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ONE GIRL'S INFLUENCE
"A young girl went from home," writes Mrs. Sangster, "to a large school where more than usual freedom of action and less than customary restraints were characteristics of the management. She found very little decided religious life there—an atmosphere, upon the whole, unfavorable to Christian culture. But she had given herself to the Lord, and she could live nowhere without letting her light shine.
"In a very short time she found two or three congenial spirits, more timid than herself, but equally devoted. A little prayer meeting began to be held once a week in her room. On Sabbaths in the afternoon, a few of the girls came together to study the Bible. Before the half year was over, the hallowed flame had swept from heart to heart, and there was a revival in that school."
TWO KINDS OF SERVICE
"Have you put up my dinner, Maude?"
John Melvin asked the question almost timidly. His daughter's face was clouded, her lips were compressed, and she was making a great deal of unnecessary noise as she moved about the kitchen. She did not reply at once, and when she spoke it was in no pleasant voice.
"Yes, father, your dinner is ready. Now I must put up the children's dinners, and there is the ironing to do, and I must do some cooking also. This will be a busy day with me, but all my days seem to be busy. Perhaps I do not understand how to keep ahead of the work. I have no time for recreation; there seems to be nothing in life for me but drudgery."
Mr. Melvin sighed heavily.
"I am sorry, Maude. If last season's crops had not failed, I should have hired some stout woman to do the heavy work. It is too much for you, a girl of nineteen, to have all these cares; but what can I do?"
"You can do nothing, father, and no one is to blame. I expect to be a drudge. Amy," raising her voice, "where are you? Go and pick up the breakfast dishes, and be quick about it. It isn't time to get ready for school. Fred, what are you doing? Haven't I told you not to whistle in the kitchen? Oh, dear! one needs more patience than any mortal ever had!"
"I am sorry, Maude," said Mr. Melvin, again. "It was a sad day for us all when your mother died."
And then the discouraged man, old and worn before his time, took his dinner-pail and started for the distant wood-lot.
Maude continued to move rapidly about the kitchen and pantry, doing the morning's work and scolding the children in a shrill voice.
"What's the use of being so cross, Maude?" asked Amy, a bright-eyed girl of twelve. "I can't see that it does any good."
"I can't be so easy as you are, Amy. I wish things didn't fret me, but they do. And you have an easy time, while I have to work like a slave."
"I'm sure I help you all I can, Maude. I don't suppose you want me to stay out of school to work."
"You know I don't. You won't have time to do any more this morning. Now, Fred, I told you to study hard to-day and not fail in your lessons."
"All right sis," rejoined Fred carelessly.
"Fred, how many times have I told you not to call me 'Sis?' I am tired beyond endurance. I don't want to hear another word from you this morning, sir," she added as she saw the boy was about to speak.
As the children left the house, Fred looked significantly at his sister.
"Wasn't Maude cross this morning? How she did bang things!"
Amy puckered up her brow.
"I can't understand it, Fred. Maude is always scolding."
"Yes, and she belongs to the church. I'm glad I'm not a Christian, if she's one."
"Oh, hush, Fred! Christian people are happier than we are."
"Humph! Maude professes to be a Christian, but she can't be happy. Seems to me she's the unhappiest person I know. Papa doesn't belong to the church, but he isn't always scolding."
"Well, I can't understand it," sighed Amy. "But, Fred, you know mama was a Christian."
"She was a real Christian, too," said Fred soberly. "But I guess it's hard work to be the real thing. Maude must be a make-believe one," he added.
"Oh, hush, Fred! I don't like to hear you say such things."
Left alone, Maude's hands were busy. At dinner time she ate a lunch, and at two o'clock was through her work.
"Everything's in order," she thought, as she looked about the neat kitchen. "And I'm not going to touch a bit of sewing this afternoon. I'll go into the sitting-room and rest until it's time to think about supper."
THE DREAM
In the pleasant little sitting-room Maude sat down in an easy rocker at the front window and looked out over the snow-covered fields. Presently she saw the bent form of a little old lady in a black coat and red hood coming up the path.
"Aunt Sarah Easler," she said to herself, "and coming here, too."
The old lady came in without knocking and Maude rose to meet her. Aunt Sarah seemed much agitated. She took both of the girl's hands in hers, tears streaming from her eyes.
"What is it, Aunt Sarah?" cried Maude. "Has anything happened?"
"My poor child! My poor child! May God help you!"
Maude felt herself growing faint, but she resolutely banished the feeling.
"What has happened?" she asked, in a voice so calm that it astonished herself. "The children?"
"The children are all right, my dear. It is your father."
"My father! What of him? Is he hurt?"
The old lady bowed her head and replied in a broken voice: "Badly hurt, my dear."
Maude grasped Aunt Sarah's arm.
"Your face tells me that it is even worse than that," she said, calmly. "Is he dead?"
"My poor child!"
"You need say no more. I know he is."
Even as Maude spoke, she looked out of the window and saw four men bearing her father's form on a stretcher. She did not faint or cry out, but in a moment her mind went back over the three years that had passed since her mother's death, and she saw wherein she had failed as a daughter and sister.
Tears came to her relief, and as they gushed down over her cheeks she awoke with a start. She looked out of the window. Oh, thank God! no men were in sight, bearing her father's form on a stretcher.
"It was a dream," she murmured. "Heavenly Father, I thank thee!" And she formed a few resolutions and lifted up her heart in prayer for help.
"How terribly I have erred and wandered from the way," she said aloud. "This dream has opened my eyes, and I see what I have been doing. What must have papa thought of me? No wonder that he is not a Christian. I have wondered, too, that the children have been so indifferent to religious teaching, but the influence of my life has spoiled everything. But, thank God! the present is mine, my dear ones are spared to me, and henceforth I will strive to have my life count for Christ."
When the children came that night they looked in wonder at their sister. There was a smile on her face, and her voice was gentle when she spoke to them. The tea-table was neatly spread and Fred saw his favorite hot rolls. Presently Mr. Melvin came in, somewhat timidly, expecting as usual to hear complaints and impatient exclamations from Maude. Instead, she greeted him pleasantly.
"Tired, father? Supper's ready. I've made some of the toast you like and opened a can of peaches.
"I suppose you are very tired, Maude," said Mr. Melvin, looking wonderingly at his daughter.
"I'm a little tired, father, but I'm thankful for the privilege of getting tired. I have a comfortable home, and we are all in good health. You see, father, I am beginning to count my blessings. I have been a fault-finding, ungrateful girl, and have made you all unhappy; but I hope to make some amends for the past."
"God bless you, my daughter!" said John Melvin, huskily.
DUTY AND PLEASURE
"Duty first, and pleasure afterward," wrote Amy Leslie in her copy-book one fine morning.
Line after line she penned, making many a mistake, for her thoughts were far away. At last her mother, who was sitting near her, said, "Amy, this is the third time you have spelled pleasure without a 'p,' and left out the 'f' in afterward. Put down your pen and tell me what you are thinking about; for I am sure it is not of your copy."
"I was only thinking," replied Amy, "how glad I should be if my copy said, 'Pleasure first—duty afterward.' It is very hard always to have the disagreeable part first. I wish I could have one whole week with no duties at all! How I should enjoy myself!"
Mrs. Leslie remained silent for a moment; then she said, while a quiet smile played round her lips, "Well, Amy, for once you shall have what you want. For a whole week you may amuse yourself; no duties, mind, my child,—none at all."
"There is no chance of my wanting any, I assure you, mama," said Amy, joyfully; "I shall be so happy, you'll see!"
"Very well, then," said Mrs. Leslie; "you may begin to-morrow. To-day I shall expect you to do as usual."
Amy said no more; she finished her copy, learned her lessons, then went to the nursery to take charge of her little brother while the nurse was busy with other work. Afterward there were socks to mend, and an errand to run, and buttons to sew on to baby's shoes, and a letter to write. And so the day passed, and the next morning dawned on our pleasure-loving little friend.
"No duties" she said to herself, as she woke at seven, which was her usual time for rising; "so I can lie in bed as long as I please." She turned over, and as she could not sleep, began making plans for the day, and thinking what a delightful time she would have. About half past nine she came down stairs, to find her breakfast on the table; milk, toast, and egg, all as cold as possible. "What a wretched breakfast!" she said, as she took her seat.
"Well, dear," replied Mrs. Leslie, "your breakfast was ready at the usual time, and of course is cold now."
Amy said no more. She ate with only half her usual appetite, and, finishing in about five minutes put away her chair, and left the room. As she went up stairs to fetch her hat, baby in the nursery stretched his arms for her to take him; but she hurried past, and left the little fellow crying with disappointment.
Soon she came down again, with a fairy book in one hand, and a box of chocolate drops in the other. The sweets had been a present, but hitherto her mother had allowed her to have only one or two daily; now, however, she might do as she liked, and at present her idea of perfect bliss was the combined charms of chocolate drops and fairy stories.
For about two hours she sat in the garden; then she grew tired, and a little sick from eating too much chocolate, and was returning to the house, when her pet kitten ran out to meet her. For a short time she amused herself by playing with it, dressing it up in her pocket handkerchief and carrying it like a baby; but Miss Pussy wearied of this, and at last jumped out of her new dress and her mistress' arms, leaving a scratch as a keepsake behind her.
Altogether, the morning was hardly a successful one, nor was the afternoon much better. After dinner, one of Amy's little sisters tore her dress, and was running to Amy to ask her to mend it; but Mrs. Leslie said:—
"Don't go to your sister, my child, come to me;" and little Jessie, wondering, let her mother darn the rent. Amy felt very uncomfortable, for she knew that Mrs. Leslie's eyes were not strong, and were probably aching with the effort of such fine work; but she shrank from offering her services, and made her escape from the room as soon as she could.
In the evening she was about to draw her chair to the fire and read the newspaper to Mr. Leslie, a duty of which she had always felt rather proud; but her father gravely took the paper out of her hand, saying quickly, "No, Amy, this is a duty; remember you are to amuse yourself and do nothing else."
Amy's eyes filled with tears, and she ran up stairs to her own room. She had no heart to read the fairy book, or to make clothes for her doll, or to play with the kitten, or even to eat the rest of her chocolate drops.
"I shall never be able to bear another day of this," she said to herself; "I thought it would be so delightful to have no duties, but somehow my play does not seem half so good as it did before."
The next day brought no real pleasure and comfort. Listlessly Amy wandered about, having no zest for any of her former amusements, and feeling thoroughly unhappy. She began to long for the very duties which had seemed so irksome to her; she could hardly keep from tears when she saw others busy over lessons, or her mother doing work which had formerly been hers.
At last her misery ended in a fit of crying, and shutting herself up in her own room, she gave way to it. Sob followed sob so quickly that she did not hear her door open, until her mother's arms were round her, and her hot, aching head was pillowed on her mother's shoulder. Not a word passed between them for a few minutes; then Amy sobbed out, "O mother! mother! the copy was quite right, 'Duty first, and pleasure afterward;' for without duty there is no pleasure at all."
THE DANGEROUS DOOR
"Oh, cousin Will, do tell us a story! There's just time before the school-bell rings." And Harry, Kate, Bob, and little Peace crowded about their older cousin until he declared himself ready to do anything they wished.
"Very well," said Cousin Will. "I will tell you about some dangerous doors I have seen."
"Oh, that's good!" exclaimed Bob. "Were they all iron and heavy bars? And if one passed in, did they shut and keep them there forever?"
"No; the doors I mean are pink or scarlet, and when they open you can see a row of little servants standing all in white, and behind them is a little lady dressed in crimson."
"What? That's splendid!" cried Kate. "I should like to go in myself."
"Ah! it is what comes out of these doors that makes them so dangerous. They need a strong guard on each side, or else there is great trouble."
"Why, what comes out?" said little Peace, with wondering eyes.
"When the guards are away," said Cousin Will, "I have known some things to come out sharper than arrows, and they make terrible wounds. Quite lately I saw two pretty little doors, and one opened and the little lady began to talk like this: 'What a stuck-up thing Lucy Waters is! And did you see that horrid dress made out of her sister's old one?' 'Oh, yes,' said the other little crimson lady from the other door, 'and what a turned-up nose she has!' Then poor Lucy, who was around the corner, ran home and cried all evening."
"I know what you mean," cried Kate, coloring.
"Were you listening?"
"Oh, you mean our mouths are doors!" exclaimed Harry, "and the crimson lady is Miss Tongue; but who are the guards, and where do they come from?"
"You may ask the Great King. This is what you must say: 'Set a watch, O Lord, before my mouth: keep the door of my lips.' Then He will send Patience to stand on one side and Love on the other, and no unkind word will dare come out."
THE GOLDEN WINDOWS
"Oh dear!" exclaimed Ruth impatiently, as she put the library to rights. "I do wish we could have a new carpet this spring. I never liked this at all, and now it is so faded and worn it is simply dreadful. It makes me miserable every time I look at it."
"Then, since you say you cannot very well have a new one just now, why do you look at it?" asked Aunt Rachel, smiling. "There are a great many unpleasant things in our lives—we find them every day—some of which we are unable to prevent. If we persist in thinking of them and keep fretting about them, we make ourselves and everybody about us miserable.
"It seems to me we might all learn a lesson from the bees. I have read that when anything objectionable that they are unable to remove gets into a hive, they set to work immediately to cover it all over with wax. They just shut it up in an airtight cell, and then forget all about it. Isn't that a wise way for us to manage with our vexations and troubles?
"Someone sent me a postal the other day with this motto: 'The secret of happiness is not in doing what one likes, but in liking what one has to do.' It is not in having and doing just as we like, but in being determined to make the best of the inevitable. When you find an unpleasant thing in your life that cannot be removed, learn to seal it up and forget it.
"And then I think that many times it helps to get a different view of things. You remember the fable of the golden windows, do you not? A little boy who had very few pretty things in his own home because his parents were poor, used often to stand in his own doorway at sunset time and look longingly at the big house at the top of the opposite hill. Such a wonderful house as it was! Its windows were all of gold, which shone so bright that it often made his eyes blink to look at them. 'If only our house was as beautiful,' he would say. 'I would not mind wearing patched clothes and having only bread and milk for supper.'
"One afternoon his father told him he might do just as he pleased, so he trudged down the hill from his house and up the other long hill. He was going to see the golden windows. But when he reached the top of the other hill he stopped in dismay; his lips began to quiver, his eyes filled with tears. There were no golden windows there—nothing but plain, common windows like his own. 'I thought you had beautiful golden windows in your house,' he said to the little girl in the yard.
"'Oh, no!' she said; 'our windows aren't worth looking at, but stand beside me and you will see a lovely house with truly golden windows. See?' The little boy looked. 'Why, that is my house,' he said, 'and I never knew we had golden windows!'
"You see, much depends on your point of view.
"I have lived to be an old woman, my dear, and I have come to feel that the most heroic lives are lived by those who put their own vexations and troubles out of sight, and strive by every means in their power to ease the burden of the world; who leave always behind them the influence of a brave, cheery, loving spirit."
TRUST ALWAYS: NEVER FRET
Trust in the Lord, and do good;
Dwell in the land, and follow after faithfulness:
Delight thyself also in the Lord;
And He shall give thee the desires of thine heart.
Commit thy way unto the Lord,
Trust also in Him,
And He shall bring it to pass.
And He shall make thy righteousness to go forth as the light,
And thy judgment as the noonday.
Rest in the Lord,
And wait patiently for Him:
Fret not thyself because of him who prospereth in his way,
Because of the man who bringeth wicked devices to pass.
Cease from, anger, and forsake wrath:
Fret not thyself; it tendeth only to evil-doing.
PSALM 37:3-8.
THE NEW LIFE
"The light of the sun does us no good unless we are living in it! Yes, that is just what the minister said," mused Tim, as he tossed his Sabbath-school paper upon the table, and gave himself up to the flow of his own thoughts. "Yes, he said just that, and more, too. He said that the life of Christ will do us little good unless we are living in it; that is, unless we are Christians, it makes little difference to us whether Christ gave His life for us or not."
"What is on your mind, now?" It was Tim's sister Ada who asked this question as she came running into the room upon her return from school. She had stopped on her way to gather violets, and that, you see, is why she had not reached home as soon as Tim.
"Oh, I was just thinking about what the minister said last Sabbath, that is all," replied the lad in a low voice.
"Oh, yes, what he said about people being 'born again' if they would live the Christ life, and that reminds me that I must write his text down in my text book. Let's see, it was last Christmas, wasn't it, when Mrs. Martin gave us those little books, and told us to write in them the text of every sermon we heard preached; and I am glad to say that I have not missed many Sabbaths since then."
"Neither have I," said Tim. "And do you know, I have been wondering whether Mrs. Martin will give her class any presents this Christmas."
"Oh, I don't know. I should think a teacher did her duty by teaching a Sabbath-school class fifty-two times in a year, without spending her money on presents for us, even if we are but four. I think it would be more appropriate for us to be giving her a present this year, than for us to be expecting one from her."
"And let's get up one for her," proposed Tim.
"And that means that we will," laughed Ada. "When you say, 'let's' in that tone something is always sure to happen."
"But we don't want to have the whole say about the presents ourselves," observed the boy, evidently pleased at his sister's compliment. "Mark and Nettie haven't come by from school yet. When they do, we will call them in, and see what can be done."
"All right, and let's watch for them."
The windows facing the road were immediately taken possession of, and it was not long before Ada and Tim were both rapping on the panes of glass.
"What is it?" shouted Mark from the road.
"Come and see," replied Ada.
Mark and Nettie, a rosy-cheeked brother and sister, were soon in the little sitting-room, and Ada and Tim were laying before them their plans for Christmas.
"It is just like this," said Ada; "I found Tim dreaming about Christmas, and I just suggested that we give Mrs. Martin a Christmas present this year. Now what do you think of it?"
"That would be just the thing," said Nettie.
"But what do you think she would want?" queried Mark.
"We can't tell, unless we ask her," replied Ada. "But have any of us ever heard her say what she wanted?"
"I have," said Tim. "I have heard her say that what she wanted the most of anything was to have her scholars come to Christ."
"But I mean something that we could give her."
"But if we should make up our minds to be Christians, it would make her pleased," said Tim, "and perhaps she'd rather be pleased in this way than to have a present."
"I know that she would," said Nettie; "and I say, let's settle the question once for all."
The others looked in amazement at Nettie; they could scarcely understand what she meant. Her face was flushed, and she was trembling with emotion, but one thing was certain, and that was that Nettie was in earnest—also Tim; and whatever Tim wanted the others to do they generally did.
"You may as well tell us what you do mean," said Mark.
"Why, just what I said," replied Tim. "I think it is about time that we began to think some of being Christians—that is, if what the minister says is true, and I suppose that it is, for everybody believes everything else that he says, when he has anything to say in our house and in the store."
"I should say as much," said Nettie.
"But what can be done about it?" queried Mark, in perplexity.
"We might all sign a paper, telling her what we intend to do, and give it to her Christmas," proposed Tim.
"So we can," said Mark, "and let's do it at once."
So Tim went to the desk, and spent a few minutes writing something upon a piece of paper. When he had finished, he turned around and asked; "Want to hear it?"
"Of course," answered Nettie.
So he read: "We four scholars of your class have made up our minds to be Christians, and we give you this information as your Christmas remembrance from us."
"Just the thing," said Ada.
"And I suppose that we must all sign it," suggested Nettie.
"Of course," answered Tim.
"But is this all that we must do to be Christians?" queried Mark.
"I should say not," answered Tim, "but if Mrs. Martin knows that we are in earnest, she will tell us what to do."
So the paper was signed by the four, after which Mark and Nettie continued on their way homeward.
On the Sabbath following Christmas, after the class had gathered, and were waiting for Sabbath-school to begin in the little church on the hill, Tim passed to Mrs. Martin an envelope bearing her name. When she opened it and read the note that was within, her eyes filled with tears of joy.
"Oh, my precious class! My precious class!" This was all she could say, as she looked from one to another with face shining like an angel's.
"We thought that you'd tell us just what to do," began Ada. "We felt that we needed help from you."
"And you shall have it this very hour. We will let the lesson go to-day, and just have a little meeting all to ourselves."
"That will be just beautiful!" exclaimed Nettie.
While the other classes in the church were discussing the lesson for the day, Mrs. Martin's class in the pew in the rear were settling the great question of their lives.
Mrs. Martin began by telling them the story of the Christ—how Christ left His heavenly home, and came to earth to die for all men, since all are sinners; and how all may be saved from sin by being sorry for their wrong-doing, deciding to lead a right life, and taking Him as their personal Saviour. "Is this what you all believe?"
"It is," replied the class, softly.
Then all closed their eyes, and Mrs. Martin prayed softly for them, after which each prayed for pardon, and by the time Sabbath-school was dismissed, all felt that Christ had accepted them as His very own.
"Oh, how I shall prize this little note," said Mrs. Martin, as they were leaving the church for home. "You could not have given me a Christmas remembrance which would have meant more to me. And I am sure that I am not the only one you have remembered this day—you have given yourselves to Christ, who died and arose from the grave for you, and He will treasure the Christmas gift you have given Him more than I can the one you have given me."
