“WE TWELVE GIRLS.”
Whosoever, therefore, shall confess me before men, him will I confess also, before my Father which is in heaven.
He was a burning and a shining light.
Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
It is lawful to do well on the Sabbath days.
I SHALL have to begin the story for you, or you would never understand. It happened that the twelve girls in Mr. Shepard’s Bible class were very nearly of an age; were class-mates in day school, as well as on Sundays, and were very fond of one another.
They lived in different parts of the country, but were gathered in Clayville at boarding-school.
It came to pass that on this year of which I write, they were to be widely scattered; only one was to return to the school in the fall. It was because of this fact that the thought grew up, out of which grows my story. On the last Sabbath before they separated, Mr. Shepard gave to each a tiny book of texts; one for each week, with the hint that he would like them to live by those words in the coming year.
This set them to thinking and to talking. After many plans, it was finally agreed that they should each select a month in which to write a letter that should give some account of an experience connected with one of the verses for that month. These letters were to be passed by mail from one member of the class to another until each had read them; and I, being a particular friend of several of the girls, have the privilege of reading them, and of making a copy for you, my Blossoms.
Cora Stevens had the month of November, and, without more introduction, I give you her letter:
Maplewood, Nov. 18—
You dear Girls:
I hope you every one miss me as much as I do you! Really and truly, I am dreadfully homesick for school! But this is my special letter, so I must not take time for anything else. I’m sorry I promised to write the first one, because I don’t know just how to write it, and I have such a mean, silly little story to tell, that I’m ashamed of it, anyhow.
I chose that verse about “confessing before men,” for the one to write my letter on. And I meant to go to the young people’s meeting, and to the Band, and confess Him in some way that would be nice to tell; and I didn’t do anything of the kind.
Don’t you think my story is about a cat! Who would have supposed that a cat would get mixed up with a verse like that?
We went to grandma’s, as usual, for the month of November, but things there were very unusual, for aunt Kate was married, and the house was full of company and confusion.
It is about the wedding day that I’m to tell you. I wish you could have seen the tables after they were ready. They did look too lovely for anything! The central table was magnificent. All the old silver and queer, quaint china which have been in grandma’s family for ages, had been brought out for decoration, and people say that the tablecloth was the finest piece of old damask that has ever been used in this part of the world. If I had Nettie’s descriptive powers, I could give you a picture of the whole; but as it is, I want you to confine your attention to one dish—the loveliest cut-glass beauty that was ever seen. It was amber-colored sometimes, with little threads of crimson running through it, which reminded one of a sunset. Besides, it was a very peculiarly-shaped dish, and as frail as a cobweb. Uncle Fred found it in Paris, and brought it to the bride. Uncle Fred, you understand, is the bridegroom.
Well, it was on the special wedding table, just before the bride’s seat, and was filled with the most exquisite flowers.
Grandma did not want the dish used, because it was so frail and so rare, but aunt Kate insisted that it should be placed just there, and be filled with orange-buds.
Grandma had just seen that the very last touches had been put to the table, and had taken the children in for a look, and then had said, as she shut the dining-room door: “Now, don’t one of you children open that door again. I wouldn’t have anything go wrong in there for a great deal.”
Then she went up to take a last look at aunt Kate, before she became Mrs. Fred Somerville.
Just at that moment little Sallie Evans came running down the hall, her eyes full of tears. Her mamma had called her just as grandma took the children in to see the tables, and she had missed the sight.
“And now I sha’n’t see them at all, till everything is spoiled,” she said, “for they aren’t going to let the little bits of cousins come to the first table.” And she sobbed outright.
Now it never entered my mind that grandma meant me, when she said, “You children,” because—well, because, you know, I am thirteen, and there are three at home, younger than I, and I’m used to being trusted. So I said, “Never mind, Sallie, I’ll let you look at them; but you must look fast, for it is almost time for the wedding.”
So, in we went. And Sallie, who is the most beauty-loving little creature of eight, whom I ever saw, seemed to have eyes only for that lovely glass dish, which she had never seen before. She clasped her hands together with an eager little “Oh!” and ran towards it. I don’t suppose she would have touched it, but I was excited, and so afraid she would, that I ran after her, calling out, “Don’t touch anything!” and put out my hand to prevent it. And then, I don’t know how it happened—does anybody know how such accidents happen? The lace from my sleeve caught in one of the points of the glass, or in one of the stems of flowers, or somehow,—I don’t suppose I could do it again if I tried,—but over that glass went, the water pouring itself out in the most disgusting way, on the damask cloth, and a long crooked piece snapped from the upper edge of the dish!
O, dear! Don’t ask me how I felt. I couldn’t describe it, even though I were sitting on the dear old bed at No. 7, with half a dozen of you beside me, and the rest cuddled around close at hand.
There wasn’t any time to do anything. I heard them calling, at that moment, for I was one of the bridesmaids. I just had to force back my tears and my fright, and run and take my place in the procession. We all got through it somehow. I hope aunt Kate heard what the minister said; I didn’t; but it is safe to say that she was not thinking of what I was.
Immediately after the ceremony, we went to the dining-room, and then the awful accident was discovered. I don’t know which I was the most sorry for, grandma or myself. I didn’t mean to tell about it then, because I thought it wouldn’t be the proper time; and then, of course, it would be dreadful to have to speak before them at all.
But what should grandma do, after we were all seated, and the eating had begun, but lean over to aunt Kate and say in a low tone: “That is some of Jill’s work; if I don’t get rid of a cat who can open doors, before I am a day older, it will be because I am not smart enough.”
Now, Jill is the cutest cat that was ever born, I do believe; there isn’t a door in grandma’s house that she cannot manage to open almost as well as though she had hands.
I never thought of her blaming the cat; and now the story came out, just as they guessed it had happened, and all the people at our end of the table talked it over.
Even then, I don’t know whether I would have spoken, because Jill is only a cat, you know, and her feelings couldn’t be hurt by bearing blame that didn’t belong to her for a few hours, until I could see grandma alone. But, just as I was thinking that, I heard grandma say: “The fault rests with little John. I charged him a dozen times to keep watch of that cat, and not on any account let her out of the barn to-day; and that is all the good it did! I think I have given John a lesson on obedience that he will remember.”
Now John is the little errand boy; a real nice chubby little fellow, who was very fond of aunt Kate, and who had never tasted wedding cake, and he was to drive one of the carriages to the depot that very day, to see the bridal party off.
It all came over me like a flash—how grandma would forbid his coming in to the wedding supper, and how she would not let him drive to the depot, but would send him to bed; and I felt just as though I should choke!
Even then, it didn’t seem to me that I could speak out then and there; and I don’t believe I could have done it, but for the verse.
Girls, I know you don’t see how the verse is coming in, and I can’t explain myself how it seemed to fit; there was certainly nothing about “confessing” Jesus in my telling of what I had done. And yet, you see, I knew I ought to tell, and I know it is what Jesus would do in my place, and it would be showing that I wanted to copy him, and—well, anyhow, it seemed to fit exactly, though I can’t explain it. And I spoke right out, loud and fast: “Grandmother, it wasn’t the cat; John didn’t let the cat out; it was I did it.”
My voice sounded so loud that it almost seemed as though they could hear me down at the church; the people at our table all stopped talking, and I just knew they could hear my heart beat.
“You!” said grandma. “You let the cat out?”
“No, ma’am,” I said, “I broke the dish.”
Then she questioned, and I answered, until somehow, she had the whole story.
I don’t think any tears dropped, but my eyes and my throat felt full of them. It didn’t seem to me that I could say another word, and then grandma said: “Well, well, child, there are worse things in the world than broken dishes. Eat your wedding cake, and think no more about it.” And I heard her call one of the waiters, and say to him: “Tell little John that he may dress himself again in his best suit, and come to the dining-room as soon as he is ready.” Then I knew that I had been none too soon with my confession.
And the bride, my dear, sweet aunt Kate, leaned over toward me and spoke low, “There are better things than glass dishes,” she said; “there are little nieces who are true.”
And papa looked across the table at me, and nodded, and smiled.
And in spite of the lovely broken dish, and the tablecloth, and my being ashamed, and all, I never felt happier in my life.
And as for the verse, if you girls can’t fit it to the cat story, I shall not be surprised; for I can’t explain it myself, but I know they fitted when the time came. Good-by!
Your loving, lonely
Cora.
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Water that flows from a spring, does not freeze in the coldest winter. And those sentiments of true friendship which flow from the heart cannot be frozen by adversity.
[A THANKSGIVING DINNER.]
THERE are four of us young people at home: first I, who am sixteen, then there is a long gap, and next comes Katie, who is eight, and Bessie, who is six, and last of all baby Harry, who is not yet two. But we were all a year younger when what I mean to tell you of happened, for that was a year ago.
I spoke of Katie and Bessie and Harry and myself as the young people, because I think I am rather too old to be called a child, and I didn’t know how else to put it, but I don’t at all mean to call father and mother old. It is true father has a great many gray streaks in his hair, but I think that is more from care than from age.
It makes me sad, however, very sad, to see father’s hair changing color; but when I speak of it, he only laughs and says: “The whites are gaining the ascendency, and the aborigines becoming extinct.”
Father and mother have not looked like themselves since the summer mother was so ill. That was the most dreadful period of my life, I am sure. For a long time we thought she couldn’t recover. She was ill, of course, to begin with, and then the expense of having a doctor and nurse preyed on her mind and made against her. I really believe mother minded that more than the pain she suffered! At one time she got so nervous with thinking of it, that she said Dr. May’s visits did her more harm than good, and declared she wouldn’t see him again; but Dr. Armstrong, our minister, happened to come in just then, and he soon reasoned her out of all that and made her see things differently.
There couldn’t possibly be a nicer minister than Dr. Armstrong,—I can’t begin to say how much I love him; better, indeed, than anybody in the world, outside of home, except a dear friend, Miss Judith Hepburn. Miss Judith lives next door to us; she is old and very poor; she has, in fact, nothing in the world but the house she lives in, and so she occupies only one of the rooms on the first floor, and lives on the rent from the others. But Miss Judith is as happy as if she possessed all this world has to offer, and happier, too, for that matter, and this is because she is such a true Christian. “Whatever befalls us is good,” she says, “whether it comes in the shape of prosperity or of adversity, because everything is bestowed by a loving Hand.”
AMUSING BABY HARRY.
I forgot to say, all this while, that my name is Annie—Annie Gray—but Miss Judith never calls me anything but “Martha.” She commenced this when mother was ill, because I kept so busy, and perhaps, too, because I was “troubled about many things,” for indeed I was all during her illness, and for a long time after, too, for the debt we owed to the doctor and nurse hung like a black cloud over the household. It is different with some people, but debt has always seemed a very serious evil to us. I believe father has dreaded it almost more than anything else, and up to mother’s illness, he had always avoided it; but the demands which sickness makes are very great, and can’t be easily disregarded.
Ah! how often I have heard father say: “Owe no man anything,” after which he would always add, “whether this is a Divine command, or only loving counsel I cannot say, but, in either case, I shall not willingly disregard it.”
Well, it was right funny, but soon after mother’s illness, Dr. Armstrong commenced his Friday evening lectures to the congregation “On Secular Matters,” as he said in his notice. Father took me to the first one, and I couldn’t help giving his hand a squeeze when he gave out the subject, “Debts: How They are Made, and How They May be Paid.” I can’t remember the words he used, which is a pity, but Dr. Armstrong’s words, as well as his thoughts, are forcible, but I know the sense of it all was that debts are generally commenced in a small way, little by little, little by little, they are added one to the other, till presently an account is presented to us of such overwhelming proportions that we despair of ever wiping it out. “But I trust,” he added, “that none of my friends who find themselves in this unhappy situation will give way for a moment to a feeling of discouragement. Step by step have we been led into trouble; let us retrace our way in like manner, step by step. Begin from this moment a system of judicious retrenchment; lay aside sums, never mind how trifling, toward the liquidation of your debt, and little by little it will melt away, till, almost unconsciously to yourself, it has disappeared, and you, again a free man, ‘can look the whole world in the face.’”
“Ah, that was practical! That was what I needed!” said father, as we came out after the lecture was over, “and I, for one, shall not ‘approve the doctrine and immediately practice the contrary.’ No; from this very moment I shall begin to retrench and put by. Ah, Annie, ‘a word in season,’ how good it is! I was almost ready to despair till now.”
And that was the beginning of our saving. First, coffee was given up; mother always drank tea, and so no one was inconvenienced by that but father; then butter was dispensed with, and the cheapest meat and vegetables in the market were selected, and mother decided that so many things were unnecessary about our clothes, that Katie declared after a while mother would think we could do without buttons on our dresses. But my happy part of the day, during all this anxious time, was the twilight when there was no work for me to do and I could run in and sit by Miss Judith’s bright little fire and talk over things with her. It was on one of these evenings, after Miss Judith’s usual greeting of, “Well, Martha, how has the work come on to-day?” that I said, “Indeed, Miss Judith, I wish I were not such a ‘Martha,’ and that I might ‘choose the better part,’ like Mary. But then, what can I do? Wouldn’t it be wrong for me to throw things on mother when she isn’t strong, and don’t you think our Saviour would think so, too? Then, besides, mother would have to be a ‘Martha,’ for the work must be done. I am sure it is all very puzzling to me, anyway.”
“I do not wonder that you say so, dear,” said Miss Judith, “for older heads than yours have puzzled over the same question, and certain it is that were it not for the ‘Marthas’ in the world the whole system of society would come to a stand-still. But, then, Annie, we are told that Martha was ‘cumbered with serving’; she allowed her work, it would seem, to absorb her faculties to the exclusion of other and more important things; we need not do that, need we? Has not each one of us, even the busiest among us, leisure sufficient to consecrate his work to God in prayer, and ask His blessing upon it, and His help in it? Then, my child,” she continued, “observe the words of our Saviour, ‘Mary has chosen the better part’; that is better than Martha, but perhaps there is a ‘better part,’ still, or the best part, in which labor and worship are united, in which, while ‘not slothful in business,’ we are still ‘fervent in spirit serving the Lord.’ This would seem to me the best part, and surely the best example is that of the blessed Saviour Himself, who ‘came not to be ministered to, but to minister,’ who ‘went about doing good,’ and ‘followed up days of toil with nights of prayer.’ Yes, my dear, the necessity of serving is evidently laid upon you, and you have not the choice of your part in life, but the manner in which you act your part is within your power. Don’t forget, dear child, that you ‘serve the Lord Christ,’ and ‘whatsoever you do, do it heartily as unto Him.’ He has taken a journey into a far country now, but he will come again to inspect your work; be faithful, dear Annie, and watch and pray.”
That little talk with Miss Judith did me real good. My little talks with her always do, and mother says that she is the greatest possible comfort to her, for she shows her how useful one may be, even where one has only sympathy and counsel to bestow; and father says that there is a healing and strengthening power in her words, which is far better than a gift of silver and gold, for it enables you to “rise up and walk” under the burden of life.
The children certainly did bear the privations we underwent well, but Katie said to me privately one night, “I never did want something good to eat as badly in my life. I am real glad Thanksgiving Day is so near.” But when the day before Thanksgiving came, and mother asked if I should get anything different for dinner next day, father shook his head with such a decided “no” that there was nothing more to be said, but it was undoubtedly a change; we had never known what it was not to have turkey and pudding then. I was most grieved, however, at the thought of not having my usual present for Miss Judith. I had always, on that day, carried her in her dinner, and on the waiter a five dollar bill; but as I went up stairs at night, father slipped five dollars into my hand, saying, “This is for Miss Judith, Annie. We must not forget, in our efforts to retrench, the debt we owe our Heavenly Father.”
That was enough to put me in a proper frame for the next day, even if I had not already had sufficient to be thankful for. I had quite made up my mind that mother was to go to church, and let me mind Harry, but there was a great deal of persuading necessary to get her up to the point. However, I succeeded at last, and after they were all gone and I had washed up the breakfast things, Master Harry began to show symptoms of sleepiness, so I tucked him in his little cradle, and began rocking him to and fro, singing all the while one of Miss Judith’s favorite hymns:—
“One by one thy duties wait thee,
With thy whole strength go to each,
Let no future dreams elate thee,
Learn thou first what these may teach.
Do not look at life’s long sorrow,
See how short each moment’s pain,
God will help thee for the morrow,
Every day begin again.”
Over and over I sang it, till at last the white lids closed, and I was getting up softly to slip away, when ting-a-ling! went the door-bell, with such a sound through the house that Harry stirred, then opened his blue eyes to their fullest extent, and I was obliged to get him quiet again before answering the bell. When at last I did go down, lo! not a creature was to be seen: only a hamper-basket covered with a white cloth with a paper pinned on top, on which was written: “For Mr. Gray; from a friend.”
It was just as much as I could do to get the basket into the kitchen, and then, oh! the good things that met my eyes. First of all, a turkey ready dressed, then a roll of golden butter, then several jars of sausage-meat and jelly, then a bunch of celery, and last a great iced cake. This completed the contents, but no; as I lifted out the lower cloth there lay a sealed envelope directed, as the basket had been, to father. This I laid aside till his return, but what to do about the other things was puzzling. They are clearly intended for father’s Thanksgiving dinner, I thought, but unless the turkey is put to roast right away it won’t be done in time. Shall I, or shall I not? I said to myself. Then I remembered how feeble dear mother looked when she set out; how she feared the services would be too much for her strength. Yes, I said decidedly, by way of answering my doubts, a warm nourishing dinner will be just what she needs, and so, without more ado, I set to work. The baby (bless his little heart!) was real good, and let me, get well “under way” before he waked up. There was no keeping the secret of the dinner, however, when the front door was once entered, for the savory odor of the roasting turkey told the tale at once, and the whole party hurried into the kitchen to find out what it meant.
“O, father!” I said, when the exclamations over the first part of my recital had sufficiently subsided to admit of my getting in a word, “there was a letter for you in the basket, too.”
“This will give us the name of the donor,” said he, as he opened it. But, no indeed, there was no name inside, only some notes neatly folded. “Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five dollars,” said father, counting them out on the table. “God be praised for all His mercies, and God bless the giver!” said he, fervently, while mother turned away to get Miss Judith’s dinner ready, and hide her tears, for poor mother was actually crying.
“Take this, too, Annie,” said father, putting another five on the one already lying on the waiter, when at last it was ready for me to take in. Of course I had to stop and tell Miss Judith the wonderful news about the basket, and when I got back again mother was putting the last dish on the table; then, going to our places, we stood with bowed heads while father said the grace I had always been accustomed to hear, but which seemed to have gained new meaning and beauty,—
“Supply the wants of others, O Lord, and give us grateful hearts, for Christ’s sake.”
We never knew the secret of that Thanksgiving basket, nor did we ever inquire into it, but we all had a notion that Dr. Armstrong could have thrown light upon the subject if he had chosen to.
G. S. W.
TRYING THEIR NEW KNIVES.
Volume 15, Number 2. Copyright, 1887, by D. Lothrop Compan November 12, 1887.
THE PANSY.
THE BABY THAT’S NEVER CROSS.