Stories Worth Rereading

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"He--said--" she began slowly, and stopped.

"You ought to tell him to come and say it himself," and grandmother
laughed; "but we will forgive him this time. Was it 'Thank you,' he said?"

"He feels 'Thank you' awfully, I'm sure," said Marjorie, politely, "but
what he said was that if wasn't too much bother--well, he could use a kind
of hook thing."

Her grandmother produced a long iron hook, and Marjorie looked at her
wonderingly. "Are you a fairy?" she asked, timidly. "You must have a wand
and just make things."

Grandmother laughed. "Come here," she said. And she opened the little dark
closet, and from the shelf took a long wooden box. This she brought to the
table, and when she opened it, Marjorie gave a little cry of delight. It
seemed to her that there was a little of everything in it. There were bits
of string, pins, colored paper, bobbins, balls, pieces of felt, and every
sort of useful thing generally thrown away.

"When I knew my grandchildren were coming here to spend the summer," she
said, "I began on this box, and whenever I find anything astray that would
naturally be thrown out I just put it in."

"Do you want me to help save, too?" asked Marjorie, who thought the story
should have a moral.

"You must start a handy box of your own when you go back, and keep it in
the nursery. You don't know how many times a day you will be able to help
the others out. A little darning yarn, an odd thimble, a bit of soft linen,
and all the things that clutter and would be thrown away, go to fill up a
handy box. You can be the good fairy of the nursery."

"It is just wonderful!" said Marjorie. "If I had a little--just a little
wooden box, I would begin today, and when I go home I can have a larger
one."

Grandmother smiled, and brought out a smaller wooden box, just the right
size. From that moment Marjorie was a collector, and her usefulness
began.--_Mira Jenks Stafford, in Youth's Companion_.

THE RESULT OF DISOBEDIENCE

My parents and their six children, including myself, lived in Flintville,
Wisconsin, near the Suamico River and Pond, where a great number of logs
had been floated in for lumber. On the opposite side from us were woods,
where wintergreen berries were plentiful. One pleasant Sunday morning in
October, 1857, one of our playmates came to ask mother if we, my older
sister, a younger brother, and I, might go with her to pick some of these
berries.

Mother said we might go if we would go down the river and cross the bridge.
She knew that we had crossed the pond several times on the logs, but the
water was unusually high for that time of the year, and there was danger in
crossing that way. We promised to cross by the bridge, really intending
when we left home to do so. Mother let my two younger sisters, one four and
the other six years old, go with us.

We left the house as happy as could be. My mother smiled as she stood in
the door and watched us go. She had always trusted us, and we seldom
disobeyed her. But this time we had our playmate with us, and the had been
in the habit of having her own way. As she was a little older than we were,
we thought that what she said or did was all right.

We had gone but a short distance when this girl, whose name was Louise,
suggested that we run across the logs, and get to the berries so much the
sooner. We reminded her of what our mother had told us; but she said, "Your
mother does not know how snug the logs are piled in, and that it would be
such fun, and no danger, to cross on them."

We began to look at the matter in the same way, and after playing a few
minutes, we started across. I took one of my little sisters, and Louise was
going to take the younger one; but, as she was about to start, her brother,
whom she had not seen for some time, drove up and took her home with him.
My brother, thinking he could take our little sister across, started with
her, but I called to him to go back and wait for me to do it; for I was
then about half-way over. The stream was not wide, and he thought he could
take her over as well as I.

Just as I started back, O, what a sight met my eyes! I saw my little sister
slip off the log into the water. I ran to catch her, but was not quick
enough. As I reached for her, my brother and I both rolled from the log
into the water with her. Then my sister, who had been standing on the bank
to see if we got over safely, came to our rescue; but we were so frightened
that we caught hold of her, and, instead of her pulling us out, we pulled
her in with us.

By that time our screams had reached our mother's ears, and she came
running to see what the trouble was. She saw only one of us, as the others
were under water, or nearly so, and, supposing there was only one in the
water, she came on the logs to help. By the time she got to us, the logs
were under motion, so that she could not stand on them; and she, too, fell
into the water.

The six-year-old sister, whom I had taken across, saw it all and made an
attempt to come to us. Mother called to her to go back. She turned back,
and reached the shore all right. Just as mother spoke, she felt something
come against her feet. She raised her foot with the weight, and caught the
dress of little Emeline, who was sinking for the last time. Mother managed
to hold her till help came.

It being Sunday, nearly every man that lived near was away from home.
Fortunately, a Mr. Flint, who had company visiting him, was at home. The
men were eating their dinner when a woman who had seen us in the water
rushed into the dining-room and told them that Mr. Tripp's family were in
the mill-pond drowning. They rushed from the table, tipping it over and
breaking some dishes.

When they reached us, the logs and water were so disturbed that nothing
could be done for us until boards were brought to lay on the logs. During
this time I had caught hold of a log that was crowded between others, so I
could pull myself up without rolling, but could get no farther. My sister
Sarah and brother Willard were helped ashore. Emeline, whom mother had been
trying hard to hold up, was taken out, but showed no signs of life. She was
laid on a log while they helped mother out.

As soon as mother saw Emeline, she told the men to turn her on her stomach.
They then saw that there was life. She was quickly taken to the house, and
cared for by an old lady we called Aunt Betsey, who had come to help.

While taking mother to shore, the nine men who had come to our rescue fell
into the water. They all had to walk on the same long board to get to
shore. The boards having been placed so very quickly, it was not noticed,
until too late, that one was unsafe. The men were near enough to shore
where they fell in, so that they could touch bottom, and were not long in
getting out.

Mother had to be taken home, where she was cared for by the best help we
could procure. It was impossible to get a doctor where we lived in those
days. Little Emeline and mother were watched over all night, and at sunrise
the next morning they were pronounced out of danger.

The men who fell in got off with only an unpleasant wetting. The water was
quite cold; the pond froze over the following night. They did not start for
home that day, as they were intending to do, but spent the rest of the day
drying their clothing.

About noon our father, who had been away for three days, came home. When he
heard the story of our disaster, he wept, and thanked God for sparing our
lives.

All this happened because we did not obey our mother; and we children never
forgot the lesson.

MRS. M. J. LAWRENCE.

Likes and Dislikes

I had a little talk today--
An argument with Dan and Ike:
First Dan, he said 'twas not his way
To do the things he didn't like.

And Ike, he said that Dan was wrong;
That only cowards dodged and hid.
Because it made him brave and strong,
The things he didn't like, he did!

But then I showed to Ike and Dan
An easy way between the two:
I always try, as best I can,
To like the things I have to do.

--_Arthur Guiterman, in Youth's Companion_.

LIVINGSTONE'S BODY-GUARD

The work of David Livingstone in Africa was so far that of a
missionary-explorer and general that the field of his labor is too broad to
permit us to trace individual harvests. No one man can quickly scatter seed
over so wide an area. But there is one marvelous story connected with his
death, the like of which has never been written on the scroll of human
history. All the ages may safely be challenged to furnish its parallel.

On the night of his death he called for Susi, his faithful servant, and,
after some tender ministries had been rendered to the dying man,
Livingstone said: "All right; you may go out now," and Susi reluctantly
left him alone. At four o'clock the next morning, May 1, Susi and Chuma,
with four other devoted attendants, anxiously entered that grass hut at
Ilala. The candle was still burning, but the greater light of life had gone
out. Their great master, as they called him, was on his knees, his body
stretched forward, his head buried in his hands upon the pillow. With
silent awe, they stood apart and watched him, lest they should invade the
privacy of prayer. But he did not stir; there was not even the motion of
breathing, but a suspicious rigidity of inaction. Then one of them,
Matthew, softly came near and gently laid his hands upon Livingstone's
cheeks. It was enough; the chill of death was there. The great father of
Africa's dark children was dead, and they were orphans. The most refined
and cultured Englishmen would have been perplexed as to what course to
take. They were surrounded by superstitious and unsympathetic savages, to
whom the unburied remains of the dead man would be an object of dread. His
native land was six thousand miles away, and even the coast was fifteen
hundred. A grave responsibility rested upon these simple-minded sons of the
Dark Continent, to which few of the wisest would have been equal. Those
remains, with his valuable journals, instruments, and personal effects,
must be carried to Zanzibar. But the body must first be preserved from
decay, and they had no skill nor facilities for embalming; and if
preserved, there were no means of transportation--no roads nor carts. No
beasts of burden being available, the body must be borne on the shoulders
of human beings; and, as no strangers could be trusted, they must
themselves undertake the journey and the sacred charge.

These humble children of the forest were grandly equal to the occasion, and
they resolved among themselves to carry the body to the seashore, and not
give it into other hands until they could surrender it to his countrymen.
Moreover, to insure safety to the remains and security to the bearers, it
must be done with secrecy. They would gladly have kept secret even their
master's death, but the fact could not be concealed. God, however, disposed
Chitambo and his subjects to permit these servants of the great missionary
to prepare his emaciated body for its last journey, in a hut built for the
purpose, on the outskirts of the village.

Now watch these black men as they rudely embalm the body of him who had
been to them a savior. They tenderly open the chest and take out the heart
and viscera. These they, with a poetic and pathetic sense of fitness,
reserve for his beloved Africa. The heart that for thirty-three years had
beat for her welfare must be buried in her bosom. And so one of the Nassik
boys, Jacob Wainright, read the simple service of burial, and under the
moula-tree at Ilala that heart was deposited, and that tree, carved with a
simple inscription, became his monument. Then the body was prepared for its
long journey; the cavity was filled with salt, brandy poured into the
mouth, and the corpse laid out in the sun for fourteen days, and so was
reduced to the condition of a mummy, Afterward it was thrust into a hollow
cylinder of bark. Over this was sewed a covering of canvas. The whole
package was securely lashed to a pole, and so at last was ready to be borne
between two men upon their shoulders.

As yet the enterprise was scarcely begun, and the most difficult part of
their task was before them. The sea was far away, and the path lay through
a territory where nearly every fifty miles would bring them to a new tribe,
to face new difficulties.

Nevertheless, Susi and Chuma took up their precious burden, and, looking to
Livingstone's God for help, began the most remarkable funeral march on
record. They followed the track their master had marked with his footsteps
when he penetrated to Lake Bangweolo, passing to the south of Lake Lumbi,
which is a continuation of Tanganyika, then crossing to Unyanyembe, where
it was found out that they were carrying a dead body. Shelter was hard to
get, or even food; and at Kasekera they could get nothing for which they
asked, except on condition that they would bury the remains they were
carrying.

Now indeed their love and generalship were put to a new test. But again
they were equal to the emergency. They made up another package like the
precious burden, only it contained branches instead of human bones; and
this, with mock solemnity, they bore on their shoulders to a safe distance,
scattered the contents far and wide in the brushwood, and came back without
the bundle. Meanwhile others of their party had repacked the remains,
doubling them up into the semblance of a bale of cotton cloth, and so they
once more managed to procure what they needed and go on with their charge.

The true story of that nine months' march has never been written, and it
never will be, for the full data cannot be supplied. But here is material
waiting for some coming English Homer or Milton to crystallize into one of
the world's noblest epics; and it deserves the master hand of a great poet
artist to do it justice.

See these black men, whom some scientific philosophers would place at one
remove from the gorilla, run all manner of risks, by day and night, for
forty weeks; now going around by circuitous route to resort to strategem to
get their precious burden through the country; sometimes forced to fight
their foes in order to carry out their holy mission. Follow them as they
ford the rivers and travel trackless deserts; facing torrid heat and
drenching tropical storms; daring perils from wild beasts and relentless
wild men; exposing themselves to the fatal fever, and burying several of
their little band on the way. Yet on they went, patient and persevering,
never fainting nor halting, until love and gratitude had done all that
could be done, and they laid down at the feet of the British consul, on the
twelfth of March, 1874, all that was left of Scotland's great hero.

When, a little more than a month later, the coffin of Livingstone was
landed in England, April 15, it was felt that no less a shrine than
Britain's greatest burial-place could fitly hold such precious dust. But so
improbable and incredible did it seem that a few rude Africans could
actually have done this splendid deed, at such a cost of time and such
risk, that not until the fractured bones of the arm, which the lion crushed
at Jabotsa thirty years before, identified the body, was certain that this
was Livingstone's corpse. And then, on the eighteenth of April, 1874, such
a funeral cortege entered the great abbey of Britain's illustrious dead as
few warriors or heroes or princes ever drew to that mausoleum.

The faithful body-servants who had religiously brought home every relic of
the person or property of the great missionary explorer were accorded
places of honor. And well they might be. No triumphal procession of earth's
mightiest conqueror ever equaled for sublimity that lonely journey through
Africa's forests. An example of tenderness, gratitude, devotion, heroism,
equal to this, the world had never seen. The exquisite inventiveness of a
love that lavished tears as water on the feet of Jesus, and made tresses of
hair a towel, and broke the alabaster flask for his anointing; the feminine
tenderness that lifted his mangled body from the cross and wrapped it in
new linen, with costly spices, and laid it in a virgin tomb, have at length
been surpassed by the ingenious devotion of the cursed sons of Canaan.

The grandeur and pathos of that burial scene, amid the stately columns and
arches of England's famous Abbey, pale in luster when contrasted with that
simpler scene near Ilala, when, in God's greater cathedral of nature, whose
columns and arches are the trees, whose surpliced choir are the singing
birds, whose organ is the moaning wind, the grassy carpet was lifted, and
dark hands laid Livingstone's heart to rest, In that great cortege that
moved up the nave no truer nobleman was found than that black man, Susi,
who in illness had nursed the Blantyre hero, had laid his heart in Africa's
bosom, and whose hand was now upon his pall.

Let those who doubt and deride Christian missions to the degraded children
of Africa, who tell us that it is not worth while to sacrifice precious
lives for the sake of these doubly lost millions of the Dark
Continent,--let such tell us whether it is not worth while, at any cost, to
seek out and save men with whom such Christian heroism is possible.

Burn on, thou humble candle, burn within thy hut of grass,
Though few may be the pilgrim feet that through Ilala pass;
God's hand hath lit thee, long to shine, and shed thy holy light
Till the new day-dawn pour its beams o'er Afric's long midnight.

--_Arthur T. Pierson, in "The Miracles of Missions," second series.

SPARE MOMENTS

A lean, awkward boy came to the door of the principal of a celebrated
school one morning, and asked to see him. The servant eyed his mean
clothes, and thinking he looked more like a beggar than anything else, told
him to go around to the kitchen. The boy did as he was bidden, and soon
appeared at the back door.

"I should like to see Mr. Slade," said he.

"You want a breakfast, more like," said the servant girl, "and I can give
you that without troubling him."

"Thank you," said the boy; "I should like to see Mr. Slade, if he can see
me."

"Some old clothes maybe you want," remarked the servant again, eying the
boy's patched clothes. "I guess he has none to spare; he gives away a
sight." And, without minding the boy's request, she went about her work.

"May I see Mr. Slade?" again asked the boy, after finishing his bread and
butter.

"Well, he is in the library; if he must be disturbed, he must. He does like
to be alone sometimes," said the girl in a peevish tone.

She seemed to think it very foolish to admit such a fellow into her
master's presence. However, she wiped her hands, and bade him follow.
Opening the library door, she said:--

"Here's somebody, sir, who is dreadful anxious to see you, and so I let him
in."

I do not know how the boy introduced himself, or now he opened the
business, but I know that, after talking awhile, the principal put aside
the volume that he was studying, and took up some Greek books, and began to
examine the boy. The examination lasted for some time. Every question the
principal asked was answered promptly.

"Upon my word," exclaimed the principal, "you do well!" looking at the boy
from head to foot over his spectacles. "Why, my boy, where did you pick up
so much?"

"In my spare moments," answered the boy.

Here was a poor, hard-working boy, with few opportunities for schooling,
yet almost fitted for college by simply improving his spare moments.

Truly are spare moments the "gold-dust of time"! How precious they should
be regarded! What account can you give for your spare moments? What can you
show for them? Look and see. This boy can tell you how very much can be
laid up by improving them; and there are many, very many other boys, I am
afraid, in jail and in the house of correction, in the forecastle of a
whaleship, in the gambling-house, in the tippling-shop, who, if you should
ask them when they began their sinful course, might answer, "In my spare
moments." "In my spare moments I gambled for marbles." "In my spare moments
I began to swear and drink." "It was in my spare moments that I began to
steal chestnuts from the old woman's stand." "It was in my spare moments
that I gathered with wicked associates."

Then be very careful how you spend your spare moments. The tempter always
hunts you out in small seasons like these; when you are not busy, he gets
into your hearts, if he possibly can, in just such gaps. There he hides
himself, planning all sorts of mischief Take care of your spare
moments.--_Selected_.

A GOLD MEDAL

[Right and generous deeds are not always rewarded nor always recognized;
but the doing of them is our duty, even diough they pass unnoticed.
Sometimes, however, a noble, unselfish, manly act is met by a reward that
betrays, on the part of the giver, the same praiseworthy spirit as that
which prompted the act. Do right, be courteous, be noble, though man may
never express his appreciation. The God of right will, in his own good
time, give the reward.]

I shall never forget a lesson I once received. We saw a boy named Watson
driving a cow to pasture. In the evening he drove her back again, we did
not know where. This was continued several weeks.

The boys attending the school were nearly all sons of wealthy parents, and
some of them were dunces enough to look with disdain on a student who had
to drive a cow. With admirable good nature Watson bore all their attempts
to annoy him.

"I suppose, Watson," said Jackson, another boy, one day, "I suppose your
father intends to make a milkman of you?"

"Why not?" asked Watson.

"O, nothing! Only don't leave much water in the cans after you rinse them,
that's all."

The boys laughed, and Watson, not in the least mortified, replied:--

"Never fear. If ever I am a milkman, I'll give good measure and good milk."

The day after this conversation, there was a public examination, at which
ladies and gentlemen from the neighboring towns were present, and prizes
were awarded by the principal of our school. Both Watson and Jackson
received a creditable number; for, in respect to scholarship, they were
about equal. After the ceremony of distribution, the principal remarked
that there was one prize, consisting of a gold medal, which was rarely
awarded, not so much on account of its great cost, as because the instances
were rare which rendered its bestowal proper. It was the prize of heroism.
The last medal was awarded about three years ago to a boy in the first
class, who rescued a poor girl from drowning.

The principal then said that, with the permission of the company, he would
relate a short anecdote:--

"Not long ago some boys were flying a kite in the street, just as a poor
lad on horseback rode by on his way to the mill. The horse took fright and
threw the boy, injuring him so badly that he was carried home, and confined
some weeks to his bed. Of the boys who had unintentionally caused the
disaster, none followed to learn the fate of the wounded lad. There was one
boy, however, who witnessed the accident from a distance, who not only went
to make inquiries, but stayed to render service.

"This boy soon learned that the wounded boy was the grandson of a poor
widow, whose sole support consisted in selling the milk of a cow, of which
she was the owner. She was old and lame, and her grandson, on whom she
depended to drive her cow to the pasture, was now helpless with his
bruises. 'Never mind,' said the friendly boy, 'I will drive the cow.'

"But his kindness did not stop there. Money was wanted to get articles from
the apothecary. 'I have money that my mother sent me to buy boots with,'
said he, 'but I can do without them for a while.' 'O, no,' said the old
woman, 'I can't consent to that; but here is a pair of heavy boots that I
bought for Thomas, who can't wear them. If you would only buy these, we
should get on nicely.' The boy bought the boots, clumsy as they were, and
has worn them up to this time.

"Well, when it was discovered by the other boys at the school that our
student was in the habit of driving a cow, he was assailed every day with
laughter and ridicule. His cowhide boots in particular were made matter of
mirth. But he kept on cheerfully and bravely, day after day, never shunning
observation, driving the widow's cow and wearing his thick boots. He never
explained why he drove the cow; for he was not inclined to make a boast of
his charitable motives. It was by mere accident that his kindness and
self-denial were discovered by his teacher.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, I ask you, Was there not true heroism in
this boy's conduct? Nay, Master Watson, do not get out of sight behind the
blackboard. You were not afraid of ridicule; you must not be afraid of
praise."

As Watson, with blushing cheeks, came forward, a round of applause spoke
the general approbation, and the medal was presented to him amid the cheers
of the audience.--_The Children's Own_.

A GIRL'S RAILWAY ACQUAINTANCE

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