to love and respect. Sometimes she told the little girl that it would often hurt people's feelings and make them very miserable, to know just what others thought of them. And yet the child would reply: "You say that if we would listen to God's little voice in our hearts, it would tell us all that is wrong. Why does he want to hurt folks' feelings? You had me read in the Bible about the truth, how, if we come to love it, it would make us free; but mamma says it is often impolite to speak the truth." Dora felt, as many under similar circumstances have felt, the earnest question pressing upon her heart: "Who is sufficient for these things?" and with greater trembling was it asked, as Emma grew in stature and increased in knowledge; for she saw that with the good seeds thorns had sprung up. Emma began to pride herself upon independent thought and action, and to show symptoms of haughty disdain toward those who stooped to the deceit of fashionable etiquette. Dora was often pained to hear her speak of things done and said, not for truth's sake, but because it _plagued_ others. It was evident that she was beginning to exult in the embarrassment which she often occasioned, but saw not the wicked self hiding beneath her garb of truth. Dora tried hard to point out this inward foe, but, with the blindness of a natural heart, Emma, having eyes, saw not; and the good woman knew well, that the child could not see, unless He that openeth the eyes of the blind should say unto her, "Receive thy sight." She told her of that charity which hopeth, believeth, and endureth all things; which, giving no place to falsehood, still never behaveth itself unseemly. She warned Emma of the heart's Ishmaelite--that truth which, incased in the armor of human pride, ever turns its hand against its fellow: but Emma did not fear this "strong man armed;" so she was led captive by him at his will. Thus she was growing up like a beautiful flower thickly set with thorns. There were, however, some among her mother's fashionable friends who professed themselves charmed with her wit and originality. Martha had passed the age at which her young sisters began to decline, and gave evidence of established health. She was now allowed to attend evening parties, and was found very tolerably, though not what the world calls "highly accomplished." There were those, however, who thought that Martha's solid education, good judgment, good sense, and good taste, were accomplishments enough. Mrs. Lindsay could not help feeling very well satisfied with her discreet, amiable daughter, though she was not eligible to a place in the ball-room, having never learned to dance. But it was not until people began to call Emma a comical little beauty, and beg her mother to fetch her to their select evening parties, that Mrs. Lindsay ceased to feel chagrined at the sacrifice made to affection. Emma was not long in learning by what pretty names she was called; and with this knowledge came the strong desire to sustain a reputation for wit and beauty. Dora saw the canker-worm at the root of that precious plant for whose perfection she had waited with long patience. Emma sometimes came home and repeated her triumphs and comicalities to this faithful friend, but receiving no answering smile, but, on the contrary, a solemn word of reproof or warning, she would often burst into a flood of peevish tears, saying that Dora was getting cross, and did not love her as formerly. In this the good woman saw signs less fearful than those of moral disease, but no less true; saw that this exposure and excitement were rapidly wearing away the frail foundations of health; and all that she feared was frankly expressed to the mother: but Mrs. Lindsay having once more allowed the film of vanity to blind the maternal eye, saw not the danger. The question, however, came to a speedy issue; for, attending a party one evening where the rooms were newly papered, and where, notwithstanding she felt chilly, her mother would not allow of her being wrapped in a shawl, Emma took a violent cold, which was immediately followed by a cough, and many other symptoms of rapid decline. Greatly alarmed, Mrs. Lindsay consulted her former physicians, and was again flattered with the hope that change of air, change of scene, and other changes, would speedily produce a change of health. Emma knew the history of her family, and understood well why she was hurried from land to sea, and from thence to other places remote from her home. Dora was not allowed to accompany her, because the physician said that her "long face" would be an incalculable injury; but that face, always beaming with the soul's deep interest and affection, was ever present to the sick girl. Through many a night-watch of suffering and feverish anxiety, those loving, earnest eyes seemed looking into her own; and Emma would say to her sister Martha, "Dear Dora! how I long to see her! she loves me, and prays for me; it seems to me that with Dora near I should not be afraid to die." Thus Emma talked; and the sensible, affectionate Martha saw that change of air and change of scene could not benefit her young sister, while her mind was so fevered and tossed; she therefore entreated her mother to return home, and after a time succeeded in making her understand this to be the best course. "O my dear Dora," said the poor weary child, as she found herself once more in her own room at home, with the good woman at her side, "I am so glad--_so_ glad to see you. And now I want you to stay with me, and talk as you used to when I was a little child. O, it makes me miserable to think how my heart wandered away from you, and from the Saviour, Dora; for I used to feel when a little girl that he loved me." "And he loves you still, dearest," replied the old lady, her heart swelling with gratitude to God. "He loves you, Emma, and will receive you freely, dear, without one word of reproach, if you will only come back." "I think so," said Emma, while the tears ran freely down her pale cheeks. "I did not spend those long dreadful nights, Dora, without thinking of him; and though ashamed of myself, I ventured to ask him, over and over again, to pity my wretchedness, and love me still. One night--it was not long ago--he seemed to come to me, and say the very same things which you have just said,--that he would not cast me off; that he loved me, even then." What a moment of joy to the faithful Christian, who had sowed in hope, but whose faith had been so severely tried. The tranquillity of mind which followed Emma's return home, operated favorably upon her health, and in a few weeks she was able to mingle with the family as formerly. Her mother did not propose her going abroad for company; but Emma seemed to take pleasure in being one of their small parties at home. Very different, however, was this pleasure from that which she had formerly sought and experienced. "What a change in Emma Lindsay!" was an exclamation frequent among her mother's friends. "Her pertness, repartee, and saucy witticisms are all gone. What have they been doing for her? This winning softness and grace of manner seems foreign to her nature." "I never thought," said another, "that I should come to love Emma Lindsay; but I do, and cannot help it--she is so lovely, so polite, and yet so _sincere_." A mystery, indeed, to the worldly wise, how politeness and sincerity could be made to embrace each other. The solemn subjects of death and eternity were matters of frequent and free conversation between Emma and her pious friend; and now, though there seemed some respite from the speedy execution of the sentence, "Thou shalt die, and not live," neither thought of the matter in any other light than that of a _little_ time given for work important to be done. Happy for Emma that she took this view of the subject, since it saved her from that remissness too common among the followers of Christ. "The Lord seems to have need of me," Emma would say to the good Dora; while she would answer, "Yes, dear, but be ready for him at his coming; be sure that you are able to say, 'I have _finished_ the work thou gavest me to do.'" Notwithstanding these favorable indications, as it regarded the health of her daughter, Mrs. Lindsay was sometimes roused from her security by symptoms less favorable, and at last resolved to follow the advice of Emma's physician, and take up a permanent residence in the country. Hence their removal to Appledale. CHAPTER IV. THE LITTLE TIME--HOW IMPROVED--FITNESS FOR REFINED SOCIETY--MORNING REFLECTIONS--RUTH AND BOAZ--CHARITY AND COURTESY--THE VISIT. The little time allotted Emma seemed important, not only as it regarded her duty to others, but also in respect to herself. She desired a complete fitness for the refined society which she was about to enter. She wished, above all things, to become meet for an inheritance with the saints in light; and for this fitness she strove, using with diligence every means relative to this end which God had placed within her reach; and, as a valuable means, she availed herself of the spiritual perception and Christian fidelity of good Dora, who was always ready to aid her. "Tell me," she would say, "all that you see or _fear_ that is wrong in me; help me to examine my motives, emotions, and affections:" and Dora covenanted with Emma to this effect,--a sacred covenant, and one that should be oftener made among those who would be made perfect. It was in accordance with this covenant that Emma had spoken fully of her feelings and impressions respecting Fanny Brighton; and we have seen how faithfully this good woman kept her part of this covenant, by pointing out to Emma the judgment of charity and the judgment of self. Emma still sat by the open window, upon that fine morning, thinking and feeling, as she long had done, of the heart's great depth of deceitfulness, which no man could know, and no human power could reach, when she saw Mr. Graffam coming along the road. Poor Graffam, though in his sober senses, had been longer crossing the plain that morning than usual. Far down in the depths of his beclouded soul there was a love of the beautiful, and that love on this morning had been stirred within him. His eyes had been open to see the glittering dewdrops upon the tall wild flowers and green herbage of the plain, to see the giant trees stretch their green arms toward the sky; and his ears had been open to hear a sweet concert upon their topmost branches. Poor buried soul!--how it struggled for a resurrection; now leaping with joy at the thought of its own affinity for the pure and beautiful, and now sinking, sinking, sinking with the one blighting thought of human scorn richly merited. Night after night had poor Graffam reeled from side to side of that grass-tufted road, while the plain seemed to him an interminable lake of fire, amid whose scalding waves there rolled and tossed poor wretches like himself; and morning after morning he had returned by the same road, feeling as though a frost-breath had passed over the lake of fire, leaving it rough and leaden like a lava-deluged plain. But now, whence came the wonderful beauty of the widespread landscape? He knew in part, and brushed his old jacket sleeve across his swollen eyes. He feared that the vision was fated to pass away, "For my character is gone," said he; "nobody respects me; they call me 'old Pete,' and I am doomed." But a new feeling now came over him. He was nearing Snag-Orchard. The old chimneys were seen among the tree-tops, and strange to himself, (for years had passed since he had cared for his personal appearance,) he found his right hand tucking up its brother's dirty wristband, and adroitly turning the torn part of his old hat-rim to the side opposite Appledale. "Good-morning, good-morning, Mr. Graffam," was the cheerful greeting coming to him from a chamber window. But lo! he has forgotten the torn rim, and now it is flapping most gracefully, as the hat descends from the head, and is waved toward the window. "Stop, if you please," said Emma; and she ran down the stairway, and along the garden-walk, toward the gate. "Why, who is Emma flying to see?" asked Martha, as she saw her sister's white dress flitting past the window. One of the visitors looked toward the road, and, unable to speak for laughter, pointed out poor Graffam, who, standing with his crazy hat in his hand, and his long shaggy hair falling in tangled masses over his neck and forehead, was now examining his great red hand, to see if it was clean enough to shake the delicate little hand cordially offered him. "How is your babe this morning?" asked Emma. "Better, thank you," replied Graffam; and growing warm-hearted in her sunlight, he told her how the little thing had smiled, and crowed at him; or _began_ to tell, and then stopped short, fearing that he should forfeit her respect. "It is a dear child," said Emma; "and perhaps, Mr. Graffam, it may please God to restore him to health, and he may grow up to bless the world." Graffam started. The idea that a child of his should grow up to bless the world seemed too marvelous; "and yet," thought he, "I was not made for a curse." "I hope that he may live," said the poor man sincerely; and wondered how that hope came, for formerly the child's life had been a matter of utter indifference to him. "If it please God," added Emma. "It has pleased God," said Graffam, "to lay three of my children beneath the sod, and perhaps it were better if they were all there, for we are----" "Are what, sir?" "Poor and despised, miss." "God does not despise the poor," said Emma. "When his Son came to live among men, the poor of this world were his chosen friends and companions." "Perhaps so," the poor man said, and turned his head mournfully away: "if poverty were all----" "He does not despise the _sinner_ either," said Emma, softly; "so far from that, he delivered his only Son unto death for their sake." Graffam lifted his eyes from the ground, and looked seriously into her face. "There was a time, miss," said he, "when that was a precious thought to me. Then to know that God was my friend, was enough, and I was happy; but that time is passed. I parted with his friendship to gain that of the world, and now I have lost, hopelessly lost all--all!" This was said in a tone of deep despair: so deep and sad, that it called tears of pity to Emma's eyes, as she earnestly replied,-- "O do not say that _his_ friendship is hopelessly lost, Mr. Graffam; for you know, sir, that he does not hate what the world hates. He hates nothing but sin, and even from that his great mercy separates the sinner, and makes him an object of love. Jesus, Mr. Graffam, is the _sinner's friend_." "Yes, miss," replied the poor man; though Emma saw that the faith of this great truth did not enter his heart. There was no room as yet for so pure a faith. The soul's great idol, whatever it be,--the "man of sin" sitting in the place of God,--must be dethroned before the Holy will enter in. Yet Emma's words stirred still more those powers of the soul which Graffam had felt that morning struggling franticly with their chains. There was a strange mixture of hope and despair in the expression of his countenance, as he turned away, bidding her a sad "good-morning." "O," thought Emma, as she looked after him, "is there none to help? Poor Mr. Graffam might become a good and useful man: his family might live out among people, and be happy. I pity them from my very heart;" and thinking over the matter, Emma walked out into the road, wandering down the hill, across the bridge, beneath which the bright waters glided very soberly that morning. Here she paused awhile, looking over the wooden railing at the reflection of her own thin figure and pale face. "O Emma," she said, "what thou doest, do quickly; for there is neither work, knowledge, nor device in the grave, to which thou art hastening." Slowly, and somewhat wearily, she ascended the opposite bank, and then away in his field, working busily, she saw friend Sliver. She knew him by the broad-brimmed hat, which now and then bobbed up above the wall as the old man picked up the stones, and then resumed his hoe. Intent upon his work, he hoed long with his eyes upon the ground: but at last he paused, and holding the hoe in one hand, drew a checkered handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the perspiration from his face; in doing this, he glanced toward the road, and saw Emma leaning over the wall, apparently inspecting his work. "Good-morning, Mr. Sliver," said Emma. [Illustration: EMMA AND THE QUAKER.] "Ah, how does thee do?" replied the good man, with evident pleasure. "I was not looking for thee in the potato field." "I suppose not," replied Emma, smiling. "I am like Ruth, the Moabitess, who went to glean in the fields of Boaz: only she wanted grain, and I want counsel." Friend Sliver laid down his hoe, and coming up to the wall, asked, "What is it, child?" "You know Mr. Graffam, sir?" "Thee means Peter, who lives upon the plains?" "Yes, sir." "O yes, I have known him some years; given to drink, Emma." "I know it," replied Emma; "but need he be lost, sir? He has a wife and four pretty children; can't he be saved?" "I see but one way," replied the old gentleman; "and that is to get him employment away from the mills. Motley keeps spirit for his hands. I have tried to help Peter by employing him myself, but he is very sullen when not in drink." "I will tell you the reason of that," said Emma; "the poor man has naturally great self-esteem, and people irritate and crush him by showing him no respect." "People can't show what they have not," replied friend Sliver, with a slight twinkle in his bright gray eye. "Can thee respect a drunkard, Emma?" "I can respect a _soul_, sir," replied Emma, warmly,--"a soul made in the image of God, though it were sunk in the very depths of pollution and wretchedness; and so can the 'Great and Holy One,' Mr. Sliver, or he never would have sent his Son to redeem the world." The sly twinkle vanished from the good Quaker's eye, and he looked seriously, earnestly, into the face of that dear girl. "Emma," said he, "what would thee do for Peter and his family? Can I aid thee in any way?" "You have done so already," said she, "by speaking of the temptations to which he is exposed. I think that I can persuade mother to employ him; and Mr. Sliver, as you are acquainted with the people here, you may do Mr. Graffam a good service, by persuading your neighbors to feel and to manifest some interest in himself and his family; ask them not to allow their children to call him 'Old Pete,' 'Old toper,' &c., and twit him of riding a high horse." "I will," replied friend Sliver, "and I will do anything else in my power to help thee." "Thank you," said Emma, smiling, and sliding from the fence; "I am greatly obliged to you; good-by, Mr. Sliver." "Farewell!" replied the old man, as he once more watched her descending the hill, and thought of what Sarah had said about her "ripening for glory." It was on the afternoon of that day that Dora and Emma set out for a visit to the plains. "I think," said the former, "that we had better ride around by 'Snow-Hill,' and inquire at Mr. Cotting's respecting this family." Mr. Cotting was the minister, and his wife was considered a very active woman, and such in truth she was. Sewing circles, Sunday-school exhibitions, donation parties, &c., had been quite unknown to that community until Mrs. Cotting came. It was said, too, that she had visited all the poor families around, and fitted out their children for Sabbath school. "If," said Dora, "we succeed in getting this poor family of the plains to mingle with their fellows, Mrs. Cotting's help will be needed; she is directress of the sewing circle, and from that can obtain clothing for the children." "Dear Dora," replied Emma, "don't propose any such thing, either to Mr. Graffam or his wife, now. It won't do--not yet. We will call and see Mrs. Cotting, if you please. She may know this family, and may be able to tell us how to manage. Here is the road which goes around by Snow-Hill: but stop a moment; there is Willie Graffam and his little sister, just coming from the plain. "How do you do, Willie?" continued Emma, as the children, each carrying a basket of berries, drew nearer. "Very well, thank you," said Willie, taking off his hat; and the little girl courtesied, without lifting her eyes from the ground. "We are going over to see your mother," said Emma. "Mother will be very glad to see _you_," replied the little boy; at the same time looking inquiringly at the horse's head which was turned toward Snow-Hill. Dora smiled at the emphasis bestowed upon _you_, and asked Willie "if his mother would not be glad to see her." "I guess so," was the reply; "but----" "But what, Willie?" asked Emma. The little fellow hung his head, and answered in a lower tone, "Mother don't want to see the minister's wife, for she has been at our house once." "I am afraid," said Dora, as they passed on, "that this family is one whom it will be difficult to benefit." "You will excuse me for keeping you in waiting so long," said Mrs. Cotting, as she entered the room where Dora and Emma had been seated for nearly an hour; "I understood the maid that it was Mrs. Lindsay herself, and I was in _dishabille_. My duties are so numerous and so pressing," continued Mrs. Cotting. "One might think that the cares of a family were sufficient for a wife and mother; but added to this, to have a whole parish upon one's hands." Here she paused and sighed. "Your situation," replied Dora, "is indeed one of earnest duty and responsibility; but the abundant grace provided for our utmost need is found, I trust, sufficient for you." Mrs. Cotting bowed, and Dora continued: "We will not take your time, madam, which must be fully occupied. We called to inquire respecting a family called Graffam, living upon the plain." "I know them," said Mrs. Cotting, "as indeed I do every other poor family in town. These Graffams are very strange people. I called there with Mrs. Jefferson Motley, the wealthiest lady at the mills. Graffam had a child at that time lying at the point of death. He was at home, and, what is a rare thing, was sober; but neither he nor his wife seemed at all grateful for this attention from myself and Mrs. Motley. We were at that time hunting up children for the Sabbath school; and in our charitable work were not unwilling to visit the most degraded. We told Graffam and his wife so; and told them, moreover, that we were desirous to rescue their children from ignorance and infamy. I had a bundle of clothes for the children, which I offered to Mrs. Graffam, on condition that she would keep them clean; never allowing them to be worn in their own dirty hut, but saved expressly for the Sabbath school. Then I talked to her faithfully of her own evil ways, (for I had heard that she picked berries upon the Sabbath;) and what do you suppose the poor wretch did? Why she turned from the dying bed of her child, and looked Mrs. Motley and myself in the face, as though we were common acquaintances. 'Madam,' said she, 'your religion is not to my taste. I prefer our present ignorance, and even infamy, to what you have offered this morning. As for picking berries upon the Sabbath, I must refer that to Him of whom, I must confess, I know too little; but my parents taught me that God is just, and I believe that he will justly judge between the rich who pay their laborers in that which is neither money nor bread, and the mother who, for lack of bread, must break the Sabbath.' Think what an impudent thrust at Mrs. Motley!--her husband allows Graffam to take up the most of his wages in rum, I suppose. It was evident that this Mrs. Graffam was no subject for charity--she was too ungrateful and too insolent; so we came away, bringing the things with us. The child died, and they would not have Mr. Cotting to attend the funeral. Graffam went for old Mr. Sliver, who sat in silence with the family for about half an hour, and then was 'moved upon' to pray. The sexton said that Graffam and his wife sobbed aloud; but I have never ventured there again." Dora and Emma now rose to depart, and in going away met Mr. Cotting at the door. Emma felt herself indebted to her minister, and, with the cordiality of true Christian friendship, returned his greeting. "We are going to visit the family upon the plain," said she, as Mr. Cotting unfastened their horse, and was about to turn him the other way. "Are you?" inquired he, "that is what I have not done myself, as yet; Mrs. Cotting received so ungracious a reception, that it rather discouraged me; if you are upon a visit of charity I hope that you will be better received." "_Charity_ ought to be kindly received everywhere," replied Emma, "since she is long-suffering and kind herself, not easily provoked, and certainly not provoking, because she never behaves herself unseemly." "No," replied the minister, thoughtfully; "it is strange that true charity should be distasteful to any one." Then offering his hand, as he bade them good-by, he said to Emma, "I hope, my dear, that this charity abounds in you." "O no," she replied, "it does not _abound_--although, I trust, it has a home in my poor heart." Emma found the door of poor Graffam's hut open, and the mother sitting beside the cradle where lay the sick babe asleep. "Walk in," said Mrs. Graffam, smiling as she advanced toward the door. Dora was surprised at the ease of her manner, and the pleasant expression of her countenance, as she handed them chairs, and seemed really glad to see them. "The babe is better," said she, as Emma advanced toward the cradle; and at that moment the little one awoke. The good motherly Dora took the "wee bit" into her arms, and talked with Mrs. Graffam about the best course to be pursued with a feeble child like that, while Emma unpacked the stores which they brought, among which were many things not intended for baby, but which she delicately classed with the rest, calling the whole "medicine." Mrs. Graffam was at first somewhat reserved; but as Dora talked to her as a friend and sister, the frost of her spirit melted away, and she spoke of her mother now dead, of brothers and sisters, some dead and some far away: and as she grew thus communicative, and the tears of fond recollection trembled in her eyes, Dora talked of Him, the dear unfailing friend, who sticketh closer than a brother; who, in all the afflictions of his people, is afflicted, and the angel of whose presence is with them to comfort and to bless. Then poor Mrs. Graffam wept much, saying that she needed just such a friend. And when they went away, she wrapped the babe in a shawl, and, taking it in her arms, went with them to the road where they had left their horse. "You will come and see me again, won't you?" she asked. And Emma replied, "Yes, Mrs. Graffam; _I_ will come as long as I am able, and when I am not, you must come and see me." "I will," was the warm reply; "I would walk miles to see you, if you were sick." CHAPTER V. THE OLD PEDDLER--BITTER WORDS--THE MEEK REPLY--THE EFFECT--ACTING A PART--SOFTER FEELINGS--THE DEATH-SCENE--THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS--SIMPLE CHRISTIAN COURTESY. "I know," said Fanny Brighton, "that there is not a word of truth in what you say. Peddlers are always liars. This ring is nothing but brass, and would turn black with a week's wearing." "I bought it for gold," meekly replied the old man, as he placed his heavy box upon the ground, and wiped the large drops of sweat from his wrinkled face. "What else have you?" inquired Alice, as she turned over a box of thimbles, and pulled out a large handkerchief. "What a splendid thing!" said Alice; but at the same time she winked at Fanny, and laughed. [Illustration: THE GIRLS AND THE PEDDLER.] "Half cotton," said Fanny; "and now pray tell me when you take time to split your skeins of silk." "I never do such a thing!" said the old man, with some spirit. "Perhaps not," was the reply; "I suppose your profits are enough to hire it done; but here is a shawl,--what is the price of it?" "Five dollars, miss; and a good bargain at that." "Five dollars! O what a cheat!" and Fanny laid the shawl, all unfolded, upon the grass, where scissors, needles, buttons, tape, pins, &c., lay strewed in wild confusion. Once more the poor man wiped his forehead, and kept his patience. It is bad policy for the poor to lose their patience. "There comes Mary Palmer, and the missionary of Appledale," said Fanny. "Mr. Cotting will have to give up his office, or take Miss Lindsay as colleague." Fanny knew that Emma was near enough to hear these remarks, but she did not know for what intent the feeble girl had taxed her strength in walking so far to see her. The old peddler was now sadly putting his things back into his box; and Fanny, looking at him a moment, felt the injustice of causing him so much trouble for nothing: so she said to him, "Wait a moment--I will take some of your knickknacks, though they are not worth buying;" and she put into his hand a bill to pay for some articles which she hastily selected. The old man thanked her, and his hand trembled as he gave her the change. Then he took up his heavy box, and Emma handed him the straps which fastened it upon his shoulders. "Is it very heavy?" she asked. "Yes," was the reply, "it is; but I am used to heavy burdens." "Well, the burden and heat of your life's day is almost over," said Emma, as, assisted by Mary, she drew the strap firmly into the buckle. "Then, sir, if you are a Christian, you will _rest_." "I know it," said the old man; "I know it, child:" and he looked at Emma, as though she had given him something better than silver or gold. "Call at the large house, among the apple-trees," said Emma, "and tell the lady that her daughter sent you." All this time Fanny stood as if counting her money, while the old peddler went along. "He has cheated himself in making change," said she; "I owe him a quarter more." "Never mind," said Alice; "you paid enough for the things, and that is clear gain." Fanny paid no attention to Alice, but ran after the old man, and gave him all his due. Emma saw this; and the charity in her heart which "rejoiceth not in iniquity, but in the truth," exulted as one that findeth great spoil. She forgot the bitter remark which Fanny had made respecting herself; forgot all, except the one joyful thing that Fanny was not wholly selfish. "We walked over to see you for a little while," said Mary, as Fanny came back; and Emma was far from feeling it a rudeness, though Fanny did not say, "I am glad to see you." She, however, invited them into the house where her grandfather and grandmother lived--for Fanny was an orphan. Emma was very tired, and Fanny brought a pillow, which she placed upon the old-fashioned lounge, and asked her if she would like to lie down. She saw that Emma was pale, and this little act of kindness was prompted by a momentary feeling of pity: yet Fanny was ashamed of this kindness, and afraid that Mary and Alice would think her anxious to show Miss Lindsay particular attention; so putting on her old "care-for-nobody airs," she said, "Don't _you_ undertake to faint, Mary Palmer. We country girls are neither genteel nor sentimental enough for that." "And not feeble enough, I hope," replied Emma. "You have much to be thankful for, and so have I; for if it please God to deprive us of health, he will not leave us comfortless--not if we trust in him." Fanny was not naturally a hardhearted girl. Her aged grandparents had done much toward making her what she was. Left to them when she was but two years of age, Fanny found herself left also to the full sway of every selfish passion and desire. The old people believed from their hearts that such another child never lived--so bright, so witty, so smart, and fearless. They talked and laughed over her sayings in her presence, and, in the blindness of their fond affection, saw not that the child was impudent, even to themselves; yet there was a fountain of purer water in that young heart, though self-love was rapidly drying it up. Emma, however, had that day discovered a bright drop from that better fountain, and she believed that the wasted streams of affection might be unsealed, even in Fanny's heart; and the rude girl herself wondered at the feelings which came over her, as Emma replied so meekly to her unkind remark. "I did not know that you were out of health," said Fanny; and both Mary and Alice were surprised at the tone of her voice and the expression of her countenance. She arose too, propped the pillow under Emma's head, and begged to know if she could do anything for her. "Nothing," said Emma; "only love me: if you can do that, Fanny, I shall feel better." Fanny tried to laugh, though she felt more like crying. "I am not much like other people," said she; "and those who want to have anything to do with me, must take me as I am." "O yes," replied Emma; "if the Saviour does not refuse to take us just as we are, I am sure we ought to receive others in the same way, and love them too, even as he has loved us." Very pleasantly did that summer afternoon pass away. Emma, after she had rested awhile, thought of going home; but Fanny entreated her to stay. She wanted to show her the bee-house, her grandfather's new beehive, the flower-garden, and many other things. Mary dearly loved to be near Emma; but this good little girl possessed the very best kind of courtesy, because it was the fruit of a pure loving heart--that kind of heart always forgetting its own wishes, in gratifying the wishes of another. Mary was always happy, but it was a sweet reflex happiness. She loved Emma, and dearly loved to hear her talk; but she did not claim the right of keeping close to her side. She sometimes lingered far behind, as Fanny and Emma walked arm-in-arm; but there was neither envy nor jealousy in this. She knew that Fanny was ashamed of being kind and affectionate, and she thought it best that they should be left to themselves; so she kept with Alice, and tried to do her good. That night, as the sun went down, Fanny might have been seen standing at the door, where she had bid Mary and Emma good-night. Alice was preparing to go, but Fanny seemed quite forgetful of her. She was still looking far down the road, where Mary and Emma, with an arm around each other's waist, were walking slowly along. Alice prided herself on being more genteel in her manners than was Fanny Brighton; but she had not Mary Palmer's self-forgetting courtesy. All the afternoon she had felt vexed, because she imagined that but little notice had been taken of herself; and now, as Fanny stood so absent-minded, picking a rose to pieces, as her eyes wandered far away, Alice hurriedly put on her bonnet, and said, in a tone of pique, "Good-night, Miss Brighton; I suppose you would like now to cut acquaintance with me." "Nonsense," said Fanny. "Wait a moment, I am going a little way with you;" and as they walked along, Fanny tried to be herself again. "There comes Graffam," said she: "now I hope that he is drunk; if so, we will make him tell about the times when he was major." But in this Fanny was disappointed. Soberly, but sadly, the poor man of the plain came along, and shrunk from the gaze of those merry girls. "O," said Fanny, "Uncle Pete is not tipsy; so we shall not hear from the major to-night." Poor Graffam passed them quickly, for he heard this remark; and a deeper shade of gloom came over him. "What is the use of this dreadful struggle?" thought he. "What suffering this self-denial has cost me! and yet what is gained? Nothing, but to know that I am ridiculed and despised." "It is the first time," said Fanny to herself, as she parted with Alice that night--"the first time that I have ever acted a part: but I would not have her suspect my feelings; and why do I feel so?" Thus thought Fanny, as she sat down upon a rock by the roadside, and could not keep back the tears which came from a heart never so sad before. And why so sad? Fanny had been, for a few hours, in close converse with one who every day was becoming more and more meet for an inheritance with the saints in light. She had ridiculed and set at defiance the most common rules of politeness; but what was she to do with the self-forgetting, affectionate courtesy which she had seen, not forced nor constrained, but beaming forth so sweetly, so naturally, from those young disciples of Christ? Fanny felt that, however deceitful the world's polite intercourse might be, _this_ was holy:--and how can sin approach purity without fear and trembling? She felt this mysterious fear. The reckless girl, whose highest boast had always been that she feared nothing, now trembled, as in imagination she changed places with Emma, and stood where she saw her standing,--upon the brink of the tomb. It was on this evening that Emma was summoned to her mother's room. She found her mother sitting alone with Martha. There was no light there save moonlight, and Emma was glad, for she knew that her own countenance was deathly; and she had known that for weeks her mother had watched her narrowly. "Emma, my dear," said Mrs. Lindsay, "you understand the reason of my coming to this place--that it was solely on your account." "Yes, mamma," said Emma. "I have invited some of the gayest of our young friends," continued Mrs. Lindsay, "to keep us company; and all this because I wanted you to make the most of being in the country. I have them here, my love, to talk, to ride, to run, and walk with you. This was the advice of your physician. He said that you would soon become healthy and happy, provided his directions were faithfully followed: but they are not; and how can we expect these favorable results? You neither ride nor walk with suitable company; not that I care much about your present associations. If they are conducive to health, that is sufficient: but I have reason to think, dear, that you spend a great part of your time alone--that you go into the woods, not with your gay young friends (as the doctor requires) to run and have a good frolic, but to sit down and read. Is it not so?" "Yes, mamma," said Emma, "it is so. I cannot run now, and I get very tired in walking only a short distance; but it _rests_ me, dear mother, to read the Bible." "But how can I have you go away alone to read your Bible, and think sadly of--being so weak?" asked her mother. "Not sadly," replied Emma; "I do not think sadly, mother, for all the sadness is gone; and if I have not become healthy, I certainly have become happy, very happy, since we came to Appledale. It is true that I see a great deal to be done now, and wish sometimes that those who have the prospect of years before them would undertake this work." "I am glad that you mentioned this," said Mrs. Lindsay; "you have imbibed some of Dora's strange notions, my dear, about living for others. You may be assured, Emma, that I have not sacrificed so much for any object save that of your health. I did not leave the society of the refined and intelligent for the sake of benefiting the rude and ignorant; and I would have you remember what _was_ my object. You have nothing to do with this community only with a view to your health. If such society amuses you, mingle with it freely, but waste no thoughts upon the people here. They have always taken care of themselves, and can do this still without any help from little Emma Lindsay." This the mother said playfully, as she kissed her cheek, and added: "I did not give you a fashionable education, my dear; but it was not because I intended you for a missionary." "My heavenly Father may have intended this," replied Emma; "and you would not oppose Him, mother, for he has purchased me with a great price. We may be unwilling to make the smallest sacrifice for our fellow-creatures, yet God gave his only Son a sacrifice for us." "How that child talks," said Mrs. Lindsay, bursting into tears as Emma left the room. "And yet," replied Martha, "if we cannot save her, mother, you would rather that she should be as she is." The mother made no reply, for she knew not what to say. Emma's first summer and winter at Appledale had passed away. It was a beautiful morning in May; Martha Lindsay was sitting beside a low couch where her young sister was sleeping so sweetly, so gently, that she had more than once placed her cheek close to those parted lips fearing that the breath was gone. Dora was in her little room adjoining Emma's, and with hands uplifted in prayer, was asking this one thing of the Lord, that as in life so in death, Emma might glorify him. Mrs. Lindsay was pacing the floor in her own chamber, now weeping as if her heart would break, and now striving in this hour of deep distress, to do as Emma had long entreated her to do, namely, to come weary and heavy laden to Him who in no wise will cast us out. Mr. Graffam was at work in the garden; but his eye, now clear and intelligent, often rested on the chamber windows where the curtains were folded so close and solemnly. Susan Sliver had watched with Emma many a night, and now she had retired for a few moments while Emma slept. Susan no longer sighed for Olivet and Kedron, for in a Christian's earnest daily work she had found places equally sacred. "I have come to hear thy dying testimony, Emma," said friend Sliver, as drawing his broad-brimmed hat more closely over his eyes, the old man took his seat beside the bed. Emma smiled feebly. "Are any more of my friends here?" she asked. "Fanny Brighton is in the keeping-room," said Martha. "Call her," whispered Emma; and in a few moments Fanny was kneeling beside the bed sobbing violently, while Emma pressed her hand, but could not speak. But there was a bright triumphant smile upon her face as Mary Palmer came in; and Mary smiled too through her tears. She had spent many a day with Emma since that first summer at Appledale; and now, though a little girl, and a young Christian, she felt somewhat as did Elisha when he awaited the horsemen and chariot which were coming for Elijah. Emma looked around the room and stretched her hand toward her mother, who had just entered with Dora. Mrs. Lindsay took that cold hand into her own, and then Emma repeated I Cor. xiii, 13, "And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity." Emma's breath grew shorter, but she was able to add a verse which she had often read in Dora's hymn book:-- "This is the grace must live and sing When faith and hope shall cease, And sound from every joyful string Through all the realms of bliss." These were the last audible words uttered by Emma. When another morning came it found her cold and silent, dressed for the grave. The spring blossoms breathed their sweet fragrance into her open window, but Emma was gone--gone to the land of unfading bloom; yet her life, short and beautiful as the spring, had left in passing a more enduring fragrance than that of early blossom and flower. Little by little does the husbandman cast the precious seed into the earth, and drop by drop comes the genial shower upon the green herb, yet who does not despise the day of small things? Young, feeble Christian, the world will never do thee justice, for in the great war of mighty deeds thy meek, noiseless charity is unheard and forgotten; but fear not, God keeps his own jewels. Do what thou canst, and thus provide for thyself "a treasure in the heavens that faileth not." There are some things spoken of in the town where Emma died, things not wholly forgotten, but far back in the distance of years. It is said that Mr. Graffam, who is now a Church-member and a town officer, was once a complete sot, living in a log-hut upon the plain. So much for the temperance reform. It is said, too, that the pious, charitable old lady, Mrs. Lindsay, and her good daughter Martha, now living at Appledale, were once very thoughtless, fashionable people; that the gentle, amiable Mrs. Boyd was, when a girl and living with her grandparents, one of the rudest and most reckless creatures living; that Susan and Margaret Sliver, now earnest, efficient co-operaters in every good cause, were once vain, frivolous, and almost hopelessly sentimental. Many such things are said; but there are but few who trace the changes that have taken place in those characters to their proper cause. We think, however, that if these persons could express what their secret hearts feel, they would ascribe the changes they have experienced to the grace of God first influencing them through the medium of simple Christian courtesy.