Stories Worth Rereading

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"The old chief became silent again, and, after an appreciable pause, he
turned toward the judge with such a look of pathos and suffering on his
face that none who saw it will forget it, and said:--

"'But in the center of the path there stands a man. Behind him I see
soldiers in number like the leaves of the trees. If that man gives me the
permission, I may pass on to life and liberty. If he refuses, I must go
back and sink beneath the flood.'

"Then, in a lower tone, 'You are that man.'

"There was silence in the court as the old chief sat down. Tears ran down
over the judge's face. General Crook leaned forward and covered his face
with his hands. Some of the ladies sobbed.

"All at once that audience, by one common impulse, rose to its feet, and
such a shout went up as was never heard in a Nebraska court-room. No one
heard Judge Dundy say, 'Court is dismissed.' There was a rush for Standing
Bear. The first to reach him was General Crook. I was second. The ladies
flocked around him, and for an hour Standing Bear had a reception."

A few days afterward Judge Dundy handed down his famous decision, in which
he announced that an Indian was a "person," and was entitled to the
protection of the law. Standing Bear and his followers were set free; and,
with his old wagon and the body of the dead child, he went back to the
hunting-grounds of his fathers, and buried the body with tribal honors.
--_Indian Journal_.

Some Things We Need

The courage born of God, not man,
The truth to speak, cost what it may;
The patience to endure the trials
That form a part of every day;
The purpose firm, the will to do
The right, wherever we may be;
The wisdom to reprove the faults
That in our loved ones we may see,--
Reprove in tone and spirit sweet,
And ne'er in temper's eloquence;
The heart to love the ones in wrong,
While wrong we hate in every sense;
The strength to do our daily task
As unto God,--for we're his own,--
To seek his approbation sweet,
And not men's praise, fame, or renown,--
These, these, and more, are things we need
If Christ we'd represent indeed.

C. C. ROBERTS

MABEL ASHTON'S DREAM

As the guests came together in the brilliantly lighted parlors at the home
of Mabel Ashton that crisp winter evening, there was nothing unusual in the
appearance of the rooms to indicate that the party to which they had been
invited was to be in any respect different from the round of gaiety to
which they had been devoting themselves for the greater part of the winter.
Some of the guests, as they greeted their young hostess, noticed an unusual
degree of nervousness in her manner, but, attributing it to the excitement
of preparation and anticipation, thought no more of it, and all were soon
engaged in conversation.

The musicians were in their places, and the young people were beginning to
wonder why the signal was not given for the orchestra to strike up, when
Mabel Ashton, her sweet face flushed and pale by turns, took her stand near
the musicians. After closing her eyes for a moment, during which the room
became perfectly still, in a voice at first trembling, but clear and
steady, she said:--

"Friends, I know you will think me very queer; but before we do anything
else, I must tell you a little story.

"I had a dream last night, which has made such an impression on my mind and
heart that I must tell it to you. I dreamed that tonight had arrived, and
you had all assembled in these rooms, when there came to the door, and was
ushered in, a guest who seemed strangely familiar, and yet whom I could not
recognize. He had a rare face, peaceful, yet a little sad in its
expression, and his eyes were more penetrating than any that I had ever
before seen. He was dressed in neat yet very plain clothing, but there was
something in his appearance which marked him as no ordinary man.

"While I was trying to think where I had seen him, he advanced to me, took
my hand, and said, gently, 'You do not recognize me, Mabel?' Surprised at
such a form of salutation from a stranger, I could only say, 'Your face,
sir, seems familiar, yet I cannot recall your name.'

"'Yet I am one whom you have invited here this evening, or, I should rather
say, one to whom both you and your parents have extended many invitations
to be present here whenever I am able to come. You have even invited me to
make my home here; and I have come tonight to join your little company.'

"'I beg a thousand pardons,' I replied, 'but you mystify me all the more,
and I beg you will relieve me by telling me whom I have the pleasure of
greeting.'

"Then he offered to my view the palms of his hands, in which were scars as
of nail wounds, and looked me through and through with those piercing yet
tender eyes; and I did not need that he should say to me, 'I am Jesus
Christ, your Lord.'

"To say that I was startled would be to express only a very small part of
my feelings. For a moment I stood still, not knowing what to do or say. Why
could I not fall at his feet and say with all my heart, 'I am filled with
joy at seeing you here, Lord Jesus'?

"With those eyes looking into mine, I could not say it; for it was not
true. For some reason, on the instant only half comprehended by myself, I
was sorry he had come. It was an awful thought, to be glad to have all the
rest of you here, yet sorry to see my Saviour! Could it be that I was
ashamed of him, or was I ashamed of something in myself?

"At length I recovered myself in a degree, and said, 'You wish to speak to
my parents, I am sure.'

"'Yes, Mabel,' as he accompanied me to where my mother and father sat
gazing in surprise at my evident confusion in greeting an unexpected guest;
'but I came this evening chiefly to be with you and your young friends; for
I have often heard you speak enthusiastically in your young people's
meetings about how delightful it would be if you could have me visibly
present with you.'

"Again the blush came to my cheeks as the thought flashed through my mind,
Tomorrow night is prayer-meeting night; I should have been delighted to see
him then. But why not tonight, on this pleasant occasion? I led him to my
parents, and, in a somewhat shamefaced fashion, introduced him.

"They both gave a start of amazed surprise, but, convinced by his
appearance that there was no mistake, my father recovered a degree of
self-possession, and bade him welcome, as he offered him a seat, remarking
that this was an unexpected pleasure. After a somewhat lengthy pause, he
explained to Jesus that his daughter Mabel, being very closely occupied
with her studies, and having little variety in life, had been allowed to
invite a few friends in for a social evening, with a little quiet dancing
by way of healthful exercise. Her friends were all of the very choicest,
and he felt that this was a harmless amusement, which the church had come
to look upon in a somewhat different light from that in which it was viewed
forty years ago. Removing the objectionable feature of bad company, had
made this pleasant pastime a safe indulgence.

"As my father stammered out, in the presence of Jesus, these words of
apology, which had fallen from my own lips, I felt myself flush crimson
with shame both for my dear father and for myself. Why should he apologize
at all for what he considered unquestionably right? How hollow it all
sounded there in the presence of the Lord! Did not Jesus know that my
studies were not so pressing but that I could keep late hours, sometimes
several nights in the week, at parties?

"Then father, anxious to relieve my evident embarrassment, said, 'I am sure
we can leave these young people safely to themselves, and nothing would
please me so well as to take you, my Lord Jesus, off into my study for a
talk.'

"'No,' said Jesus, 'Mabel has often invited me, and I came tonight
especially to be with her. Will you introduce me to your friends, Mabel?
Some of them I know, but some I do not know.'

"Of course, all this time you, friends, were looking much in our direction,
wondering at our embarrassment, and perhaps guessing that we had been made
uncomfortable by the arrival of a not altogether welcome guest. I led him
first to some of the church-members among you, and there was not one of you
who looked so comfortable after the introduction as before.

"As it became known who the guest was, faces changed color, and some of you
looked very much as if you would like to leave the room. It really seemed
as if the church-members were quite as unwilling to meet Jesus as those who
were not Christians.

"One of you came up quietly and whispered to me, 'Shall I tell the
musicians not to play the dance music, but to look up some sacred pieces?'
Jesus caught the question, and, looking us both squarely in the face, he
simply asked, 'Why should you?' and we could not answer. Some one else
suggested that we could have a very pleasant and profitable evening if we
should change our original plans, and invite Jesus to talk to us. And he
also was met with that searching question, 'Why should my presence change
your plans?'

"After I had introduced the Lord Jesus to you all, and no one knew what to
do next, Jesus turned to me and said: 'You were planning for dancing, were
you not? It is high time you began, or you cannot complete your program
before daylight. Will you not give the word to the musicians, Mabel?'

"I was much embarrassed. If my original plan was all right, his presence
ought only to add joy to the occasion; yet here were all my guests, as well
as myself, made wretchedly uncomfortable by the presence of him whom most
of us called our best Friend. Determined to throw off this feeling and be
myself, at his word I ordered the musicians to play for the first dance.

"The young man with whom I was engaged for that dance did not come to claim
me, and no one went upon the floor. This was still worse embarrassment. The
orchestra played once more, and two or three couples, more to relieve me
than for any other reason, began to dance in a rather formal fashion. I was
almost beside myself with shame and confusion, when the Lord Jesus turned
to me and said: 'Mabel, your guests do not seem at ease. Why do you not, as
their hostess, relieve their embarrassment by dancing, yourself? Would it
help you any if I should offer to dance with you?'

"My confusion gave way to an expression almost of horror, as I looked into
those tenderly sad eyes and cried, 'You dance! You cannot mean it!'

"'Why not, Mabel? If my disciples may dance, may not I? Did you think all
this winter, when you and others of my disciples have gathered for the
dance, or the card-party, or at the theater, that you left me at home or in
the church? You prayed for my presence in the prayer-meeting; you did not
quite want it here; but why not, my dear child? Why have you not welcomed
me tonight, Mabel? Why has my presence spoiled your pleasure? Though I am
"a Man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief," yet I delight to share and
increase all the pure joys of my disciples. Is it possible that you leave
me out of any of your pleasures, Mabel? If so, is it not because you feel
that they do not help you to become like me and to glorify me; that they
take your time and strength and thought to such an extent that you have
less delight in my Word and in communion with me? You have been asking,
"What's the harm?" Have you asked, "What is the gain?" Have you done these
things for the glory of God?'

"It was plain to me now. Overcome with self-reproach and profound sorrow, I
threw myself on the floor at his feet, and sobbed out my repentance.

"With a, 'Daughter, go in peace; thy sins be forgiven thee,' he was gone. I
awoke and found that it was all a dream. And now I want to ask you, my
friends, shall we go on with the program tonight, or shall we take these
lists which we have prepared, and discuss for a time with our partners the
question, 'What can young people do to make the world better for their
having lived in it'?"

As the vote was unanimous in favor of the latter plan, which was followed
by other wholesome recreations, and as the social evening was declared the
most delightful of the winter, it is safe to say that the Lord Jesus had
sent that dream for others besides Mabel Ashton.--_Presbyterian Journal_.

A SAD BUT TRUE STORY

It was in the large parlors of a mansion in Missouri, where, on a pleasant
October evening, ten or twelve young people were gathered from the
wealthiest homes of the elite of the city. Among them was a young woman
who, though always genial and social with the young, was ever clad in
mourning garb, and bore the name of Mara, chosen by herself to express the
grief and bitterness of her life, since the time when she, seven or eight
years before, had been bereft of all her family.

The pleasant hours flew fast till about half past ten in the evening, when
one of the company pulled out a pack of cards and flung it on the table
where Mara Moor was sitting. The effect was startling. Her face took on a
deathly pallor; she trembled, arose from her seat, staggered across the
room, and took a chair in the remotest corner. So great was her agitation
that every one saw it, but none was aware of the cause.

One of the party, who had been reading law for some time, not imagining the
seriousness of her anguish, went to her, and in a bantering way threatened
her with a legal prosecution before an impaneled jury in case she refused
to return to her place at the table, and submit to the regulations of the
evening. While the lawyer was urging her to this, a thoughtless young man
of the company stepped up to them and placed a few cards in her hand. She
jerked her hand away, and gave it a sling as if to rid it of the
contaminating filth of the cards; and, with an agonizing scream, she began
weeping and sobbing as if her heart would break.

Surprised at this new outburst, the lawyer sought to soothe the wounded
spirit; and when she had become somewhat quiet, he, with the rest,
entreated her to give them the reason for her terrible agitation. This she
at first refused to do, but being urged very strongly by all the company,
she at length consented. At the first word a shudder passed over her whole
frame; but pausing to regain her self-control, she began:--

"When I was nineteen years old, I was living in an Eastern city, in one of
the happiest homes within its limits. A rich and tender father, with a
loving and gentle mother, and as bright and true a brother as ever a sister
could want, were my companions in the delightful home of my childhood.
Wealth and comfort smiled upon us, and prophesied of future happiness,
until, with my own hand, I plucked down upon us all the greatest curse
imaginable.

"Two of our cousins, a brother and sister, came to visit us, and we spent
the evening in pleasant conversation, as we did this evening; and just as
those cards were thrown upon the table, and at about the same hour, my
parents having retired, our cousin threw a deck upon our table. They two
and I sat down to play, while my dear and tenderly loved brother, not
liking the idea of playing cards, turned to his music, which he was
composing as a graduating exercise for examination day, and went to work at
that. We three needed a fourth one to make the game go properly, and we
began trying to persuade my brother to come and take part with us; but he
declared he thought it was not right to spend time in card-playing--that it
was an amusement of the lowest character, and he did not want to get into
it.

"After using all our arguments to induce him to assist us, but to no
purpose, I went to him, put my arm around his neck, and told him that I was
a Christian, and was trying to get to heaven, and thought it no harm to
play cards just for amusement; that I thought he ought to lay aside his
scruples, and come and help us, as we could have no fun without his nelp;
that he was too fastidious, anyway. With this he arose from his seat very
reluctantly, and came, protesting that he knew nothing about it. We told
him he could soon learn, and he did, only too quickly; for, in a little
time, he was enough for any of us; and when we three had become tired of
the sport, he was so delighted with it that he sat for an hour studying the
cards and shuffling them.

"We laughed heartily at him for his interest in the matter, and finally
retired for the night, leaving him with the cards. Next morning he took
them up again, and tried to induce us to play with him; but our cousins had
to go home, and soon left us, taking the deck with them. But the fatal act
had been done. That night my brother was in the city until a late hour,
which was a thing that had never occurred before. When he came home, he
seemed morose; and to our inquiries for the cause, his replies were
evasive.

"The next night he was out again; and this continued for some nights, until
his money--two hundred dollars--was all gone. He then went to father for
more, and, as he had unbounded confidence in my brother, father very
readily gave him quite a little sum, without asking what he was going to do
with it. This was soon gone. When he asked for more, father desired him to
tell what he was doing with so much money. Not receiving a direct answer,
father gave him a small sum, and told him he could get no more unless he
would give a clear report of the use he made of his money. This money was
soon spent, and when he went for more, but was unwilling to account for
what he had received, father refused to give him more. With this refusal he
became angry, and told father he would make him willing to let him have the
money. My brother then went into the city again, and, as usual, into a
gambling-den, where he managed to get money for gaming, or sat and looked
on. He was absent for nearly a week.

"During this time my mother neither ate nor slept, as I might say; and when
my brother was brought home drunk, she took her bed, and never got up
again, but died of a broken heart, within a few days.

"We hoped this would stop my brother's course, but it did so only for a
short time. He soon began gambling and drinking again; and, being young and
rather delicate, it was not long until he was brought home in delirium
tremens. Upon this father took his bed, languished, sank, and died, leaving
myself and my brother alone in the world. O, how I wished I could die, too!
But it seemed that God determined that I should see the end of my work in
wrecking our family, and I was compelled to still remain, and reap the
harvest of my own doings.

"Every influence that could be brought to bear on my poor brother I made
use of, but to no avail; and, O, how I prayed for him! But it was of no
use! He went even more rapidly down the way of ruin, now that father was
dead and out of his way. Only a few weeks after I had followed my father to
his resting-place in the silent grave, my brother was brought home with
delirium tremens again, and, after suffering for a short time the most
terrible agony, the poor boy died, and was laid in a drunkard's grave. O my
God! why was I ever born? Why cannot I die, too? But what will my eternity
be for having thus ruined my own brother, the bright and beautiful boy?
This is why I spell my name Mara."

Soon after the lady commenced her sad story, the ladies in the company
began weeping; and when it was finished, they were all sobbing as if their
hearts would break; and the eyes of the men also were moist. The cards had
disappeared, and vows were solemnly expressed by the entire company that
never again would one of them be guilty of engaging in that sport, but that
they would ever do their best to endeavor to put the practise out of
society.--_Selected_.

Sowing to the Flesh

Are you sowing to the flesh, O youth?
Have you turned your back upon the truth?
Are you scattering seeds of evil
From the garner of the devil?
Are you thinking of the harvest
By and by?
Soon will spring and summer pass,
Brown and sere will grow the grass;
No time then for good seed-sowing:
You and I
Must gather what we've sown, forsooth.
Are you sowing to the flesh, O youth?

Are you sowing to the flesh, O maid?
Can you think of the harvest unafraid?
Is this world your only treasure?
This life all your joy and pleasure?
Are you laying up no portion
In the sky?
He that soweth to the wind
Shall a whirlwind's harvest find,
And he'll see himself a pauper
By and by.
We must reap of what we sow, it is said:
Are you sowing to the flesh, O maid?

ELIZABETH ROSSER.

"THE MAN THAT DIED FOR ME"

For many years I wanted to go as a foreign missionary, but my way seemed
hedged about. At last I went to live in California. Life was rough in the
mining country where I lived, with my husband and little boys.

While there I heard of a man who lived over the hills and was dying of
consumption. The men said: "He is so vile that no one can stay with him; so
we place some food near him, and leave him for twenty-four hours. We will
find him dead sometime, and the sooner the better. Never had a relative, I
guess."

This pitiful story haunted me as I went about my work. For three days I
tried to get some one to go to see him and find out if he was in need of
better care. As I turned from the last man, vexed with his indifference,
the thought came to me: "Why not go yourself? Here is missionary work, if
you want it."

I will not tell how I weighed the probable uselessness of my going, nor how
I shrank from one so vile as he. It was not the kind of work I wanted.

But at last one day I went over the hills to the little abode. It was a mud
cabin, containing but one room. The door stood open. In one corner, on some
straw and colored blankets, I found the dying man. Sin had left awful marks
on his face, and if I had not heard that he could not move, I should have
retreated. As my shadow fell over the floor, he looked up and greeted me
with an oath. I stepped forward a little, and again he swore.

"Don't speak so, my friend," I said.

"I ain't your friend. I ain't got any friends," he said.

"Well, I am your friend, and--"

But the oaths came quickly, and he said: "You ain't my friend. I never had
any friends, and I don't want any now."

I reached out, at arm's length, the fruit I had brought for him, and
stepping back to the doorway, asked if he remembered his mother, hoping to
find a tender place in his heart; but he cursed her. I spoke of God, and he
cursed him. I tried to speak of Jesus and his death for us, but he stopped
me with his oaths, and said: "That's all a lie. Nobody ever died for
others."

I went away discouraged, saying to myself that I knew it was of no use. But
the next day I went again, and every day for two weeks. He did not show the
gratitude of a dog, and at the end of that time I said that I was not going
any more. That night as I was putting my little boy to bed, I did not pray
for the miner. My little boy noticed it and said:--

"Mama, you did not pray for the bad man."

"No," I answered, with a sigh.

"Have you given him up, mama?"

"Yes, I guess so."

"Has God given him up, mama? Ought you to give him up till God does?"

I could not sleep that night. I thought of the dying man, so vile, and with
no one to care! I rose and went away by myself to pray; but the moment that
I knelt, I was overpowered by the sense of how little meaning there had
been to my prayers. I had had no faith, and I had not really cared, beyond
a kind of half-hearted sentiment. I had not claimed his soul for God. O,
the shame of such missionary zeal! I fell on my face literally, as I cried,
"O Christ, give me a little glimpse of the worth of a human soul!" Did you,
Christian, ever ask that and mean it? Do not do it unless you are willing
to give up ease and selfish pleasure; for life will be a different thing to
you after this revelation.

I remained on my knees until Calvary became a reality to me. I cannot
describe those hours. They came and went unheeded; but I learned that night
what I had never known before, what it was to travail for a human soul. I
saw my Lord as I had never seen him before. I knelt there till the answer
came.

As I went back to my room, my husband said:--

"How about your miner?"

"He is going to be saved."

"How are you going to do it? he asked.

"The Lord is going to save him; and I do not know that I shall do anything
about it," I replied.

The next morning brought a lesson in Christian work which I had never
learned before. I had waited on other days until afternoon, when, my work
being over, I could change my dress, put on my gloves, and take a walk
while the shadows were on the hillsides. That day, the moment my little
boys went to school, I left my work, and, without waiting for gloves or
shadows, hurried over the hills, not to see "that vile wretch," but to win
a soul. I thought the man might die.

As I passed on, a neighbor came out of her cabin, and said, "I will go over
the hills with you."

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