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Title: A day in the country, and other stories

Editor: Pansy

Release date: April 25, 2025 [eBook #75953]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: D. Lothrop and Company, 1885


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DAY IN THE COUNTRY, AND OTHER STORIES ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
 New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
 public domain.


[Illustration: NANNIE.]



                         A DAY IN THE COUNTRY

                           AND OTHER STORIES


                                 FROM

                             "THE PANSY"


                            [Illustration]


                                BOSTON
                        D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY
                     FRANKLIN AND HAWLEY STREETS



                             Copyright by
                       D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY
                                 1885



                               CONTENTS.


   A DAY IN THE COUNTRY.

   WHY MADGE CHANGED HER MIND.

   NANNIE'S LESSON.

   FOOLISH CHILDREN.

   SOME CURIOUS FISHES.

   TIME ENOUGH.

   A CUP OF COLD WATER.

   ON NANTUCKET WHARF.

   LILY DAY.

   THE GREENLANDER.

   SOME YOUNG HEROES.

   THE SECRET OF IT.

   THE TRUE WAY TO BE HAPPY.

   THE KING OF THE WHITE LILY.



                        _A DAY IN THE COUNTRY_

                          _AND OTHER STORIES_



                         A DAY IN THE COUNTRY.

THEY were on their way to Sabbath-school that pleasant September
morning. Maggie and Lottie Barnes, Delia and Sallie Shaw. They lived in
the city of Boston.

Because they lived in a large city, do not go and make a picture in
your mind of four little ladies with new fall suits of silk or velvet,
or soft cashmere, and new hats with nodding plumes or flying ribbons,
and trim boots, very high, and trim gloves very long, and many buttons
everywhere, because that will not be at all a true picture.

Their dresses were all faded and worn. Maggie wore an old black shawl
of her mother's, that trailed a little on the ground. Delia considered
herself royally arrayed in a rusty old black velvet sack much too large
for her, while Lottie had no protection front the cool autumn air but a
soiled and faded blue silk handkerchief spread over her shoulders, her
hat, in spite of being loaded down with purple ribbon and red roses,
went sailing off her head with every gust of wind that came along,
because it had no rubber on it. Then poor Sallie had on low shoes much
too large for her. They would keep getting down at the heel and coming
off as she clattered along, and she had often to stoop over and adjust
them. With these hindrances of hat and shoes of course they could not,
you see, go on in a very orderly manner.

They were discussing something in very loud tones. Nobody had ever told
them it was rude to talk loud in the streets.

They were bemoaning the fact that all the girls they knew except
themselves, had been to the country to spend a few days.

"I wanted to go so much," little Sallie said, tugging at her shoe as
she spoke; "I wanted to see some flowers growing. I should think we
might have gone as well as the rest," said Delia. "I think it's mean to
skip us."

"The money give out," said Lottie, clutching at her hat to prevent its
escape.

"Money is the matter with most everything," Maggie said, drawing her
shawl closer about her with a grown-up air, and a grown-up sigh.

The money of which the children talked was "The Fresh Air Fund," a sum
of money that good men and women raised to give poor children who live
in the great city a chance to go into the country for a few days, and
breathe the sweet air, run on the grass, pick flowers, and drink fresh
milk, all about which they knew nothing. This Mission School was very
large, but nearly all had been to the country; some for two whole weeks.

By some means these little girls had been overlooked.

Mrs. Eastman, their teacher, had been absent from her class for six
weeks, and all were glad to see her pleasant face in the teacher's
chair this morning.

"Now I suppose you must first tell me what a fine time you had in the
country," she said "but as our class is so large, we shall not be able
to hear a story from each one. Let all who had a good time in the
country raise their hands."

The hands went up instantly—all except four.

They sat together, so Mrs. Eastman had no trouble in seeing their hands
were not raised, and that they did not wear the bright look of the
other children.

"What is the matter here?" she asked kindly. "No hands up this end of
the class? Maggie, Lottie, how is it? Did you not like the country?"

"We never went to no country," the little girls responded in a chorus.

After Mrs. Eastman had inquired all about it, and heard how much they
wished to go, and said how sorry she was that it had happened so, she
wrote down very carefully their names, and just where they lived.

Then she asked them if they had ever told Jesus about it.

"No, we never did," they said.

"Well, my dear little girls," she said, "don't you know when you have
trouble, there is where you must take it? You must tell Jesus to-night
how much you want to go to the country, and ask him to send you. You
know it would not be a good thing for you to go for a long visit, now
that your schools have opened, but if you could go for one day, would
you not like it?"

"Oh, yes, yes!" they all answered again.

"Well you ask him, and then wait and see what he will do."

It was almost as good as going to the country to have such loving eyes
look into theirs, and say, "My dear little girls!" They all promised to
do as she wished them to.

"I don't see how it'll be done," Maggie said, on the way home, "when
the money is all gone; but teacher said Jesus could do hard things."


Monday was a long day, because these little girls were expecting
something to happen. For had not teacher said, "Ask Jesus, and see what
he will do for you?"

Sun enough, great news was waiting them when they got home. Maggie and
Lottie came running over to Mrs. Shaw's all out of breath.

"Look at that!" said Maggie, holding out a note written on rose tinted
paper, in letters almost as plain as print.

"Look at that!" said Sallie, holding up the mate to it.

"Teacher's been to our house," said Maggie.

"And teacher's been to our house!" Sallie responded triumphantly.

These notes from "Teacher" were invitations for the little girls to
spend the day with her at her country home on Saturday. They were
to take the seven o'clock train at the Old Colony station, and ride
about fifteen miles, and there Mrs. Eastman would be waiting with her
carriage.

Think of that! A carriage waiting for them!


The day came at last. Great had been the preparations all the week;
each Sunday dress had been made as nice as washing, ironing and mending
could make it. And they were all at the-depot by half-past six, in a
high state of excitement.

The day was perfect. They enjoyed every minute of the ride in the cars.
The conductor had orders to leave them at a certain station. No sooner
had they stepped from the cars, than they saw the smiling face of their
teacher. They were soon seated in a handsome carriage and rolling
over a smooth road. The air was sweet and pure, the birds sang, the
squirrels skipped about in the trees, and the golden October sunshine
made the world beautiful that morning.

"So you told Jesus about it, did you?" Mrs. Eastman asked.

"Yes'm, we did," said little Sallie. "We told him Sunday night, and he
'tended to it the first thing Monday morning."

[Illustration: MAKING WREATHS FOR THEIR HATS.]



                      WHY MADGE CHANGED HER MIND.

GRANDMA'S room was the very handsomest one in the house. Madge and
Nellie thought it was the pleasantest at least.

A bay window overlooked the street, where busy people came and went;
two other large windows, that were doors as well, opened on to a
piazza, and that piazza was a delightfully cool place to sit, on warm
days.

Grandma's large chair was out there most of the time in summer. Then
she had to take but a few steps and she was in the flower garden. In
winter the plants were in the conservatory, of course, and a glass door
from grandma's room opened into that too.

Between her pretty bedroom and the large room were folding doors. There
were soft carpets and lace curtains, pictures, great easy-chairs, and
everything for use and comfort and prettiness that could be thought of,
for everybody in the house thought nothing was too fine and nice for
grandma, and that was just as it should be.

It was a bright September morning, but cool enough for grandma to have
a fire snapping on her brass andirons in the fireplace.

Some people dread to grow old, because they are so foolish as to think
that young folks have all the good looks; but that is a great mistake.
Grandma made just as pretty a picture in her black dress, white cap,
and soft mull handkerchief folded about her neck, with her red knitting
work in her lap, and the fire shining on her silver hair, as Madge and
Nellie did over in the window in blue dresses, though their heads were
brown and curly, and their cheeks round, and smooth, and rosy.

They were busy with pencil and paper, making out a list of little girls
who were to be invited to their birthday party.

It happened that both birthdays came in September, and so they could be
celebrated together.

"Shall we invite Minnie Dale?" asked Nellie.

"No; of course not," Madge answered with a curl of her pretty lip.

"Why not?" said Nellie. "She's the best girl in school, and she's
pretty too."

"Well, it won't do," Madge declared, with the air and tone of a much
older young lady than ten. "She doesn't belong."

"Belong to what? She belongs to our day-school and our Sunday-school."

"Oh, what a little stupid you are," laughed Madge. "She doesn't belong
to our set, of course. Do you know where she lives? She lives in that
little bit of a brown house way down on Cedar street, just about as big
as our smoke house."

"Does she?" said her sister. "Why, I thought she was as good as any
of us. She always wears pretty dresses, and she acts—well, sort o'
stylish."

"You mustn't say sort o'," said Madge. "You mean she has pretty
manners; that's what they call it. Oh, yes; she's nice enough, but what
do you suppose Elsie Melbourne, and Clara Haines, and Lina Vedder would
say to meeting a girl here who lives in such a hut as that, no matter
how she looks and acts?"

"Sure enough!" Nellie answered. "It would not do, would it?"

Grandma arose just then and went to the bureau. She brought out a small
rosewood box, and sitting down again by the fire, unlocked it. This
drew the children's attention. They always liked to get a peep into
grandma's treasures. She had so many curious and pretty things, and
told such nice stories about them. So they came over to her, and this
was just what she wished them to do.

"Do you want to see my old home?" Grandma said as she brought out a
drawing and handed it to them.

"Why, grandma, what do you mean?" they both said at once.

"Why, this is a log house!" Madge said.

"And it's such a little bit of a house!" said Nellie.

"Now, grandma, you truly didn't ever live there?"

"I truly did!" grandma answered. "And a prettier home, or a happier one
you never saw.

"When I was married, I went with your grandfather to live in this
little house. It stood among the trees, and there was a brook not far
away that went racketing over the stones. We used to take long walks in
summer, after tea; in summer evenings following up that little brook.
Sometimes it ran through green meadows, and then it wound and twisted
itself around the hills and on into the dark, cool woods. There were
moss-covered stones in it, and ferns and violets grew on its banks:
such a pretty place as you never saw, my dears!"

"But how could you live in such a very little house?"

"Oh! Plenty of room," said grandma. "You wouldn't believe it to look
at it, but in that house we had a parlor, bedroom, dining-room and
kitchen. When we bought it, it had but one large room with a shed at
the back. So we set to work to make a nice place of it.

"First of all your grandfather made the old shed into the neatest
little kitchen with a corner cupboard. He whitewashed it and set up our
stove, and I put our new dishes in the cupboard, and it was as pretty
as a little girl's playhouse. The large room was a bare rough place,
but we made it white and pure with lime, and I made a curtain out of
some pretty chintz calico, and pat it across one side of the room, and
that was my bedroom; you see your grandma invented curtains between
rooms, which are now so fashionable, long ago. Well, when we had our
carpet down, and our pictures up, our books on the shelf, and our round
table with a sage-green cloth over it, a bright fire snapping in the
great old fireplace, an old armchair one side of the fire and my sewing
rocker on the other, I say, there was no neater, prettier place in the
whole world."

"But grandma, where were your parlor and dining-room?"

"My child, the parlor and dining-room were all in one. The end of the
room next the kitchen was the dining-room: when meal time came it was
a dining-room, and when meals were over we just cleared off the table,
turned down the leaves, set it back against the wall and put a spread
on it, and the room was a parlor again; don't you see?"

"Were you just as happy as you are in this handsome house?" asked
Madge, casting her eyes over the beautiful room.

"Some of the happiest years of my life were spent in this dear humble
home," grandma said as she replaced the picture in the box with a last
loving look at it.

"Just think," said wise Nellie, looking thoughtfully into the fire, "if
grandma was a little girl now she couldn't come to our party because
she lived in a log house."

"There is somebody greater than grandma you would shut out if He were
here," grandma said; "the Lord Jesus himself had no fine house. He said
the foxes and the birds had houses, but he had none."

They went back to their work of making out a list.

"Madge," Nellie said pretty soon, "I guess Jesus won't be pleased
with such a party as we are getting up. If you don't care, I mean to
ask mamma to let me have my party by myself some day, and I'll invite
Minnie Dale and that lame girl, and that Jessie Moore in our class that
wears calico dresses."

"Nellie Bryant," said Madge, "don't you suppose I want to please Jesus
too, instead of Elsie Melbourne, or Clara Vedder, or any of them? I
never thought how it would seem to him; we'll ask Minnie Dale and
everybody else mamma thinks best. If grandma lived in a poor little
house once, who knows but Minnie Dale will live in a grander house than
any of us some day?"

"Yes; and just think," Nellie answered, "if papa should lose his money
like Mr. Strong, and we have to go into a little bit of a house,
wouldn't it seem dreadful to have the girls leave us out when they made
parties, and we would be the very same girls we always were, too?"



                           NANNIE'S LESSON.

LITTLE Nannie Greyson was sitting on her front piazza one bright June
morning, when everything around was fresh and bright, but Nannie
herself was blind to all this beauty by which she was surrounded, for
she had just received a new book, and was already deep in its pages.

Nannie was a very pretty little girl about nine years old. She had
a fair skin, large blue eyes and golden hair, not long, but falling
to her neck in short, pretty curls. Any one looking at her that June
morning would immediately pronounce her very nice and lovable indeed.

The front door behind her is standing open, and presently a lady comes
through the wide hall, and stands behind the little girl. She looks
down at her without speaking, and the little girl finally becoming
aware of her presence looks up into her face with a smile which makes
her if anything, more sweet and lovable.

"O! Mamma," she exclaims, "my book is so nice."

And drawing a deep sigh of satisfaction she prepares to return to it.
But her mamma is speaking, and she stops to listen, although very
reluctantly, I am sorry to say.

"Nannie," her mamma says, "I want you to come and amuse Herbie while I
am busy in the kitchen."

Herbie was Nannie's two-year-old brother, and a lively little fellow to
take care of.

Minnie threw down her book, and when she looked up, you would scarcely
have recognized her as the same sweet little girl who looked so happy a
few moments before. An angry frown had settled on the smooth forehead
over the blue eyes; there was a fretful expression on her lips, and
she was entirely transformed from the bright, pretty little girl whose
mouth had been all smiles, to a peevish child with a pout on her lips
which was not at all becoming.

"O, mamma, must I leave my book to take care of that tiresome baby? It
seems to me I never sit down to read but you want me to do something
for you."

She knew she must go, though, and she got up slowly, going through the
hall, up the staircase, and into the nursery at the head of the stairs,
pouting and cross. She knew that her mamma was deeply grieved, and she
knew also that she never would have called her from her book had it not
been necessary.

[Illustration: HERBIE.]

But still she pouted, while Herbie tried in his baby fashion to comfort
her, for he saw something was wrong. She could not resist his baby
coaxing very long, and her ill-humor soon vanished, and they had a
merry game of romps.

Two or three hours afterward while playing with a little friend on
the back piazza, she tore a bad hole in her dress. Running up-stairs
to find mamma, she found her after a little search in the nursery
seated by the window, in her rocking-chair with a book in her hand, a
very unusual thing for Nannie's mamma, and Herbie at her feet, busily
engaged with his toys. Nannie hastened up to her, saying:

"O, mamma, just see what I have done; won't you please mend it 'quick.'"

Her mamma, instead of looking up with her bright smile and ready
consent, threw down her book impatiently, exclaiming, as she did so:

"Oh dear, Nannie, must I leave my nice book just to mend that tear? It
seems to me I never sit down to read, but you want me to do something
for you."

Nannie's eyes filled with tears, for she recognized her own words, and
knew that mamma meant to rebuke her in this way. She raised her eyes to
her mamma's face, as if asking for pardon, and as her mamma stretched
out her arms, she sprang into them, sobbing her confession there.

Nannie had learned a lesson, and one that she never forgot.



                          FOOLISH CHILDREN.

MRS. TOPKNOT is having trouble in her family to-night. Two weeks ago
she was very happy when twelve soft, downy darlings gathered under her
wings.

She is not so happy now, because some of them have been naughty.

It was just after dinner, when mamma Topknot was taking a nap, that
they took it into their heads.

Whitey began it. She was a proud little thing, all white, with not a
black feather about her. She thought she was the prettiest and smartest
of the whole brood.

"Our feathers are all out now," Whitey said. "We're growing up. Let's
take a little walk by ourselves."

"That's so," said Blackey, "we'll do just that thing. Come on, right
off, while mother's asleep; we'll get back before ever she wakes."

"Won't it be fun?" whispered Speckle. "Come on, all of you, and don't
make a bit of noise."

"I'm not going to stir a single step," little Dove declared. "I'm going
to stay close by my mother."

Then every little chick looked up in astonishment, to think that gentle
little Dovie would dare to speak her mind so plainly.

"She's afraid!" said Spot. "She's afraid a big grasshopper will carry
her off."

"I am afraid to disobey my mother," Dovie chirped out sweetly. "She
said we were never to go anywhere without her till she gave us leave."

"Come on, right off, everybody who wants to go," said Blackey, marching
off, calling out as he looked behind him:

"I know where there are some big strawberries!"

"I know where there's a great black dog," piped little Gray. "I'm not
going."

"Nor I," said Brownie.

So away went the naughty nine chickens, and the three little good ones
stayed at home.

They had a splendid time, for Bobby brought his apron full of chickweed
and threw it on the barn floor. They could get little bits of it, even
with their small bills.

[Illustration: MAMMA TOPKNOT AND HER FAMILY.]

When mamma Topknot awoke, she looked about for her children.

Only three to be found! Where could the others be? She looked all about
and called, but they did not come. Supper time came, and still they had
not arrived.

"Cluck! Cluck! Cluck!" went mother Topknot about the barnyard, as if
she would go wild.

Where could they be? If she could only squeeze herself through the hole
under the fence by which they got out, she would go in search of them.

The supper was nearly all eaten up by the other old hens before she
knew what they were about. She managed to save only enough for the
three little chicks who had stayed at home.

Just as it began to grow dark, when their mother had given them up, and
had settled down with a sad heart to take care of what children she had
left, they came.

They hopped through the fence one after another, till they all stood
before her, a guilty little huddle.

Just a minute before, mamma Topknot had thought she would give all her
feathers if she could only see them alive once more, and now just as
soon as she had them, she fell to scolding them.

Oh, how she scolded! And such a hubbub as there was. Speckle stood off
by herself and actually talked back. Two or three of the others tried
to tell how it wasn't their fault, they never would have thought of
such a thing. Then they all talked at once and told how hungry they
were and said they never would run away again.

Gray and Brownie stuck their heads from under their mother's feathers
to see how things were going, while little Dove got up on her mother's
back and tried to help scold.

Blackey scud around behind his mother as soon as he came in and poked
his head up under her wing as if he thought he could make her believe
he never had been away.

After they had all cried and said they were sorry, mother Topknot began
to pity them, they looked so cold and tired, and so she forgave them
and cuddled them all under her wings once more.

Of course they had to go to bed without any supper, but that taught
them a good lesson. They never did run away again.

That was not the only reason, though—the going without their supper.
They had a fearful time. They told about it next day.

The great black dog chased them, a cat almost got one of them, and a
boy threw stones at them.



                        SOME CURIOUS FISHES.

I DON'T suppose you think there are any fishes that can either walk or
live any time out of water. Yet there are.

The gurnard is one of the most important of the walking fish. M.
Deslongchamp had an artificial fish-pond on the shores of Normandy, in
which several of these creatures were. When he waded in the pond, he
could easily see all their movements.

On one occasion, when he was watching them in this way, he saw them
close their fins against their sides, and walk along the ground by
means of six slender legs, three on each pectoral fin. By these they
can walk very fast.

The square-browed malthe can also walk, and can live out of water.
Sometimes it spends two or three days creeping over the land. The
reason that all fishes cannot stay out of water is because they are so
made that they have to breathe air through water. All fishes are this
way, but some can carry water in their gills both for breathing and
drinking purposes for several days.

The grouper fish is very queer in that it will swallow such curious
things, which you would not think it could possibly digest. One was
caught on the coast of Queensland which, when opened, was found to have
in its stomach two broken bottles, a quart pot, a preserved milk-tin,
seven crabs, a piece of earthenware encrusted with oyster shells, a
sheep's head, some mutton and beef bones, and some oyster shells.

There is a crab in the Keeling Islands, that lives on the land all day,
returning to the water only at night to moisten its gills. It also eats
cocoanuts, opening the shell with its huge claws, and the natives of
the islands say that it climbs the trees to get them. This, however, is
not known.

Thus we see that there are some very curious fishes; yet none of them
have mind, and are not to be compared with man. Let us be thankful,
then, that God made us human beings, and not fishes.



                            TIME ENOUGH.

ELMER'S new suit had just come home.

It was brown, with dashes of green in it. It fitted him exactly, and
everybody knows it makes one feel good-natured when his new clothes fit
well. When he tried them on, nobody jerked his pantaloons down, said
they were too short, nor twitched his jacket up and said it was too low
in the neck.

He laid them carefully over the back of a chair that night before he
went to bed, then got out a clean collar and a green necktie, tucked a
handkerchief into the side pocket of the jacket, and surveyed them all
with a satisfied look.

Morning came, bright and splendid as anybody could wish. The steamboat
with flying flags stood at the wharf, and a happy company of boys and
girls, dressed in white and pink and red and blue, marched through the
streets to the sound of music.

The procession passed through the great gates and were all comfortably
settled on the boat fifteen minutes before it was time to start.

Elmer's home was a long walk from the church where the other scholars
met, so he went directly to the steamboat landing.

He had just bought a new set of marbles. They were beauties, and when
he met Will Porter, he could not resist the temptation to try his
new marbles on the broad, smooth paving-stones just above the gates
where no people were passing at this early hour. The game became so
fascinating, that the boys played on, even after the procession had
gone on board.

"Come on," Will said; "we'll be late."

"Oh, no! We won't be late. The boat will not start this quarter of an
hour," Elmer answered, aiming a great blue marble at a red one.

Now the superintendent and the teachers had warned the school many
times, "The gates will be closed at seven o'clock. If you are not on
the other side of them by that time, you cannot go."

"Be prompt, boys and girls," Mr. Willard had said as he dismissed
the Sabbath-school. "Do not come hurrying along at the last minute.
Our trip next Wednesday is one of our lessons, and it will teach
punctuality in rather a severe manner if one of you stands sorrowfully
peeping through that big gate at us, while we glide off down the river.
It will certainly spoil your pleasure and ours too if you are too late."

Not a boy who heard him thought that talk was meant for him. "'I' shall
be in time," they told themselves; "of course I shall."

Elmer and Will had each a great fault. Elmer's was procrastination. He
was always saying, "Wait a minute," "There's plenty of time," or "I'll
do it by and by." Because of this habit, he was never known to be in
time anywhere. His father had given him a watch at Christmas to see if
that would not help him to improve, but it did not; he went on saying,
"Time enough." Everybody had to wait for him.

When the rest of the family were ready for church, he would rush
through the house like a hurricane, pulling and panting, up-stairs and
down, calling out:

"Oh, dear! Can't somebody help me? Won't Mary black my boots? Do come
and fix on my collar! Has anybody seen my lesson paper?"

And so the whole house would run here and there, waiting upon one who
had dawdled away the whole morning.

[Illustration: THE BOAT STEAMED DOWN THE RIVER.]

Will's fault was different. He had no mind of his own. He was always
ruled by the person he happened to be with, and never could say "No" to
anybody, no matter what his judgment or his conscience told him.

He was uneasy now, and thought they ought to go that minute, but he
played on, though he did say: "It's time to go, I know it is; the gates
will be shut."

"No, they won't be shut either," Elmer said, drawing out his watch;
"it's exactly ten minutes before they close. We can finish this game in
five, and have plenty of time."

Watches do not always do their duty, any more than boys. Elmer's was
five minutes slow—it must have caught the disease from him. The game
went on. Will was going to win, he thought, and both boys grew excited
over it; finally they fell into a slight dispute.

And—what was that? The steamboat bell! Clang! Ding, dong! Both boys
scrambled up their marbles and rushed to the gate. It was shut! They
shouted for the gate-keeper; he was nowhere in sight.

They cried to the captain, "Wait! Wait!"

But the clanging of the bell was their only answer.

Then the call "All aboard!"

The plank was drawn in, and the boat steamed down the river, the song
of the children floating back on the breeze.

Sure enough! There they were, looking sorrowfully through the gate,
just as Mr. Willard had said.

"It was all your fault," Will said.

Then he turned and ran away as fast as he could lest Elmer should see
him crying.

Elmer looked about, astonished to find himself alone and really left
behind. He could not believe it possible that the boat would not turn
about and take him. Everybody had always waited for him before. But
there they were, speeding on their way. It was too much!

He was angry, and "so" disappointed. Left behind! And all for those
miserable mean marbles! He took them from his pocket and threw them as
far as he could. He would have scolded, but there was nobody there to
hear. He would have cried, but he thought he was too big. Oh, what a
fool he had been! Was there ever such a fool before?

He did not want to go home; he did not want to go anywhere or do
anything. He sat down on a box and kicked his heels against it. What a
mean old world it was!

Perhaps his good angel leaned over him just then, for his thoughts took
a sudden turn:

"It was my fault," he said to himself. "I'm always too late, and
everybody's poking at me about it. Why can't I turn about and be like
other folks! I declare I 'will!' I'll begin this very day."

He got down from his box at once and started towards home. In a little
old-fashioned house which he passed lived auntie Simons, an old lady
who was auntie to the whole town. She was out brushing off her front
steps.

The old lady stopped, and leaning on her broom, looked over her
spectacles a minute to make sure that it was really Elmer.

"Why, my child!" she said, as he came nearer. "What does all this mean?
I thought you had gone to a picnic."

"I got left," Elmer said, his eyes fastened on the tree trunk near him.

"Now you don't say! Too bad! Well, don't look so downhearted. Come in
and see me a spell. Come! I'm going to have flapjacks and maple syrup
for breakfast, and I know you are half-starved by this time; didn't
have time to snatch only a bite, now did you?"

What boy could withstand the attractions of flapjacks and maple syrup?
Besides, he really was hungry. Excitement had prevented his eating much
breakfast, so in he went.

While auntie Simons helped him bountifully to smoking hot cakes and
golden syrup, he told her all about it—how he came to be left, and how
he had resolved to turn over a new leaf.

"Yes, it does seem foolish," the old lady said when they sat on the
porch after breakfast, "for you to lose a whole day's pleasure just by
waiting a little bit too long, when you might have gone as well as not;
but what shall we say of one who puts off coming to Christ until it is
too late? Don't you, dear boy, say 'Time enough' to that. You can't
tell how little time there may be left. You know when the gate down by
the wharf was shut on you, you had a chance to sit down and think it
all over, and make up your mind that you would be all right the next
time, anyhow; but you see when the door is shut at the last—in death—it
is shut 'forever.' It is open now. Jesus says, 'Come.' Do not put it
off, Elmer dear."



                         A CUP OF COLD WATER.

"PLEASE to get my china cup for me, Ann," Daisy said, coming in from
the "sweet out-doors," as she called it, where she had been trying to
read her new picture-book.

Ann was shelling peas for dinner, and did not wish to be disturbed.

"What do you want of your cup?" she asked crossly.

"I want to get a drink for an old man."

"Well, take the dipper."

"No, the dipper won't do; I must have my cup, and I'm in a great hurry,
a 'fearful' hurry," Daisy said, imitating her brother Tom.

"I can't be bothered with your notions," Ann said, making her fingers
fly very fast. "I'm in a hurry too; it's high time these peas were
cooking; besides, what old man is it? I don't believe your mother would
let you give a drink of water out of your cup to every old fellow that
came along if she was at home; like enough he's a tramp."

"No, he isn't a tramp; he's a 'siple. He told me so."

"A 'siple!" Ann said, bursting into a laugh. "What's that?"

"Why, papa read about them in the Bible. They are Jesus' servants, and
he wants folks to give 'em a good drink of cold water when they are
firsty."

[Illustration: DAISY.]

"Well, I can't help it," said Ann, laughing again. "I can't be jumping
up from my work all the time to wait on everybody. Take a dipper, if
you must give him a drink."

"Oh, dear!" cried Daisy. "I told you the dipper wouldn't do. It said a
cup; and I want my very bufulest one—that one with little birds on it.
Come! Do get it for me."

"Can't do it," Ann said, shelling peas with all her might.

Poor Daisy was hot and tired. She rested her elbows on the doorsill,
and her chin on her hands, and looked very despairing. Two great tears
came into her eyes, and at last she buried her face in her white apron
and began to sob just as grandpa came along from the garden.

"Tut! Tut!" said grandpa. "What's the matter with my pet?"

He sat down on the step, drew Daisy to him, and wiped her warm,
tear-stained face with his clean linen handkerchief. It took but a few
seconds to make grandpa understand what the trouble was; then he got up
and said:

"Come and show me where it is."

The sun came out again on Daisy's face, and with her hand tightly
clasped in grandpa's, she pattered along to the dining-room closet—not
tired a bit now.

Grandpa reached down the beautiful cup, then he got a pitcher and
filled it with good cold water, and they two went down the front walk
as fast as they could go.

When old Mr. Burton started out that morning to walk to the next town,
he did not know what a very long, hot walk he had undertaken. He was a
stranger, and was on his way to his son's house. When he left the cars,
the stage had gone. He was too poor to hire a carriage to take him
over, so he had to walk five miles in a burning sun.

As he jogged along, he grew very thirsty. He wished there was a spring
by the roadside, but there was none. He came in sight of a large white
house on the hill, and said to himself:

"I have a great notion to go in there and get a drink of water; but
then, they are rich folks. They would take me for a tramp, and maybe
set the dog on me."

As he came slowly along, looking up at the broad lawn with cool shadows
of the great trees over it, he spied at the front gate a little girl.
Her rosy face was hidden away in a white sunbonnet, but her blue eyes
looked up smilingly.

"Be you a 'siple?" she asked shyly.

[Illustration: GRANDPA.]

"A what?" the old man said, looking down.

"A 'siple. Do you love Jesus?"

"Oh, you mean a disciple! Yes, little one, I belong to the Lord Jesus,"
Mr. Burton said.

"Do you want a drink of water?"

"Yes, indeed, my dear."

"Then I'll bring you one."

And Daisy's white dress vanished among the bushes while, the tired old
man sat on the green grass at the edge of the walk and waited.

He was beginning to think he should see no more of her, when she
appeared with a pretty china cup full of cold water; then grandpa came
with the pitcher full, and the thirsty traveller had all the water he
needed.

Grandpa invited him into the house to get a lunch before he went.
Then Prince was harnessed and brought round, and grandpa said he had
promised Daisy that he would take her to ride, and they might as well
drive toward Woodbury as anywhere. So they all got into the carriage,
and old Prince trotted off. The road was so smooth, the air so sweet,
and the talk so pleasant, that before they knew it, they were at
Woodbury; and there they left Mr. Burton.

He said he never should forget the little girl who brought him the cup
of cold water, but that every day of his life he would ask God to bless
her.

The verse that Daisy meant can be found in Matthew x:42.



                          ON NANTUCKET WHARF.

ALL was bustle and confusion in Mrs. Maynard's house in Boston, for she
and her daughter Mattie were going to Nantucket Beach to stay a night,
then to the Island Home to spend a week. It was the first time Mattie
had been on the cars, for she was only six years old, and she had been
but very few times on the steamboat.

At last they started. They were to go to New Bedford by the cars, and
there to take a steamboat for Nantucket.

They had a very pleasant time at Nantucket, and Mattie arose bright and
early on the morning in which she was to take her ride to Island Home.
The boat was to start at ten o'clock. There was a great crowd on the
wharf and Mattie held tight her mother's hand for fear she might get
lost.

"Why, there is Mr. Ridgeway!" Mrs. Maynard said. "He is an old friend
of mine and I must speak to him."

And she dropped Mattie's hand, and pushed through the crowd.

Mattie did not like her mother to leave her, but she stood still where
she left her, so that she might be sure and find her when she came back.

She waited there a long time, but no Mrs. Maynard was to be seen.
Mattie was very much frightened, and tried to get back to the place
where her mother left her, but the crowd was so great that she could
hardly move at all, for a little girl was not noticed at all in it.

After wandering about for awhile, a gruff voice called:

"Passengers for the Island Home all aboard! Boat goes in ten minutes!
All aboard! All aboard!"

Everybody began to push forward, and soon the wharf was nearly empty.

Mattie knew her mother had not bought her ticket, and she went up
to the ticket-office and asked the man if a "pretty lady in a linen
duster, with a red feather in her hat, bought a ticket for the Island
Home?"

"Do you think I keep account in a note-book of the color of all the
folks' dresses and what kind of feathers they have on their hats?" he
asked gruffly.

Mettle did not know what to say to this, so she said nothing, but
wandered off to the farther part of the wharf and climbed up on some
bags that lay behind a pile of boxes there. On these she knelt down and
said:

"Dear Jesus, let mamma find me soon, and keep me safely till she comes.
For Jesus' sake. Amen."

She repeated this simple prayer many times, and then went out from
behind the pile of boxes again. She was very thirsty, and was very glad
when she saw a faucet and a tin cup at the side of the ticket-office.
She took a drink and was much refreshed, but was very tired, and she
thought she would go and rest on the bags behind the boxes. She sat
down on these, and was soon fast asleep. She awoke about four o'clock
in the afternoon, and as she was rubbing her eyes and wondering where
she was, she was startled by a voice exclaiming:

"And what's the loikes of this, shure?"

She looked up, and saw a gruff, but kindly-seeming man looking down at
her. He was evidently a working-man, for he had his dinner-pail in his
hand, and was leaning on a pick-axe and shovel.

Said Mattie:

"I'm Mattie Maynard, and I'm lost. That is, mamma left me on the wharf
in the crowd, and didn't come back, and I'm awful hungry."

"And shure and me name is not Patrick O' Flannigan if I don't give ye
something to eat. Poor gir-r-l!"

Whereupon he opened his pail and offered her a generous ham sandwich.

"Oh, thank you ever so much!" cried Mattie, as she took a large bite.

True, the bread was sour and the butter was strong, but Mattie was so
hungry that she did not notice the defects in the food. Patrick sat
down on the bags and watched her eat with great interest.

"An' ye can eat now, can't ye? Poor little gir-r-l! But I must be
a-goin', shure!"

And he got up and went off the wharf.

There were many steamboats coming and going at Nantucket wharf, and
Mattie climbed up on the boxes and watched the crowds as they passed by.

But at last night came on, and Mattie did not know what to do. She
crept in among the bags, and covered herself up, but they smelled bad,
and she knew she could not sleep on them all night. She thought once
she would ask the ticket agent to let her stay in the ticket-office,
but he had spoken so crossly to her that morning that she did not like
to. She was not very sleepy, because of the long nap she had taken in
the daytime, and wandered about on the wharf till about eleven o'clock,
and then she went and sat down on the bags and fell asleep.

[Illustration: THE ISLAND HOME LEAVES THE WHARF.]

When she woke up, the morning sun was streaming into her eyes, and from
the hurrying to and fro of many feet, she knew that the morning steamer
had come in from the Island Home. She got up and watched the crowd, for
she thought maybe her mother might have gone to the Island Home, after
all, and had come back.

Sure enough! Just as the crowd had passed, she saw the "red feather" on
her mother's hat and gave a little scream of delight as she saw her go
over and speak to the ticket agent. She ran eagerly over to her, pulled
her dress and called:

"Mamma! Mamma! Here I am!"

Her mother turned suddenly and caught her in her arms and cried:

"My darling child!"

Then the whole story came out. Mrs. Maynard had been detained about
half an hour in getting through the crowd, and when she finally came
to where she had left Mattie, and she was not there, she was very much
frightened, and found Mr. Ridgeway again, and told him about it.

They followed the crowd into town, and, following them everywhere,
ascertained that she was not among them. They anxiously turned back to
the wharf just, as the steamer pulled up, and the crowd began to rush
on board. They hoped that Mattie might also have gone on the steamer,
and went through it hunting for her. But while they were hunting, the
boat started, and Mrs. Maynard was obliged to stay at the Island Home
all night, and was just coming off the steamer when she was discovered
by Mattie. They took the ten o'clock boat for the Island Home, and
spent a very happy week there. But as Mattie was going to bed that
night, she said:

"Mamma, I want to tell you something."

"Well, darling?"

"I asked God to have you find me, and to keep me safe till you did, and
I think that is the reason you did."

"Yes, darling, I think so too; and I thank him very much for sparing my
Mattie to me. Let us kneel down and tell him so now."



                               LILY DAY.

IT was surprising, how many people were of the same mind that week.
The cause of it was lilies. It seemed as if there must have been a
convention of lilies held in Fairview at that time, for they were out
in full glory.

The tall tiger lilies blazed and glowed in the sunshine; the day lilies
opened their white bells, the yellow lilies gleamed like gold, and away
down on Silver Lake, lovely pond lilies, cool, and pure, and white,
with golden hearts, lay amid broad green leaves.

The people who first got the idea in their heads that it would be nice
to put some lilies in the church that week, were very young people. In
fact, it came into one little head first—Kitty Grey's.

And how could she help thinking up all manner of splendid plans, when
she lived so near to the beautiful lake that from her window up-stairs
she could look across to the other shore and see here and there white
blossoms on the water. She clapped her hands with joy when she first
discovered them, and ran down-stairs crying:

"They're out! They're out! Mamma, can't Ray and I go in the boat and
get some pond lilies right away now?"

Silver Lake was a shallow little thing—a saucerful of water, papa
said—and Ray, though a little fellow, could manage a boat nicely. Mamma
readily gave consent, and it was but a few minutes before Kitty sat in
the stern of the boat, drawing her hand through the water, her very
dearest friend Mabel in the bow, and Ray rowing with all his might to
the spot where those wonderful lilies floated white and fair.

"I know what we'll do," Kitty said, as they filled the large basket
they had brought with them as full as it could hold. "We'll trim the
church for to-morrow."

"So we will," said Mabel.

And Ray said:

"All right; that will be splendid. I'll get a lot of ferns to put with
these."

About that time, old Mrs. Parks was walking her garden, trimming off
dead leaves and cutting flowers. She came along to a large bunch of red
lilies, and clipped them off.

"We haven't had any flowers in church this long time," she said to
herself. "I'll just send these over. They are such handsome things,
it's a pity everybody shouldn't enjoy them."

So she brought them into the house, got down from the top shelf of the
pantry an old blue pitcher, and putting her flowers in it, filled it
with water, promising herself to take them to the parsonage between
daylight and dark.

"Cinthy's tasty, and she can fix them up in shape for the church," she
said.

Cynthia Morrow was the minister's daughter. She herself had a plan for
making the little church beautiful—to smile a welcome to the Sabbath
morning.

Down at the end of the garden was a plot of day lilies. They belonged
to her. She had put them out herself, and watched and watered them,
and waited for them, and now this week they blossomed out in queenly
beauty. She intended to surprise her father next morning. How pleased
he would be to find his favorite flower on the pulpit desk, its pure
whiteness and its rare sweetness sending up incense with the songs of
praise.

The next one who gathered lilies was Miss Alice Lynde. She was a young
lady from New York, spending the summer with her uncle in Fairview.

Miss Alice took long walks every day over the fields and hills, and so
her cheeks, which were pale when she came from the city, were getting
to be the color of wild roses.

This morning her walk happened to be longer than usual. She went
farther out into the country than she had ever been before, lured on by
a glimpse of bright yellow flowers she could see in the distance. They
turned out to be lilies. Miss Alice was delighted. She filled her arms
with them at once, thinking while she chose the finest blossoms what a
lovely bouquet she would make for the church.

It would seem as if all the people who had been gathering lilies that
day had made an appointment to meet at the church after tea that
evening, but they never had, though they all met.

Nobody felt quite at liberty to carry their flowers to the church. It
might look as if they had set up to interfere with somebody's else
arrangements. So all made their way to the parsonage at that pleasant
time between the day and night when country people run in to see each
other.

Each one found that Cynthia was already at the church; gone to carry
over some flowers, her mother said.

What was Cynthia's surprise, as she stood on the platform arranging her
vases, to see Kitty and Ray come in tugging a large basket full of pond
lilies and ferns.

"Oh, what beauties! I am so glad you brought them," Cynthia was saying
when Mrs. Parks put her head in at the door.

"I s'pose you've got flowers enough without these," she said, holding
out a great bunch of red lilies.

"Oh, no, indeed!" Cynthia said. "How pretty they will be with the white
ones! I wish we had somebody to help us arrange them."

While they were all bending over the flowers admiring them, a little
rustle was heard, and when they looked up, there was Miss Alice gliding
softly down the aisle with a great sheaf of yellow lilies in her arms.
She made a pretty picture to the children's eyes, her white dress and
white hat, her smiling face, and the lovely flowers.

Their admiring "O—h—" was not meant for the flowers alone.

"I should say that all the lilies in the country have agreed to come
here and hold a meeting," said Mrs. Parks.

Miss Alice pulled off her gloves and went to work. She knew just how
to arrange flowers. Mrs. Parks went home for some pans, Ray went for
water, and Kitty hunted up some vases, while Cynthia sorted the flowers.

How lovely it was when all was done! There was a bank of pond lilies
and ferns just under the pulpit. There was a mound of red and white
lilies on the table, and vases on the desk of pure white and green
only. Cynthia said that must be so. And then there was a masterpiece
of beauty, made by Miss Alice's skilful fingers—a sort of pyramid of
flowers, all colors mingled, with feathery ferns drooping about the
whole.


Next morning at church everybody was surprised, because, as a rule,
they did not have flowers in church at Fairview, beyond a simple
handful in a vase. Nobody, though, was more surprised than the
self-appointed flower committee themselves were when the minister's
text was announced. They could not resist smiling at each other.

You see Mr. Morrow had been noticing the flowers rather more than usual
that week. Even while he was considering what his text should be, his
eye fell on a cluster of tall white lilies. He found himself studying
their graceful shapes, their whiteness and fragrance, and then began
to wonder at the thought that the same great God who made the worlds,
made the tiny flowers, and that he took so much pains, making so many
different shapes and colors, each with its own rare fragrance, to
please us because he loves us.

It was not strange, then, that Mr. Morrow's text should be, "Consider
the lilies."



                           THE GREENLANDER.

GREENLAND is a very cold country, much colder than it is here. For
three months in the year the sun is never seen; and for nearly nine
months the land is covered all over with snow. We have plenty of nice
fruit in summer, and many good things all the year round; but the poor
Greenlanders live mostly on seal's flesh, blubber, and oil.

Poor, poor Greenlanders, they live so miserably; and, what is much
worse, many of them know nothing whatever of Jesus and his love! But
God loves them; for He loved the world, and gave "his only begotten
Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have
everlasting life," so that, if a Greenlander hears of Jesus, he too may
be saved.

Now, some good men pitied the poor heathen in Greenland, and thought
they would like to go and tell them of Jesus, how he was born in
Bethlehem, how good and kind He was to every one, how He gave sight to
the blind, healed the sick, raised the dead, how He died on the Cross
for sinners, how He went to the grave and then to Heaven, how He will
come again.

Well, they went to Greenland and labored there for eight long, weary
years. At last they got tired laboring so long without any apparent
success, and thought upon returning to their homes. They had suffered a
great deal from cold and hunger, and the people only laughed at them,
and mocked them. But these dear missionaries had made a great mistake,
for instead of telling the people as they meant to do of Jesus and his
great love in dying and rising again from the dead, telling the sweet,
sweet story of the Cross, they found them so very ignorant that the
missionaries thought to begin with proving that God lives, and that He
made all things. Now, this was a great mistake, for we are sinners, and
we need to know—not that God is the Creator, but that "God is love,"
and that Jesus died.

One day a party of heathen Greenlanders came to the missionary village.
They were led by a cruel and wicked Greenlander named Kajarnak, and
entered the hut where the missionary was writing. He was finishing his
final correction of the Four Gospels, and was at the moment engaged
on that part of John's Gospel relating to the sufferings and death of
Christ. Kajarnak was surprised at seeing the missionary writing, and at
once asked him what he was doing.

"Writing."

"Writing!" said Kajarnak. "What is writing?"

The missionary tried to explain it to him, and then said, "I will read
you what I have been writing."

He read the account of Christ's agony in the garden, and then upon the
Cross, with the story of his being crowned, scourged, and spit upon. As
he read, Kajarnak became interested.

"And why," he asked, "did they treat the man so? What had he done?"

"Oh!" said the missionary. "This man did nothing amiss, but Kajarnak
did. Kajarnak filled the land with wickedness; and Kajarnak deserved to
go to hell for it. But this man suffered all this to bear Kajarnak's
punishment, that Kajarnak might not go to hell."

And then the missionary went on to tell about God's love, man's sin,
and Christ's work for sinners, till the big tears were seen to roll
down the poor heathen's cheeks, and unable any longer to restrain his
feelings, he cried—

"Oh! Tell it all over again, for I, too, would like to be saved."

He was told it all over again—it was such a sweet story. Kajarnak
believed the good news. His heart was drawn to Christ. He loved him.
Kajarnak was saved.

Are you saved, dear young reader? You have often heard and often read
of Jesus and of his sufferings. Perhaps, too, you have often wept as
you thought of the cruel men scourging Jesus and spitting on his face.
But though you cry very much, it won't save you. The blood of Jesus
puts sin away, and nothing else will do it.

Will you now love Jesus? Poor Kajarnak, from "Greenland's icy
mountains," with a heart colder than the ice, and darker than the
darkest night, yet came to Jesus, believed in God's love, and was saved.

How I long that all my dear young readers too would seek the same
Saviour, and love the Jesus that loved Kajarnak, the Greenlander.



                          SOME YOUNG HEROES.

IN a certain school, a knot of boys had their heads together disputing
about something. You could never guess what it was if you tried. It
would all have seemed strange to you: the schoolroom, the teacher, and
the scholars—their odd dress and odder speech. It was in far-off Asia,
and the scholars were not orderly as ours. The boys talked when they
pleased, and made so much din that one could scarcely hear themselves
think.

Missionaries had come to this city and opened schools and churches to
teach the people that they must worship God alone, and that Jesus died
to save them.

When the natives found that their boys were beginning to stray into
Protestant schools, they said, "We must start schools of our own," and
so they started one. But it was too late; some of the boys had already
learned to love Jesus, sing sweet hymns, and read the Bible.

The teacher in this school was a very bitter enemy of the new religion,
so he listened sharply that day when he heard a discussion going on
among the boys. It was not in our language, but it was something like
this.

One boy said it was not right to worship pictures of saints, nor to
kiss them, and burn candles before them.

Another one said: "It 'is' right; it's the only true religion."

Others joined in with the first boy, and said it was wrong, and that we
must worship none but God.

Then the dispute grew warmer, and there were cries of "Heretic!
Heretic! Mean old heretic! Mean old Protestant!" and so on.

The teacher had made up his mind that this thing must be stopped; that
the boys must not go any more where they would hear such bad doctrine,
so he said in a loud, strong voice:

"Boys, stand up!"

They all stood up.

"Now let all the Protestants step out."

He did not suppose that any one would dare to confess to him that he
was a Protestant, but those little Christians must have remembered the
solemn words of the Saviour, how he said:

   "If any men will confess me on the earth I also will confess him before
my father which is in heaven."

There was a moment's pause, then seven little fellows stepped out. The
teacher was amazed.

[Illustration: ONE OF THE SCHOLARS.]

"What!" he said. "Don't you believe in worshiping the pictures of
saints?"

"No, sir, we don't; mad please, sir," said the bravest of them all, "if
Jesus wanted us to worship pictures of the saints, wouldn't he have
left us his own picture to worship?"

This was an unanswerable argument, but the tyrant teacher did not let
them know how they had cornered him.

He said, "Boys, how shall these heretics be punished?"

And the boys decided they must be "spit upon."

So the whole school formed a procession and marched around those seven,
spitting upon them as they went.

"Now sing!" the teacher said, and all the school except the seven
struck up one of their patriotic songs.

"Sing, I tell you!" he said to the seven.

"We will, if you will sing the songs of Jesus," was the grand answer of
the martyrs.

"Sing it yourselves!" said the teacher.

And, wonderful to tell, this sweet song came to the ears of the
astonished teacher:

   "Must Jesus bear the cross alone,
    And all the world go free?
    No, there's a cross for every one,
    And there's a cross for me."



                          THE SECRET OF IT.

ONE October afternoon Frank Stevens was gathering apples in his
father's orchard. Great piles of golden pippins and rosy Baldwins lay
under the trees, waiting to be sorted and packed in the barrels that
were standing near. His brother Kent, many years older than himself,
was helping. It so happened that their work lay for a time near the
main road where people came and went. Leaning against the fence was Mr.
Marvin, who had stopped for a little neighborly chat.

Down the hill, trotting leisurely along, came a black pony. On his back
was Harry Porter, one of Frank's schoolmates. He, too, drew up by the
fence, and as he called, "Halloo, Frank!" cast a longing eye at the red
apples.

After chatting a few minutes, he trotted off again, an apple in his
hand, and two in each pocket.

"That's a splendid boy!" said Mr. Kent Stevens.

"Yes; there's the making of a fine man in him," answered Mr. Marvin;
"he's uncommonly bright, I noticed him at the examination last spring;
clear as a bell he was, working hard examples and talking off the
explanation as glibly as the professor himself. I reckon it would have
puzzled some of us committee to have done it."

Frank listened in silence as the talk went on while he sorted the fair
apples from the knurly. He had a gloomy, cross look on his face, as
though his thoughts were not pleasant ones, and he did not work in his
usual brisk way.

When Mr. Marvin went away, his thoughts came out.

"No wonder," he said, "that Harry Porter is always praised up so. He
has some chance in the world. His father is rich; he has a new book
every time he turns around; his father never goes away but he brings
him one; then he goes travelling. He has been out West and been to
Boston and New York. He has been on the top of Pike's Peak, and he has
seen Bunker Hill monument and the obelisk. Why shouldn't he know more
than any of the rest of us? He has lots of time besides, to study, and
have fun, too. Out of school he needn't do anything but trot about on
that pony. What's the use of a fellow like me trying to make anything
of himself?"

It was not such a very long time ago that Kent Stevens had been a boy
himself, even if he was now a young lawyer in the city. He came every
summer to the old home for a play spell, he called it, and then he
proved that he had not forgotten how to rake hay and pick apples. He
had not forgotten, either, how a boy feels, so he was excellent company
for Frank. He placed the last apple in a closely packed barrel, then he
turned and looked curiously at his brother.

"Why, Frank! What has got into you to-day?" he said. "You don't seem
one bit like our bright cheery boy. Do you think you are one of the
fellows who has no chance? Let us sit down in this sunny spot and rest
ourselves, and count up some of your chances.—A good home, a splendid
father and mother—to say nothing of a very wise brother—a few good
books, a weekly newspaper, a church and Sabbath-school, an excellent,
day-school, good eyes and ears and stomach, a pair of legs that can run
like a squirrel, two strong arms, and a very good mind, and here you
talk of not having 'chances!'

"How do yours look when you cast your eye at little Tim Morey with a
drunken father and a shanty for a home, or at Johnny Wilson, who is
almost blind, or poor Will Smith who must go for the rest of his life
on crutches and suffer much pain? Or compare your lot with the boys who
work in the factory, who must go to their work at seven in the morning
and stay until seven in the evening, day after day, year after year.
What about their chances? Don't you know, dear boy, that as a rule, it
is not boys with rich fathers who turn out to be the greatest men?

"Look at me," he said, straightening himself up and marching about with
mock pompousness. "Haven't I put the sweat of my brow and my muscle
into this old farm? Didn't I get out of my bed at cock-crowing and go
after the cows in wet grass up to my knees?

"Haven't I milked and ploughed and planted corn and hoed it and husked
it? And yet, I got through and had no more hard work than was good for
me, I believe now, though I used to grumble sometimes just as you are
doing now.

"I tell you, my boy, it is not in having this or that, or going here
and there, that makes a success, but it is improving, to the very
utmost, the advantages one has, though they be not the best.

"There is another secret too. One must be in dead earnest; must have an
aim and stick to it in spite of anything, and the greatest secret of
all is, that aim must not be alone to be a rich man or a learned man,
but it must be this—'to make the very most of one's self for Christ's
sake.' And you can't begin too young; the younger the better.

"I heard something about two men the other day, that is just in point
here—but perhaps you are tired of my preaching and want to go in."

"Oh no, tell it," said Frank. "You know I would rather have you preach
to me than anybody else."

"Well, a good many years ago two boys lived in the same town and went
to the same school. They both had pretty good advantages and were
naturally bright and clear-headed. All the difference between them
was, that from the time they were very little fellows, John was always
laying plans to have a 'good time.'

"Will loved fun as well as he did, but in both fun and work, his chief
aim was to be right and true.

"As they grew up to be young men, Will held fast to the choice he had
made when a little boy.

"The Lord Jesus Christ was his master.

"John had an entirely different master; he shirked his lessons, and
wasted his time and money in what he called 'fun.'

"When school days were over, one of them had a fine start in his
education, but poor John was almost a dunce, it was surprising how
little he knew thoroughly.

"When Will went into business, he made a resolution in the very
beginning to give a certain part of his money to the Lord's work,
whether he made much or little. He was prospered, and he grew to be
a rich, strong man, foremost in every good work; everybody loved and
honored him. He was a grand temperance worker, and he gave great sums
to the poor and helped educate many young men for the ministry. The
more he gave away the richer he grew, but he kept giving, and for some
time before his death it is said that he gave away a thousand dollars a
day!

"Will was William E. Dodge who died a few weeks ago in the city. You
remember the papers were filled with accounts of him. Nobody could say
a word against him, and the whole city was in mourning.

"It is strange that as the boys came into the world about the same
time, they left it within a few days of each other. But oh! so
differently. There were no weeping friends at John's funeral. Nobody
said over his coffin, 'Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord.' Not
one cried, 'How shall his place be filled.'

"John had become a miserable sot. Nearly all his old friends had
lost sight of him. He lived without God, and so he died without
him, miserable and alone, and he was carried to his grave from the
almshouse—just a rough pine box in a cart—and that was the last of
John, for this life.

"Don't you see, Frank, that under God's blessing, every boy has it in
his own power to choose whether his life shall be lived and ended like
John's or like William E. Dodge's?"

"It was a good sermon, Kent," Frank said soberly, as they walked up to
the house. "It helps me; I'll not forget."



                       THE TRUE WAY TO BE HAPPY.

HOW often Grace and Nellie had heard these words.

"I'm sick to death of them," said Nellie. "I am going to try to have
the most fun I can to-morrow, and I'll risk but what I'll be happy
enough."

"And I am going to try grandma's way of having fun to-morrow. Just for
a change, I am going to do everything 'exactly right.' She seems so
sure that that way is the best. Do you suppose there are any good plays
or jolly times for little girls who always do every thing 'perfectly
right?'"

"Why, no, Gracie! You know that if you are going to be very good
to-morrow, you ought to sew on papa's handkerchief, so as to finish it
for his birthday present. I can't finish mine, for I've planned to go
sailing on Tom's raft on the duck pond. I shall take all my dolls, land
on the little island, and pull of my shoes and stockings, and play I
am Robinson Crusoe, and the ducks will be the savages, and when they
come swimming towards me, I shall hide in the bushes, or else jump on
the raft and push out to sea. You had better come too, and be my man
Friday."

"But, Nellie, you know mamma said for us not to play on the duck pond,
for we always wet our feet."

"Yes; but I shall wear rubbers this time, and it was last week she said
that; she did not say we should not play there to-morrow."

"Well! You must play there alone, for I am going to try grandma's way
of being happy for one whole day, and if I don't like it, next day I
will play on the duck pond."

These two little girls were twin sisters, eight years old. They were
pretty, bright, and full of fun, and now they were going to have a
week's vacation; a whole week without study, and they had planned plays
enough to last most little girls three weeks.

But last night grandma had told them a long and interesting story about
a boy who always did just as he pleased in every thing. He was selfish
and disobedient, but he was never happy. At last he was so unhappy and
miserable, that he made up his mind to give up his naughty ways and to
be a good boy, and behold, everything was changed.

"So you see, my dears, as I have often told you, in order to be happy,
you must be good."

[Illustration: NELLIE LEFT AT HOME.]

"I am sick of that sort of stories," said Nellie.

"I am going to try for one day to see if I can be happy by being good,"
said Gracie thoughtfully.


The next morning dawned bright and warm.

"Such a lovely day for my play," said Nellie, as she tucked a big piece
of cake in her pocket, and with her arms full of dollies, went dancing
off across the fields to the pond.

"That child can't be going to the pond, after all I said the other
day," said mamma, glancing anxiously after Nellie.

"Oh no!" said grandma. "She is probably going to play in the grove by
the side of it."

"And so my little Grace is going to finish her present for papa's
birthday," said mamma with a pleased look at the little girl, who was
stitching away in the window.

"I feel a little bit happy now," thought Gracie, as she saw her
mother's smiling face. But it was a long hour, and the little fingers
felt very lame before the handkerchief was done, but at last the last
stitch was taken, and it was carefully folded and a card marked, "Papa
from Gracie," pinned on it, all ready to put by his plate to-morrow
morning at breakfast.

"Children, do you want to go with me to spend the day at aunt Mary's?"
calls papa, from the doorway. "Just put on your hats; the horse is
harnessed, and I am waiting. Where is Nellie?"

At that moment Nellie came in at the door, wet and dirty, with the
blood dropping from a cut on her forehead, and crying bitterly.

"Oh, my poor little girl, where have you been?" said mamma, as she
wiped the blood from her face.

"I was Robinson Crusoe," sobbed Nellie, "and the cake was my
provisions, and when the savages saw my cake they came swimming and
flying all on to my raft; then I tried to push them off, and I tumbled
right into the water and mud, and they got my cake; and my dollies are
drowned."

"So you went to the duck pond to play; you knew better than that," said
mamma sternly.

"If she has disobeyed you, she must stay at home," said papa. "Come,
Gracie!"

In a moment they were driving along the beautiful shady road that led
to aunt Mary's. At first, Gracie felt too sorry for Nellie to be very
happy. But her father, noticing her sad face, told her that if Nellie
was a good girl, he would take her next week, and then he told so many
funny stories about himself when he was a little boy, that it was not
long before she was laughing merrily.

What a welcome they had at aunt Mary's.

"We knew you were coming to-day," said Katie, who was Gracie's cousin,
"and we are freezing ice-cream down cellar."

Then they took their dolls and played happily together all day long.
When Gracie was riding home she told her father that she had never had
such a happy day before in her life.

"Oh, such a lovely time as I have had!" she exclaimed, as she bounded
into the house.

Grandma was rocking Nellie in her arms, and was just finishing her
evening story.

"And so you see, my dear, that just as soon as Jacob made up his mind
to be a good boy, all his troubles ended. Everybody loved him, and he
was very happy and good."

"I like your kind of stories to-night, grandma," said Nellie softly, in
the old lady's ear, "and I am going to be good to be happy all the rest
of the week."

"Say all the rest of your life, my dear," whispered back grandma.



                      THE KING OF THE WHITE LILY.

YOU'VE never seen a palace? Why, my dears, you have seen a great many.
Sit round me here, and I will tell you about one, the ruins of which
you saw this morning. In some respects it was quite remarkable; not
much like the one Queen Victoria lives in.

This palace had six walls, and only one room. There were three inner
walls, and three outer ones, and wherever two inner walls met, an outer
wall covered the place. The people who dwelt in the palace called the
walls the "Perianth." Each of the inner walls were called a "petal,"
and each of the outer ones a "sepal." They were covered outside and
inside with snowy white silk, filled with the most delicious perfume.
There were no windows, for each wall tapered to a point at, the upper
end, and drooped over the outside of the palace, leaving it, open to
the light and the pure air.

A house of so delicate a fabric could not rest on the ground without
being soiled by the dust and dirt of the earth, so it was held far
aloft on a slender, green column. It did not stand upright like Queen
Victoria's palace, but it leaned over toward the ground, so that when
the rain came down, none should remain in the palace and drown the
people. They would have fallen out, too, had they not been made as fast
to the floor as were the walls of the palace.

That seems dreadful to you little people who take such delight in
running about on your little feet. But they were very well contented to
remain where they were and only look out upon the world, for they would
have died had they left their beautiful home.

The throne covered nearly all the floor of the palace; and the king
stood on the centre of it. His head reached far above the walls, for he
was very tall, and very straight and slender. He wore a robe of pale
green, and on his head was an emerald insignia, more like a helmet than
a crown. It was divided into three parts. One part drooped over and
rested against the back of his head, one part against the right side,
and one against the left.

There stood around the throne six tall men dressed in white, bearing
salvers of gold-dust on their heads. They called the salvers "anthers,"
and the gold-dust "pollen," but it was not like the gold-dust you saw
at the jeweler's.

I want you to notice how the number three figured in nearly everything.
It was a sacred number with them. There were three inner walls, and
three outer ones. Six (two threes) tall men, and the king's crown was
divided into three parts.

A strange thing about the tall men was that one could not be
distinguished from another, so near alike were they, and they were each
named "Stamen." Although they were very tall, they were not so tall as
their king. They were very faithful servants, looking always up to him
to know his commands.

When the wind blew a little, they bowed down before King Pistil, and
the salvers swung back and forth, causing tiny clouds of gold-dust to
rise and fall upon him. Then he was glad, and bowed to them, that they
might see that he was pleased with them. For he only required them to
sprinkle a little gold-dust upon him, then he made it into pieces of
money and packed them away into three large boxes under his throne.

But sometimes this frail palace was at the mercy of the great winds. It
swayed to and fro before them, tossing the tall men about so they could
not prevent some of the gold-dust falling on the walls.

Then King Pistil trembled with grief at seeing the gold-dust being
wasted, and the tall men leaned toward him trying to comfort him.

Then the rain came, and fell into the palace, and washed it clean, and
bathed the king and his servants; and when the sun shone again, they
sparkled all over with diamonds.

But some strange people passing by stopped to admire them, and to
inhale their sweet fragrance; and one of the palaces with all its
inmates was carried away by them. Then there was mourning, for they
knew it was certain death to any of them if their palace was taken from
the column on which it rested.

King Pistil's money increased until the boxes could hold no more; and
the throne began to creak as though it would fall apart. The walls of
the palace were falling away too. The tall men looked old and feeble;
and the king felt himself growing weak and infirm, and he knew that
he soon must die. So he unlocked his money boxes, that after he was
gone, they might open, and the money be scattered far and near, and
other palaces spring up, and other kings live, as he had lived, giving
pleasure to all who came near.

Very soon after, the king and his servants died, the boxes burst open
showing them well filled with money. Some of it fell on the ground
under the palace, that another might spring up there in memory of King
Pistil; and some of it was carried a long distance by the wind before
it was dropped on the ground.

Now, my dears, let us go into the garden, and look at the white lilies,
and see if my story of their king and his palace is correct. Tell
me, if you can, how his money differed from ours. Why it had to be
scattered on the ground, and what it was called by King Pistil.





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