Stories Worth Rereading

V >> Various >> Stories Worth Rereading

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20

"I feel it all," he said; "I feel it, but God knows that I have tried to do
my duty, and I can trust him for the results."

"Yes, yes," said the deacon, "but 'by their fruits ye shall know them,' and
one new member, and he, too, only a boy, seems to me rather a slight
evidence of true faith and zeal. I don't want to be hard, but I have this
matter on my conscience, and I have done but my duty in speaking plainly."

"True," said the old man; "but 'charity suffereth long and is kind; beareth
all things, hopeth all things.' Ay, there you have it; 'hopeth all things'!
I have great hopes of that one boy, Robert. Some seed that we sow bears
fruit late, but that fruit is generally the most precious of all."

The old minister went to the pulpit that day with a grieved and heavy
heart. He closed his discourse with dim and tearful eyes. He wished that
his work was done forever, and that he was at rest among the graves under
the blossoming trees in the old kirkyard. He lingered in the dear old kirk
after the rest were gone. He wished to be alone. The place was sacred and
inexpressibly dear to him. It had been his spiritual home from his youth.
Before this altar he had prayed over the dead forms of a bygone generation,
and had welcomed the children of a new generation; and here, yes, here, he
had been told at last that his work was no longer owned and blessed!

No one remained--no one?--"Only a boy."

The boy was Robert Moffat. He watched the trembling old man. His soul was
filled with loving sympathy. He went to him, and laid his hand on his black
gown.

"Well, Robert?" said the minister.

"Do you think if I were willing to work hard for an education, I could ever
become a preacher?"

"A preacher?"

"Perhaps a missionary."

There was a long pause. Tears filled the eyes of the old minister. At
length he said: "This heals the ache in my heart, Robert. I see the divine
hand now. May God bless you, my boy. Yes, I think you will become a
preacher."

Some few years ago there returned to London from Africa an aged missionary.
His name was spoken with reverence. When he went into an assembly, the
people rose. When he spoke in public, there was a deep silence. Priests
stood uncovered before him; nobles invited him to their homes.

He had added a province to the church of Christ on earth; had brought under
the gospel influence the most savage of African chiefs; had given the
translated Bible to strange tribes; had enriched with valuable knowledge
the Royal Geographical Society; and had honored the humble place of his
birth, the Scottish kirk, the United Kingdom, and the universal missionary
cause.

It is hard to trust when no evidence of fruit appears. But the harvests of
right intentions are sure. The old minister sleeps beneath the trees in the
humble place of his labors, but men remember his work because of what he
was to one boy, and what that one boy was to the world.

"Do thou thy work: it shall succeed
In thine or in another's day;
And if denied the victor's meed,
Thou shalt not miss the toiler's pay."

--_Youth's Companion_.

When Some One's Late

Some one is late,
And so I wait
A minute, two, or ten;
To me the cost
Is good time lost
That never comes again.

He does not care
How I shall fare,
Or what my loss shall be;
His tardiness
Is selfishness
And basely rude to me.

My boys, be spry,
The moments fly;
Meet every date you make.
Be weather fair
Or foul, be there
In time your place to take.

And girls, take heed,
And work with speed;
Each task on time begin;
On time begun,
And work well done,
The highest praise will win.

MAX HILL.

THE LITTLE PROTECTOR

He was such a little fellow, but he was desperately in earnest when he
marched into the store that snowy morning. Straight up to the first clerk
he went. "I want to see the 'prietor," he said.

The clerk wanted to smile, but the little face before her was so grave that
she answered solemnly, "He is sitting at his desk."

The little fellow walked up to the man at the desk. Mr. Martin, the
proprietor, turned around. "Good morning, little man. Did you want to see
me?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. I want a wrap for my mama. I can make fires and pay for it."

"What is your name, my boy?"

"Paul May."

"Is your father living?"

"No, sir; he died when we lived in Louisville."

"How long have you lived here?"

"We haven't been here long. Mama was sick in Louisville, and the doctor
told her to go away, and she would get well."

"Is she better?"

"Yes, sir. Last Sunday she wanted to go to church, but she didn't have any
wrap, and she cried. She didn't think I saw her, but I did. She says I'm
her little p'tector since papa died. I can make fires and pay for a wrap."

"But, little man, the store is steam-heated. I wonder if you could clean
the snow off the walk."

"Yes, sir," Paul answered, quickly.

"Very well. I'll write your mama a note and explain our bargain."

When the note was written, Mr. Martin arose.

"Come, Paul, I will get the wrap," he said. At the counter he paused. "How
large is your mother Paul?" he asked.

Paul glanced about him. "'Bout as large as her." he said, pointing toward a
lady clerk.

"Miss Smith, please see if this fits you," requested Mr. Martin. Paul's
eyes were shining.

Miss Smith put on the wrap and turned about for Paul to see it. "Do you
like it?" she asked him.

"Yes, I do," he answered very emphatically.

The wrap was marked twelve dollars, but kind-hearted Mr. Martin said: "You
may have it for five dollars, Paul. Take it to Pauline and have her take
the price tag off," he added to Miss Smith. When she brought the bundle
back to him, he put it in Paul's arms. "Take it to your mama, Paul. When
the snow stops falling, come and sweep off the walk. I will pay you a
dollar each time you clean it. We shall soon have enough to pay for the
wrap."

"Yes, sir," answered Paul, gravely. He took the bundle and trudged out into
the snow.

When he reached home, his mother looked in surprise at his bundle. "Where
have you been, dear?"

"I went to town, mama," Paul answered. He put the note into her hand. She
opened it and read:--

"MRS. MAY: This little man has bought a wrap for you. He says he is your
protector. For his sake keep the wrap and let him work to pay for it. It
will be a great pleasure to him. He has the making of a fine man in him.
WILLIAM MARTIN."

Paul was astonished to see tears in his mothers eyes; he had thought she
would be so happy, and she was crying. She put her arm about him and kissed
him. Then she put on the wrap and told how pretty she thought it.

When the snow stopped falling, Paul went down to the store and cleaned the
snow from the front walk. He did not know that Mr. Martin's hired man swept
it again, for the little arms were not strong enough to sweep it quite
clean.

The days passed, and one morning Paul had a very sore throat.

"You mustn't get up today, dear," his mother said. When she brought his
breakfast, she found him crying. "What is making you cry? Is your throat
hurting much?"

"No, mama. Don't you see it is snowing, and I can't go and clean the walk?"
cried Paul.

"Shall I write a note to Mr. Martin and explain why you are not there?"

"Yes, please, mama. Who will take it?"

"I'll ask Bennie to leave it as he goes to school."

The note was written, and Bennie, a neighbor boy, promised to deliver it.

While Paul was eating his dinner, there was a knock at the door. Mrs. May
answered it, and ushered in Mr. Martin.

"How is the sick boy?" he asked. He crossed the room and sat by Paul. He
patted the boy's cheek, and then turned to the mother. "Mrs. May," he said,
"my wife's mother is very old, but will not give up her home and live with
us. She says she wants a home for her children to visit. She has recently
lost a good housekeeper, and needs another. Since I met Paul the other day,
I have been wondering if you would take the housekeeper's place. Mother
would be glad to have you and Paul with her, and would make things easy for
you, and pay you liberally."

"I shall be very glad to accept your offer, Mr. Martin. I am sorely in need
of work. I taught in the public school in Louisville until my health
failed. Since then I have had a hard struggle to get along," answered Mrs.
May.

"I will give you mother's address. You can go out and arrange matters. Make
haste and get well little protector," said Mr. Martin, as he rose to go.

When he had gone, the mother put her arms about her boy. "You are my
protector," she said. "You brought me a wrap, and now you have helped me to
get work to do."--_Mrs. P. Binford, in the Visitor_.

If I Ought To

There's a voice that's ever sounding.
With an echo oft rebounding,
In my heart a word propounding,
Loudly speaking, never still;
Till at last, my duty viewing,
Heart replies to charge renewing,
Let my willing change to doing,--
If I ought to, then I will.
MAX HILL

MOFFAT AND AFRICANER

Robert Moffat, the poor Scotch lad, who, by living on beggar's fare,
managed to get an education in theology and medicine, must evermore stand
as one of the great pioneers of Central African exploration. When on the
last day of October, 1816, that memorable year in missions, he set sail for
the Cape of Good Hope, he was only twenty years of age. But in all the
qualities that assure both maturity and heroism, he was a full-grown man.

As not infrequently occurs, his greatest obstacles were found, not in the
hopeless paganism of the degraded tribes of the Dark Continent, but in the
apathy, if not antipathy, of the representatives of Christian governments.
The British governor would have penned him up within the bounds of Cape
Colony, lest he should complicate the relations of the settlers with the
tribes of the interior. While fighting out this battle, he studied Dutch
with a pious Hollander, that he might preach to the Boers and their
servants.

Afterward, when permission was obtained, while traveling to the country of
the Bechuanas, at the close of his first day's journey he stopped at a
farmhouse and offered to preach to the people that evening. In the large
kitchen, where the service was to be held, stood a long table, at the head
of which sat the Boer, with his wife and six grown children. A large Bible
lay on the table, and underneath the table half a dozen dogs. The Boer
pointed to the Bible as the signal for Mr. Moffat to begin. But, after
vainly waiting for others to come in, he asked how soon the working people
were to be called.

"Working people?" impatiently cried the farmer.

"You don't mean the Hottentots,--the blacks! You are not waiting for them
surely, or expecting to preach to them? You might as well preach to those
dogs under that table!" A second time, and more angrily he spoke, repeating
the offensive comparison.

Young as Mr. Moffat was, he was disconcerted only for a moment. Lifting his
heart to God for guidance, the thought came into his mind to take a text
suggested by the rude remarks of the Boer. So he opened the Bible to the
fifteenth chapter of Matthew and read the twenty-seventh verse: "Truth,
Lord: yet the dogs eat of the crumbs which fall from their masters' table."
Pausing a moment, he slowly repeated these words, with his eyes steadily
fixed on the face of the Boer. Again pausing, a third time he quoted these
appropriate words. Angrily the Boer cried out, "Well, well, bring them in."
A crowd of blacks then thronged the kitchen, and Moffat preached to them
all.

Ten years passed, and the missionary was passing that way again. Those
work-people, who held him in the most grateful remembrance, seeing him, ran
after him to thank him for telling them the way to Christ in that sermon.

His whole life in Africa was a witness to miracles of transformation. He
had no scorn nor contempt for the sable sons of Africa. He found the most
degraded of them open to the impressions of the gospel, and even the worst
and unimpressionable among them were compelled to confess the power of that
gospel to renew. One savage, cruel chief, who hated the missionaries, had a
dog that chewed and swallowed a copy of the book of Psalms for the sake of
the soft sheepskin in which it was bound. The enraged chief declared his
dog to be henceforth worthless: "He would no more bite or tear, now that he
had swallowed a Christian book."

This godly, devoted missionary preached and taught the warlike Bechuanas
till they put away their clubs and knives, and farming utensils took the
place of bows and arrows and spears. This strange change in African savages
came to be talked over among the people. It was so wonderful that the other
tribes could account for it only as an instance of supernatural magic.
There was nothing they knew of that would lead men like the Bechuanas to
bring war to an end, and no longer rob and kill.

Mr. Moffat was especially warned against the notorious Africaner, a chief
whose name was the terror of the whole country. Some prophesied that he
would be eaten by this monster; others were sure that he would be killed,
and his skull turned into a drinking-cup, and his skin into the head of a
drum. Nevertheless, the heroic young missionary went straight for the kraal
of the cruel marauder and murderer. He was accompanied by Ebner, the
missionary, who was not in favor in Africaner's court, and who soon had to
flee, leaving Mr. Moffat alone with a bloodthirsty monarch and a people as
treacherous as their chief.

But God had armed his servant with the spirit, not of fear, but of power,
and of love, and of a sound mind. He was a man of singular grace and tact.
He quietly but firmly planted his foot in Africaner's realms, and began his
work. He opened a school, began stated services of worship, and went about
among the people, living simply, self-denyingly, and prayerfully.

Africaner himself was his first convert. The wild Namoqua warrior was
turned into a gentle child. The change in this chief was a moral miracle.
Wolfish rapacity, leonine ferocity, leopardish treachery, gave way before
the meekness and mildness of the calf or kid. His sole aim and ambition had
been to rob and to slay, to lead his people on expeditions for plunder and
violence, but he now seemed absorbed by one passion, zeal for God and his
missionary. He set his subjects to building a house for Mr. Moffat, made
him a present of cows, became a regular and devout worshiper, mourned
heartily over his past life, and habitually studied the Word of God. He
could not do enough for the man who had led him to Jesus.

When the missionary's life hung in the balance with African fever, he
nursed him through the crisis of delirium. When he had to visit Cape Town,
Africaner went with him, knowing that a price had been set for years upon
his own head as an outlaw and a public enemy. No marvel that when he made
his appearance in Cape Colony, the people were astonished at the
transformation! It was even more wonderful than when Saul, the
arch-persecutor, was suddenly transformed into Paul, the apostle.

Mr. Moffat once said that during his entire residence among this people, he
remembered no occasion on which he had been grieved with Africaner or found
reason for complaint; and even his very faults leaned to the side of
virtue. On his way to Cape Town with Mr. Moffat, a distance of six hundred
miles, the whole road lay through a country which had been laid waste by
this robber and his retainers. The Dutch farmers could not believe that
this converted man was actually Africaner; and one of them, when he saw
him, lifted his hands and exclaimed: "This is the eighth wonder of the
world! Great God, what a miracle of thy power and grace!"

He who had long shed blood without cause would now with as little
hesitation shed his own for Christ's sake. When he found his own death
approaching, he gathered his people around him, and charged them, as Moses
and Joshua did Israel: "We are not now what we once were, savages, but men
professing to be taught according to the gospel. Let us, then, do
accordingly." Then, with unspeakable tenderness and gentleness, he
counseled them to live peaceably with all men, to engage in no undertaking
without the advice of Christian guides, to remain together as one people,
and to receive and welcome all missionaries as sent from God. Then he gave
them his parting blessing.

His dying confession would have graced the lips of the apostle of the
Gentiles: "I feel that I love God, and that he has done much for me, of
which I am totally unworthy. My former life is stained with blood: but
Jesus Christ has bought my pardon, and I shall live with him through an
eternity. Beware of falling back into the same evils into which I have so
often led you, but seek God, and he will be found of you, and direct you."

Having said this, Africaner fell asleep, himself having furnished one of
the most unanswerable proofs that the gospel is the power of God unto
salvation.--_Arthur T. Pierson, in "The Miracles of Missions," second
series, copyright by Funk and Wagnalls Company, New York._

TWO TRIFLES

"Isn't Aunt Sue the dearest person you ever saw!" exclaimed Helen Fairmont
as she and her visitor sank into a garden seat in the beautiful grounds
surrounding Mrs. Armour's lovely home. "Nothing ever seems to be too much
trouble for her, if she can make others happy."

"Yes," answered Mary Sutton, "I just felt like giving her a good hug when
she told you her plan. It is really just for me that she is going to let
you give the picnic here."

"Just for that very reason. It will be simply fine. O, she is so sweet! You
see, two weeks ago, when you wrote that finally you could arrange to visit
me for the summer, I was so full of the good news that I couldn't get to
Aunt Sue's quickly enough to tell her about it,--somehow one always wants
to tell Aunt Sue about things,--and she said she used to go to school with
your mother, and was very fond of her, and she was all ready to like you,
too, and that just the very minute you reached here, we were both to come
over--I mean you and I were."

"O, dear," laughed Mary, "I think you'd better stop and take a good long
breath, and get the we's and you's straightened."

"I don't care," Helen went chattering on. "You know what I mean, just what
we've done. We, you and I,--is that right?--were to come to her house and
choose what kind of entertainment we wanted her to give, so you might meet
my friends."

"Who thought of the garden picnic?" inquired Mary, her face all animation.
Then, not waiting for Helen's answer, she said, enthusiastically, "Isn't
this a beautiful spot in which to have a picnic?"

The girls stopped talking long enough to look about at the pride of Mrs.
Armour's heart, the lovely grounds round her home. They surrounded a fine
old house of colonial type, for which they made a pretty setting. A double
row of dignified and ancient elms flanked a pathway leading from the gate.
The lawn on each side of the walk made one think of the answer the English
gardener gave to the inquiry as to the cause of the velvety beauty of
England's lawns. "Why, sir," said he, "we sows 'em, and we mows 'em, and we
mows 'em, and we sows 'em." Mrs. Armour's lawn had the appearance of having
undergone a like experience. At the back and sides of the house was a
variety of shrubs and bushes whose blossoms in the spring made the place
indescribably sweet. Mrs. Armour boasted that there were forty kinds of
bushes, but her husband laughingly said that he had never been able to
count more than thirty-nine and a half; "for you certainly couldn't call
that Japanese dwarf a whole one!"

June roses ran riot in season. Later, more cultivated varieties, blooming
regularly through the summer, took their part in providing fragrance.
Sweet, old-fashioned garden plants and more valuable products, procured at
much trouble and expense, helped to make a bower that might have satisfied
even more fastidious eyes than those which reveled in them now.

Mrs. Armour's great delight was in using her garden, and she had given
Helen the privilege of inviting all her young friends to picnic there the
following Thursday evening.

"And, O Mary, you just can't imagine how pretty it is here with the Chinese
lanterns swung from tree to tree, and the dainty tables scattered round!"
Helen scarcely contain herself.

Mary laughed merrily. She was equally delighted but naturally she took
everything in a more quiet manner. Smiling at Helen's exuberance of spirit,
she asked, "What was it your aunt said about the sandwiches?"

"She wants to help us make them, and she was telling me she'd like me to
cut them a little more carefully than I did the last time I helped her.
You'd never think Aunt Sue has a hobby, would you?"

"No, I don't think I should."

"Well, she has. She's the most particular old darling about little things
that you ever saw. Now those sandwiches I made I will admit were not cut
very evenly, but, dear me! they tasted good enough. Tom Canton ate six. I
told her so, but she said they should have looked good, too."

"Well, what's her hobby?"

"I just told you. It's trifles. She says life is made of them, and trifles
with the rough edges polished off make beautiful lives. And she loves to
quote such things as, 'Trifles make perfection, but perfection is no
trifle.' She says trifles decide almost everything for us, and shape our
characters. She says it is interesting to study how most big things grow
from little ones.

"Helen, I think she's right." Mary's dark, thoughtful eyes looked into her
friend's.

"O, I don't! It isn't trifles, trifles, that decide things and make the
real difference. It is the big things. For instance, it is brother Tom's
education in the school of technology that placed him in the responsible
position we are all so proud of him for obtaining."

"Yes, but I heard him say himself that he just happened, by mistake, to
leave one of his scribbled figures on your uncle's desk, and your uncle,
picking it up by mistake, too, said that a boy who could do that should
have a chance at the right training."

"Why, that's a fact, Mary mine," said Helen, in surprise. "I never thought
of it in that way. Well, I won't agree that it happens so often. For
example,"--glancing about for an idea, she caught sight of a young man, a
former schoolmate, passing just in front of the Armour home,--"for example,
I don't suppose it was a trifle that made Alson Jarvis turn out the kind of
individual he has become lately. He used to be a fine boy, but I am afraid
he is getting dissipated. He doesn't go with our crowd much now. I guess he
is not invited the way he used to be before he began going with those South
Town boys."

"I wish I could prove to you my side of the argument. Let's try your Aunt
Sue's idea of studying how the big things come from little ones. Wouldn't
it be interesting to find the cause of this one case? I would not be one
bit surprised if it were just some little thing which was the pivot that
turned him."

"All right," agreed Helen. "I don't believe your theory, but it would be
fun, as you say, to try it. Will"--Will was her brother--"insists Al's not
so black as he has been painted lately. We will get Will to find out for us
if he can."

Then the talk drifted to the more absorbing subject of sandwiches and
cakes.

At dinner-time the two girls confided to the accommodating Will their
desire to find what had changed Al.

"Trying to pry into private closets, regardless of the kind of welcome
their enclosed skeletons may accord you, are you?" said Will, banteringly.

Mary, not accustomed to his teasing, blushed, wondering if she had really
been guilty of an indelicate presumption, but Helen spoke up quickly in
their defense:--

"Now, Will you know perfectly well it is not any such thing. As a pledge of
our good faith--does that sound nice and lawyer-like?" Will was studying
law, and Helen, too, liked to tease occasionally--"I do affirm that if you
will do that for us, I will do something nice for him, on your account."

"Then I certainly will. It is what I have been trying to convince you for a
month that you ought to do."

The girls told him why it was they were so anxious to know more of Alson's
private affairs.

"I would like to prove that your Aunt Sue and I are right, you know," said
Mary.

"Well," said Will, turning to his sister's guest, "don't let them prejudice
you against Al. He is off the track just now, I know. The girls are not
having much to do with him, but I have seen worse than he is." Will went
off whistling. The next day he was ready with his report.

"Girls," he began, "Mary wins in the argument about trifles, and as a
result I am feeling pretty mean about the business. I guess I am the trifle
in the case."

Both girls laughed as they glanced at his six feet of length, and his
great, broad shoulders.

"O, it is no laughing matter," he said, good-naturedly. "This is the way it
happened: Washington's birthday, you know, everything in town was closed,
and I thought, as Al was living in a boarding-house, I would better ask
mother if I might bring him home the night before, and have him spend the
day here with us; we were going to have a kind of celebration anyway, you
know. So about seven o'clock that evening, just before I started for the
travel lecture, I ran up to mother's room. It was on the tip of my tongue
to ask her if she would not include Al in the number of her guests, when I
noticed that she looked pretty blue. I know she whisked away a tear so I
should not get sight of it. I pretended I didn't see it but I said, 'Got
some troubles, little mother?'"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20