Stories Worth Rereading
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Various >> Stories Worth Rereading
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Instead of reading, suppose one took to writing: an hour a day would then
produce quite as remarkable results. Even the short rule of "no day without
a line," has resulted in the production of volumes--we might say almost of
libraries.
What results may, indeed, be arrived at by an hour's daily industry in
anything! "An hour in every day," says a writer, "withdrawn from frivolous
pursuits, would, if properly employed, enable a person of ordinary capacity
to go far toward mastering a science. It would make an ignorant man a
well-informed one in less than ten years."
Of course, the hour's work must not be done listlessly. "Whatsoever thy
hand findeth to do, do it with thy might." It is an advantage, too, to work
at intervals instead of a long period at a time. We come to the work
fresher, and in better condition to do it justice. When working hours come
together, the best work is usually done during the first hour; after that
even the most energetic fall off.
In music, an hour's practising every day will carry one far in a year. But
remember that practising must be gone through with strict attention. An
hour with strict attention is worth more than three hours with
carelessness; and if a girl who wants to get on has only one hour to spare
each day, she must be to herself a very exacting music master.
It is wise to spend an hour a day in exercise. In an hour one can, without
making too great haste, walk three miles. At this rate, a year's walking
represents over a thousand miles. Relaxation is essential to keep up the
spirit and prevent life from becoming monotonous, as if one were sentenced
to perpetual treadmill. Recreation is necessary, and the pursuit of
pleasure is sometimes a duty.
If we had but an hour a day to spare, what would be the best conceivable
use to put it to?--The best use, perhaps, would be to sit down and think.
Suppose we came every day to a full stop for an hour, and thought: "What am
I doing? What is to be the end of all this busy life for me? How may I so
act that when I go out of the world, it will be the better for my having
been in it?" This thinking and planning would make us better characters
altogether, would prepare us to face the future, ready for anything that
might happen, and would fit us for coming duties. An hour a day spent thus
would be a bright streak running through the year.
You say it is easy to talk about devoting an hour a day to anything, and
easy to make a start, but very difficult to keep it up. True enough, but
there is no end of wonders that can be wrought by the exercise of the human
will.
"We all sorely complain," says Seneca, "of the shortness of time. And yet
we have much more than we know what to do with. Our lives are either spent
in doing nothing at all, or in doing nothing that we ought to do. We are
always complaining that our days are few, and acting as if there would be
no end to them."
An hour a day for a year squandered in idleness or in foolish pursuits
means the sacrifice of all the advantages just mentioned. And any one who
keeps up idleness or folly for a year, usually ends in having a lifetime of
it.--_Selected_.
"PLEASE, SIR, I WOULD RATHER NOT"
An old sailor tells the following story of a boy who suffered much in
resisting temptation:--
When offered a drink, the lad said, "Excuse me; I would rather not."
They laughed at him, but they never could get him to drink liquor. The
captain said to the boy:--
"You must learn to drink grog if you are to be a sailor."
"Please excuse me, captain, but I would rather not."
"Take that rope," commanded the captain to a sailor, "and lay it on; that
will teach him to obey orders."
The sailor took the rope, and beat the boy most cruelly.
"Now, drink that grog," said the captain.
"Please, sir, I would rather not."
"Then go into the foretop and stay all night."
The poor boy looked away up to the masthead, trembling at the thought of
spending the night there, but he had to obey.
In the morning the captain, in walking the deck, looked up, and cried,
"Halloo, up there!"
No answer.
"Come down!"
Still no answer.
One of the sailors was sent up, and what do you think he found? The poor
boy was nearly frozen. He had lashed himself to the mast, so that when the
ship rolled, he might not fall into the sea. The sailor brought the boy
down in his arms, and they worked upon him until he showed signs of life.
Then, when he was able to sit up, the captain poured out some liquor and
said:--
"Now, drink that grog."
"Please, sir, I would rather not. Let me tell you why, and do not be angry.
In our home in the cottage we were so happy, but father took to drink. He
had no money to get us bread, and at last we had to sell the little house
we had lived in, and everything we had. It broke my poor mother's heart. In
sorrow she pined away, till, at last, before she died, she called me to her
bedside, and said: 'Jamie, you know what drink has made of your father. I
want you to promise your dying mother that you will never taste drink. I
want you to be free from that curse that has ruined your father,' O, sir,"
continued the little fellow, "would you have me break the promise I made to
my dying mother? I cannot, and I will not do it."
These words touched the heart of the captain. Tears came into his eyes. He
stooped down, and, folding the boy in his arms, said: "No, no, my little
hero. Keep your promise, and if any one tries again to make you drink, come
to me, and I will protect you."--_Selected_.
* * * * *
"There were plans of mischief brewing;
I saw, but gave no sign,
For I wanted to test the mettle
Of this little knight of mine.
'Of course, you must come and help us,
For we all depend on Joe,'
The boys said; and I waited
For his answer--yes or no.
"He stood and thought for a moment;
I read his heart like a book,
For the battle that he was fighting
Was told in his earnest look.
Then to his waiting playmates
Outspoke my loyal knight:
'No, boys; I cannot go with you,
For I know it wouldn't be right.'"
THE RIGHT WORD
An instance of the transforming power of the right word is furnished by the
following incident:--
Many years ago a minister was passing through a prison crowded with
convicts showing every phase of ignorance and brutality. One gigantic
fellow crouched alone in a corner, his feet chained to a ball. There was an
unhealed wound on his face, where he had been shot when trying to escape.
The sight of the dumb, gaunt figure touched the visitor.
"How long has he to serve?" he asked of the guard.
"For life."
"Has he anybody outside to look after him--wife or child?"
"How should I know? Nobody has ever noticed him all the time he has been
here."
"May I speak to him?"
"Yes, but only for a minute."
The minister hesitated. What could he say in one minute? He touched the
man's torn cheek.
"I am sorry," he said. "I wish I could help you."
The convict looked keenly at him, and he nodded to indicate that he
believed in the sympathy expressed.
"I am going away, and shall never see you again, perhaps; but you have a
Friend who will stay here with you."
The keen, small eyes were upon him. The prisoner dragged himself up,
waiting and eager.
"Have you heard of Jesus?"
"Yes."
"He is your friend. If you are good and true, and will pray to God to help
you, I am sure he will care for you."
"Come, sir," called the keeper. "Time's up."
The clergyman turned sorrowfully away. The prisoner called after him, and,
catching his hand, held it in his own while he could. Tears were in the
preacher's eyes.
Fourteen years passed. The convict was sent into the mines. The minister
went down one day into a mine, and among the workmen saw a gigantic figure
bent with hardship and age.
"Who is that?" he asked the keeper.
"A lifer, and a steady fellow--the best of the gang."
Just then the "lifer" looked up. His figure straightened, for he had
recognized the clergyman. His eyes shone.
"Do you know me?" he said. "Will He come soon? I've tried to be good."
At a single word of sympathy the life had been transformed, the convict
redeemed.--_Selected_.
A Friend
A friend--how much it means
To be so true
In all we do
That others speak of us as such,
And call us by that noble name.
A friend--how much it means
To have a friend
Who'll gladly lend
A helping hand to help us on
When weary seems the path we tread.
A friend--may we be such to Christ,
Who gladly gave,
Our lives to save.
His life a willing sacrifice,
And showed himself a friend of men.
E. C. JAEGER
THE SADDEST OF INDIA'S PICTURES (1912)
I saw a sad little picture when I was at the hills; it haunts me even now.
It was a sight that should be seen; for words convey very little idea of
the pathos of the scene. We were walking through the thick jungle on the
hillside when on the narrow path we saw a little procession wending its way
toward us. In front walked a big, hardened-looking man, in the prime of
life; behind him came a child, a slim, wonderfully fair girl of about ten
years, lithe and graceful, with large, expressive dark eyes. After her came
a woman prematurely old, her face lined and seamed in every direction.
Just after they passed us, the little girl and woman stopped; and the child
bent low to the earth and caressed her mother's feet. Then she flung
herself into her mother's arms and clung to her, while the big, beautiful
eyes filled with tears. The mother embraced her lovingly; then she tried to
thrust her away from her, her own tears running down her face all the time.
The child clung piteously, with a yearning love in her eyes. Then she
glanced toward that hardened figure still continuing its way, and, O, the
awful look of terror on that sweet face! It is that look which continues to
haunt me, the look of sweet, yearning love giving place to that awful
terror. Then terror overcame, and the child sped swiftly and silently after
that man, ever and anon turning back for one more gaze at her heartbroken
mother. Then she was lost to sight in the thick jungle.
The wretched mother over and over again lifted up her voice and called her
child by name, but there was no voice, and none that gave answer, and she
turned her dreary steps homeward. We questioned her, and it was just as we
feared. This sweet, innocent girl was leaving her mother's care for the
first time, to go and live with that man to whom she now belonged. And only
those who know something of the East know what that would mean to that
frail, innocent little one.
For days that scene haunted me in all its freshness, and it haunts me
still. My heart bleeds for the little girls of India, for I love them so.
O, that something could be speedily done for these little sisters of ours!
VERA CHILSON.
A Plea for Missions
O, SOULS that know the love of God,
And know it deep and true,
The love that in your heart is shed abroad
Shall others share with you?
And do you count it joy to give
Of what to you is given,
That erring souls may hear the word, and live
In hope of rest and heaven?
If not, lift up your blinded eyes,
And let the light break in;
Behold a world that, bruised and groaning, lies
Beneath the curse of sin.
Then higher lift your eyes, to meet
Your Master's tender gaze,
And say, "Dear Lord, thy will in us complete,
And pardon our delays."
--_Jessie H. Brown_.
ONE LITTLE WIDOW
Seven years a widow, yet only eleven years old! The shadow--nay, the
curse--of widowhood had hung over little Sita ever since she remembered
anything. The little brown girl often wondered why other little girls
living near her had such happy, merry times while she knew only drudgery
and ill treatment from morning until night. One day when six of the weary
years had passed, and she was ten years old, Sita found out what widow
meant. Then, to the cruelties she had already endured, was added the
terrors of the woe to come. She had gone, as usual, in her tattered
garments, with three large brass water-pots on her head, to the great open
well from which she drew the daily supply of water for a family of nine.
She was so tired, and her frail little back ached so pitifully, that she
sat down on a huge stone to rest a minute. Resting her weary head on one
thin little hand, she was a picture of childish woe. Many deep sorrows had
fallen on her young heart, but she was still a child in mind and years,
yearning for companionship and love.
Many Brahman servants were drawing water near her, and looked bright and
happy in their gay-colored cotton _saris_. A woman so poor that she must
draw her own drinking-water, but still a Brahman, came near, and to her
Sita appealed for help.
"Will you not draw a little water for me? I am ill and tired, and the well
is very deep."
The woman turned angrily, and uttered, in a scathing tone, the one word,
"Widow!" then she burst out: "Curse you! How dare you come between me and
the glorious sun! Your shadow has fallen upon me, and I'll have to take the
bath of purification before I can eat food! Curse you! Stand aside!"
Poor Sita stood bewildered. She made no answer, but the tears coursed down
her cheeks. Something akin to pity made the woman pause. Halting at a safe
distance from the shadow of the child, she talked to her in a milder tone.
She was thinking, perhaps, of her two soft-eyed daughters, very dear to her
proud heart, though she mourned bitterly when they were born, because the
gods had denied her sons.
"Why should I help you," she said, "when the gods have cursed you? See, you
are a widow!"
Then, in answer to the child's vacant gaze, she continued: "Don't you
understand? Didn't you have a husband once?"
"Yes, I think so," Sita answered; "an old, bad man who used to shake me,
and tell me to grow up quickly to work for him; perhaps he was my husband.
When he died, they said I killed him, but I did not."
"So you call him bad?" the woman cried. "Ah, no wonder the gods hate you!
No doubt you were very wicked ages and ages ago, and so now you are made a
widow. By and by you will be born a snake or a toad." And, gathering up her
water-pots, she went away.
The slender, ill-fed child hurriedly filled the brass vessels, knowing that
abuse awaited her late return. Raising the huge jars to her head, she
hastened to her house--a home she never knew. The sister-in-law met the
little thing with violent abuse, and bade her prepare the morning meal. The
child was ill, and nearly fell with fatigue.
"I'll show you how to wake up!" the woman cried, and, seizing a hot poker,
she laid it on the arms and hands of the child.
Screaming with pain, the poor little creature worked on, trembling if the
sister-in-law even looked her way. This was one day. Each of the seven long
years contained three hundred and sixty-five such days, and now they were
growing worse. The last year, in token of the deep disgrace of widowhood,
the child's soft dark tresses had been shaved off, and her head left bare.
When that has been done, but one meal a day is permitted a widow, no matter
how she works.
Most of the little girls who saw Sita ran from her, fearing pollution. But
there was one who shone on her like a gleam of sunshine whenever she saw
her. One day after the woman had abused her at the well, Sita found a
chance to tell Tungi about it.
"There is a better God than that," Tungi said. "Our people do not know him,
and that is why I am not allowed to talk with you. I am married, and my
husband lives in a distant city. If I speak to you, they believe that he
will die. But in the school I attend, many do not believe these things."
"How can you go to school?" Sita asked. "My sister-in-law says that only
bad people learn to read."
"So my mother used to think," said Tungi; "but my husband is in school, and
he has sent word that I must go until he calls for me to come to his home.
Then he can have a wife who can understand when he talks about his books.
He says the English have happy families, and it is this that makes them so.
The wives know books, and how to sing, and how to make home pleasant. My
mother says it is all very bad, but he is my husband, and I must do as he
says. I am very glad; for it is very pleasant there."
Thus the bright-eyed little Brahman wife chatted away, as gay as a bird.
The fount of knowledge was opened to her--the beaming eye, the elastic
figure, and the individuality of her Western sisters were becoming hers.
But none of these things seemed for Sita.
For nine weary months after Tungi went to school, the shaven-headed child,
living on one meal a day, went about sad and lonely. When she again saw her
bright-faced little friend, her condition had grown worse. Her neck and
arms were full of scars where bits of flesh had been pinched out in
vindictive rage by her husband's relatives, who believed her guilty of his
death. Brutality, growing stronger with use, made them callous to the
sufferings of the little being in their power. No one who cared knew of the
pangs of hunger, the violent words, and the threats of future punishment.
Once or twice she had looked down into the cool depths of the well, and
wondered how quickly she could die. Only the terror of punishment after
death kept this baby widow from suicide.
One day as she was weeping by the gateway of Tungi's house, the little
child wife told the little child widow of a safe refuge for such as she,
where neither poverty nor ignorance could exclude her--a home under the
loving care of one who knew the widow's curse. After many difficulties,
Sita found this shelter. Here she forgot her widowhood, and found her
childhood. Here, in the beautiful garden, or at her lessons, helping with
cooking, or leaning lovingly on the arms of Ramabai's chair, she passed
many sweet and useful years. By and by she found the greatest joy in love,
higher and better than human love can ever be. Later, when a beautiful
young womanhood had crowned her, she was sought by an earnest young
Christian as his wife.
Many of the millions of the child widows in India never find release from
the bonds of cruel custom and false religion. In Hinduism there is no hope
for such accursed ones.--_"Mosaics From India," published by Fleming H.
Revell Company._
WHY THE MITE BOXES WERE FULL
Rosella had a blue mite box, and so had her brother Drew. The mite boxes
had been given out in Sunday-school, and were to be kept two months. All
the money saved in the mite boxes was to go toward sending the news about
Jesus to the heathen girls and boys across the ocean. The Sunday-school
superintendent said so, and so did the sweet old blind missionary woman,
who had talked to the scholars.
Rosella and Drew carried their mite boxes across the fields toward their
tent. They and their mother and aunt and cousins had come several miles
from their farm to tent, with a number of other folks, near the Farmers'
Cooperative Fruit Drying buildings, during the fruit season, to cut fruit
for drying.
Another girl was going across the fields with a blue mite box. She was the
Chinese girl, Louie Ming, whose father and mother had come from the city to
cook for some of the owners here.
"Louie Ming's got a mite box!" said Rosella.
Drew laughed. "Do you suppose she'll save anything in it?"
"I don't believe she will," said Rosella.
Rosella and Drew carried their mite boxes into their mother's tent.
"We're going to cut apricots and peaches to help the heathen!" announced
Rosella.
Mother nodded.
"We'll have a whole lot of money in our mite boxes when we carry them
back," said Rosella.
"We'll see," said mother.
For two or three mornings Rosella and Drew rose early, and after breakfast
hurried to the cutting-sheds to work. But, after a while, Rosella and Drew
grew tired. It was more fun to run over the fields, and mother never said
Rosella and Drew must cut fruit, anyhow, though she looked sober.
"The heathen children won't know," said Rosella to herself. "Suppose the
heathen children were me, I wonder if they'd cut apricots every day to send
me Bibles and missionaries? I don't believe they would."
The first month melted away. When it was over, Rosella had two nickels in
her mite box, and Drew had three in his.
"The heathen children won't know," said Rosella.
But one Saturday night Rosella and Drew were going by the tent where Louie
Ming lived. Inside the tent sat Louie Ming, with her week's pay in her lap.
In the Chinese girl's hand was her blue mite box. Louie Ming was putting
her money into her mite box, and did not notice Rosella and Drew.
"Why-ee!" whispered Rosella. "See there! Why, Drew! I do believe Louie
Ming's putting every bit of her pay into her mite box! Do you suppose she
knows what she's doing?"
Rosella and Drew stood watching.
"Do you suppose Louie Ming understands?" whispered Rosella again. "Why,
she's giving it all! Drew, she's been working in the cutting-sheds every
time I've been there. She didn't cut fruit till she got her mite box.
There, she's given every cent!"
When Louie Ming looked up, and suddenly discovered Rosella and Drew, she
looked half scared. Rosella stepped toward the tent, and said:--
"What made you give all your money? Why didn't you save some? You've worked
hard for it. The heathen children wouldn't know if you kept some for candy
and things."
Louie Ming looked shy.
"You say wha' fo' I give money?" she asked softly.
"Yes," said Rosella. "Why do you give so much?"
Louie Ming looked down at the blue mite box. Somehow it seemed hard for her
to answer, at first. Then she spoke softly: "One time I have baby brudder.
He die. Mudder cry, cry, cry. I cry, cry all time. I say, 'Never see poor
little baby brudder again, never again!' An' I love little brudder. Then I
go mission school. Teacher say, 'Louie Ming, love Jesus, an' some day you
see your baby brudder again.' O, teacher make me so happy! See little
brudder again! I go home and tell my mudder. She not believe, but I get
teacher to come and tell. She tell about Jesus to my fadder and mudder.
They learn love him. Some day we all go heaven and see little brudder! Now
I save money to put in mite box. Way over in China many little girls don't
know about Jesus. Their little brudders die. They cry, cry, all the same me
did. Maybe some my money send teacher tell those poor Chinese girls how go
to heaven, see their baby brudders again. So I work very hard to put money
in my box, because Jesus come into my heart."
Rosella did not answer, but stood looking at Louie Ming. Then she suddenly
turned and caught Drew's hand, and pulled him along till they were running
toward their own tent. Rosella rushed in. The baby was sitting on the straw
floor, and Rosella caught him up, crying:--
"O baby, baby brother, don't you ever die! I couldn't spare you!"
"Goo!" said baby brother, holding out his arms to Drew.
Drew did not say anything, but he took baby brother.
"Drew," said Rosella, "I'm going straight to work. Aren't you? I'm ashamed
of myself. To think that a Chinese girl who once did not know about Jesus,
would work so hard now for her mite box, and you and I haven't! Why, Drew
Hopkins, I haven't acted as though I cared whether the heathen boys and
girls knew about Jesus or not! I'm going to work to fill my mite box. Why,
Drew, Louie Ming's box is most full, and she used to be a heathen!"
Drew nodded, and hugged baby brother tighter.
The next Monday Rosella and Drew began working hard cutting fruit. How they
cut fruit the remaining month! How they saved! And how glad they were that
their mite boxes were heavy when the day came to carry them back!
The blind missionary woman was at Sunday-school again. After the school
closed, the superintendent, who knew Rosella and Drew, introduced them to
the missionary. And the blind missionary said, "Bless the dear girl and boy
who have cut peaches for two whole months to help send the gospel to
heathen children!"
Then Rosella, being honest, could not bear to have the missionary think it
had been two months instead of one, and she suddenly burst out,
half-crying, and said, "O, I wasn't so good as that! I didn't work two
months, and I--I'm afraid if Louie Ming hadn't loved Jesus better than I
did, Drew and I wouldn't have had hardly any money in our mite boxes."
The blind missionary wanted to know about Louie Ming, and Rosella told the
missionary all about her. Then the blind missionary kissed Louie Ming's
cheek, and said, "Many that are last shall be first."
But Rosella was glad that she and Drew had worked to send the news about
Jesus to heathen children.--_Mary E. Bamford, in "Over Sea and Land."_
TI-TO AND THE BOXERS
A True Story of a Young Christian
It was late in May when we last saw Ti-to's father. He was attending the
annual meeting of the North China Mission at Tung-chou, near Peking when
word came that the Boxers were tearing up the railway between Peking and
Pao-ting-fu. For twelve years he had been the pastor of the Congregational
Church in Pao-ting-fu, having been the first Chinese pastor ordained in
north China. Without waiting for the end of the meeting, he hastened to the
assistance of the little band of missionaries.
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