JAMIE AND HIS TEACHER
Among the scholars in a mission Sabbath school formed in one of our large country villages, was a little Irish boy, whose bright, intelligent face, quickness of mind, and earnest attention to the lessons, had awakened great interest in the mind of his teacher.
After a few Sabbaths, however, this boy was missing, and when sought by the visiting committee during the week, was never to be found.
Sometimes he was seen from a distance, looking with apparent interest, as the superintendent or one of the teachers passed by, but if they attempted to approach him, he would take to his heels, and spring over walls and fences with such agility that there was no hope of overtaking him.
Miss L., his teacher in the Sabbath school, was a young lady belonging to one of the wealthiest families in the village. One cold afternoon in December, after Jamie had been absent from his class more than a month, he made his appearance at the back door of her father's house, asking to see her.
"No, no," said the cook, "ye needn't be thinking the young leddy'll come in the woodshed to see ye. If ye have any message, ye can go in the house."
"I don't look nice enough to go in," said Jamie, glancing ruefully at his torn trousers and coarse, muddy boots.
But it so happened that Miss L. was passing through the hall, and she heard and recognized the voice at once; so she came to the door to see what was wanted.
Jamie hung his head in confusion, while the young lady kindly took his hand in hers, and asked if he had been well, and why he had not been to Sabbath school.
"Me father wouldn't let me come," he sobbed out at last; "he bate me because I'd been to the Sabbath school."
"Poor child!" exclaimed Miss L. "But does your father know you came here this afternoon?"
"No, ma'am; but he said I might have every half holiday to go skating, if I promised never to go inside the Sabbath school again. So I brought me Testament, and I thought mebbe you'd teach me here, ma'am."
Was it not a bold request? Did not Jamie know that with home duties and the claims of social life, his teacher's time must be fully occupied? Might she not think that her services on the Sabbath were all that should be required of her?
Ah, no; what were time, and strength, and fashionable amusements, to be compared with the value of a precious soul? Miss L. could only thank God for so rich a privilege, and enter with joy upon the work of instruction.
So every half holiday found Jamie seated by her side in the beautiful library, earnestly studying the words of the Master, who has said, "Suffer little children to come unto Me."
Skating-time came and went; the last ice had melted from the pond; but never once had Jamie gone skating. He had found a source of better, deeper delight, than even boyish sports could afford.
But Jamie could not always hide the fact that he was spending his time in this way.
One day, his well-worn Testament fell from his pocket in the presence of his parents.
"What's that?" demanded the father fiercely.
"It's me Testament, father," Jamie gently replied.
"And where did ye get that? Have ye been to the Sabbath school since I told ye not?"
"No, father; but my teacher gave me this a great while ago."
"And who is your teacher?"
"Miss L."
"What, Miss L.? The one that lives in that splendid house on the hill?"
"Yes, father."
"Well, well, what's in the book? let's hear a bit."
Providentially, this was one of the rare occasions when Mr. Ryan was not intoxicated, and as the boy read passage after passage from his beloved book, the father's mind opened with a child-like interest to the truths of the holy word.
From that day he became a sincere inquirer after the truth as it is in Jesus. The appetite for strong drink, which had been the cause of his degradation, was at last quenched; for a stronger thirst had taken possession of his soul, even for that purifying stream of which whosoever drinketh shall never thirst.
When sober, Mr. Ryan was an industrious and intelligent man, and by his renewed energies his family was soon placed in a position of comfort and respectability. But that was not all the good effect of Jamie's love for the truth.
Within a few months, both father and mother had cast off the fetters of restraint, and were receiving for themselves with meekness and earnestness, that precious word which was able to save their souls.
Had not Jamie made the very best use of his winter holidays? and was not his teacher richly rewarded for all her exertions?
How many of our young readers will study with equal earnestness the word of truth, which is always open to them, that they may learn from it the way of life? How many Christian teachers will engage with equal interest in the work of instruction, in the hope that in so doing they may save a soul from death?
Hosanna to the Son
Of David and of God,
Who brought the news of pardon down,
And bought it with His blood.
To Christ the anointed King
Be endless blessings given;
Let the whole earth His glories sing,
Who made our peace with heaven.
"WITH A WILL, JOE!"
It was a summer afternoon; the wheelbarrow stood before Mrs. Robbins' door; the street was empty of all traffic, for the heat was intense.
I sauntered languidly along on the shady side opposite the widow's house, and noticed her boy bringing out some linen in a basket, to put on the wheelbarrow.
I was surprised at the size of the basket he was lugging along the passage and lifting on to the wheelbarrow, and paused to look at him. He pulled, and dragged, and then resting a moment began again, and in the silence of the street, I heard him saying something to himself.
I half crossed the road. He was too busy to notice me, and then, in a pause of his toil, I heard him gasp out:—
"With a will, Joe!" He was encouraging himself to a further effort with these words. At last, bringing the large basket to the curbstone, he ran in and got a piece of smooth wood as a lever; resting one end of the basket on the wheelbarrow, he heaved up the other end, and saying a little louder than before, "With a will, Joe," the basket was mounted on to the wheelbarrow.
As he rested, and looked proudly at his successful effort, he saw me, and his round, red face, covered with perspiration, became scarlet for a moment, as I said:—
"That's a brave boy." The mother's voice sounded in the passage:—
"I'm coming, Joe!" and out she came, as the child, pointing to the basket, exclaimed:—
"I've managed it, mother!" It was a pretty sight,—the gratified smile of the widowed mother, as she fondly regarded her willing boy. Though no further word was spoken, the expression of satisfaction on their faces was very plain, and I have no doubt in each heart there was a throb of pleasure for which words have no language.
I went on my way, but the saying, "With a will, Joe," went with me. How much there was in that simple phrase, "With a will!"
How different is our work according as we do it with or against our will. This little fellow might have cried or murmured, or left his mother to do the work, and been dissatisfied with himself, and a source of discontent to his mother; but he had spurred himself on to toil and duty, with his words, powerful in their simplicity—"With a will, Joe."
Often since have I recalled the scene and the saying. When some young lady complains to me, "I have no time to give to doing good. I've visits to make, and shopping to do, and embroidery to finish, how can I help the poor when I'm so pressed for time?" I am apt to say mentally, "How different it would be with her, if she had ever said to herself, 'With a will.'"
Yes, with a will we can do almost anything that ought to be done; and without a will we can do nothing as it should be done. To all of us, whatever our station, there come difficulties and trials. If we yield to them, we are beaten down and conquered.
But if we, ourselves, conquer the temptation to do wrong, calling the strength of God to aid us in our struggle with the enemy, we shall grow stronger and more valiant with every battle, and less liable to fall again into temptation. Our wisdom and our duty are to rouse ourselves,—to speak to our own hearts as the child did in his simple words, "With a will, Joe."
EFFECTS OF DISOBEDIENCE
The following affecting narrative was related by a father to his son, as a warning, from his own bitter experience of the sin of resisting a mother's love and counsel.
What agony was on my mother's face when all that she had said and suffered failed to move me. She rose to go home and I followed at a distance. She spoke to me no more until she reached her own door.
"It is school time now," she said. "Go, my son, and once more let me beseech you to think upon what I have said."
"I shan't go to school," said I.
She looked astonished at my boldness, but replied firmly:—
"Certainly you will, Alfred! I command you!"
"I will not," said I.
"One of two things you must do, Alfred—either go to school this minute, or I will lock you up in your room, and keep you there until you promise implicit obedience to my wishes in the future."
"I dare you to do it," I said; "you can't get me up stairs."
"Alfred, choose now," said my mother, who laid her hand upon my arm. She trembled violently and was deadly pale.
"If you touch me, I will kick you!" said I in a fearful rage. God knows I knew not what I said.
"Will you go, Alfred?"
"No," I replied, but I quailed beneath her eyes.
"Then follow me," said she as she grasped my arm firmly. I raised my foot,—O, my son, hear me,—I raised my foot and kicked her—my sainted mother! How my head reels as the torrent of memory rushes over me. I kicked my mother, a feeble woman—my mother. She staggered back a few steps and leaned against the wall. She did not look at me.
"O, heavenly Father," she cried, "forgive him, he knows not what he does." The gardener, just then passing the door, and seeing my mother pale and almost unable to support herself, came in.
"Take this boy up stairs and lock him in his room," said she, and turned from me. She gave me a look of agony, mingled with most intense love, from a true and tender heart that was broken.
In a moment I found myself a prisoner in my own room. I thought for a moment I would fling myself from the open window, but I felt that I was afraid to die. I was not penitent. At times my heart was subdued, but my stubbornness rose in an instant, and bade me not yield yet.
The pale face of my mother haunted me. I flung myself on my bed and fell asleep. Just at twilight I heard a footstep approach my door. It was my sister.
"What shall I tell mother for you?" she said.
"Nothing," I replied.
"O, Alfred, for my sake and for all our sakes, say that you are sorry. She longs to forgive you."
I would not answer. I heard her footsteps slowly retreating, and flung myself on the bed to pass a wretched night.
Another footstep, slower and more feeble than my sister's, disturbed me. "Alfred, my son, shall I come in?" she asked.
I cannot tell what influence made me speak adverse to my feelings. The gentle voice of my mother, that thrilled me, melted the ice from my heart, and I longed to throw myself upon her neck; but I did not. My words gave the lie to my heart when I said I was not sorry. I heard her withdraw. I heard her groan. I longed to call her back, but I did not.
I was awakened from an uneasy slumber by hearing my name called loudly, and my sister stood by my bedside:—
"Get up, Alfred! Don't wait a minute. Get up and come with me, mother is dying!"
I thought I was yet dreaming, but I got up mechanically, and followed my sister. On the bed, pale as marble, lay my mother. She was not yet undressed. She had thrown herself upon the bed to rest, and rising again to go to me she was seized with heart failure, and borne to her room.
I cannot tell you my agony as I looked upon her,—my remorse was tenfold more bitter from the thought that she never would know it. I believed myself to be her murderer. I fell on the bed beside her; I could not weep. My heart burned within me; my brain was on fire. My sister threw her arms around me and wept in silence. Suddenly we saw a motion of mother's hand; her eyes unclosed. She had recovered her consciousness, but not her speech.
"Mother, mother!" I shrieked; "say only that you forgive me."
She could not speak, but her hand pressed mine. She looked upon me, and lifting her thin, white hands, she clasped my own within them, and cast her eyes upward. She moved her lips in prayer, and thus died. I remained kneeling beside that dear form till my sister removed me; but the joy of youth had left me forever.
Boys who spurn a mother's counsel, who are ashamed to own that they are wrong, who think it manly to resist her authority, or yield to her influence, beware. One act of disobedience may cause a blot that a life-time can not wipe out. Wrong words and wrong actions make wounds that leave their scars.
Be warned; subdue the first rising of temper, and give not utterance to the bitter thought. Shun the fearful effects of disobedience. Lay not up for yourselves sad memories for future years.
STAND BY THE SHIP
"Do, grandmother, tell us about the little drummer boy whose motto was, 'Stand by the ship.'"
"Grandmother is not used to telling children stories; but, if you will be quiet, she will try." And this is the story she told us:—
During one of the fiercest battles of the civil war, the colonel of a Michigan regiment noticed a very small boy, acting as drummer.
The great coolness and self-possession of the boy, as displayed during the engagement; his habitual reserve, so singular in one of his years; his orderly conduct, and his fond devotion to his drum (his only companion, except a few well-worn books),—all these things unusual in one so young had attracted notice, both from the officers and the men. Colonel B.'s curiosity was aroused, and he desired to know more of him. So he ordered that the boy should be sent to his tent.
The little fellow came, his drum on his breast, and the sticks in his hands. He paused before the colonel and made his best military salute. He was a noble looking boy, the sunburnt tint of his face in good keeping with his dark, crisp curls.
But strangely out of keeping with the rounded cheeks and dimpled chin, was the look of gravity and thoughtfulness, in the serious, childish eyes. He was a boy, who seemed to have been prematurely taught the self-reliance of a man. A strange thrill went through Colonel B.'s heart as the boy stood before him.
"Come forward, I wish to talk to you." The boy stepped forward, showing no surprise under the novel position in which he found himself. "I was very much pleased with your conduct yesterday," said the colonel, "from the fact that you are so young and small for your position."
"Thank you, colonel; I only did my duty; I am big enough for that, if I am small," replied the noble little fellow.
"Were you not very much frightened when the battle began?" questioned Colonel B.
"I might have been, if I had let myself think of it; but I kept my mind on my drum. I went in to play for the men; it was that I volunteered for. So I said to myself: 'Don't trouble yourself about what doesn't concern you, Jack, but do your duty, and stand by the ship.'"
"Why, that is sailors' talk," said the colonel.
"It is a very good saying, if it is, sir," said Jack.
"I see you understand the meaning of it. Let that rule guide you through life, and you will gain the respect of all good men."
"Father Jack told me that, when he taught me to say, 'Stand by the ship.'"
"He was your father?"
"No, sir,—I never had a father,—but he brought me up."
"Strange," said the colonel, musing, "how much I feel like befriending this child. Tell me your story, Jack."
"I will tell it, sir, as near as I can, as Father Jack told it to me.
"My mother sailed on a merchant ship from France to Baltimore, where my father was living. A great storm arose; the ship was driven on rocks, where she split, and all hands had to take to the boats. They gave themselves up for lost; but at last a ship bound for Liverpool took them up. They had lost everything but the clothes they had on; but the captain was very kind to them; he gave them clothes, and some money.
"My mother refused to remain at Liverpool, though she was quite sick, for she wanted to get to this country so badly; so she took passage in another merchant ship, just going to New York. She was the only woman on board. She grew worse after the ship sailed; the sailors took care of her. Father Jack was a sailor on this ship, and he pitied her very much, and he did all he could for her. But she died and left me, an infant.
"Nobody knew what to do with me; they all said I would die—all but Father Jack; he asked the doctor to give me to him. The doctor said:—
"'Let him try his hand, if he has a mind to; it's no use, the little one will be sure to go overboard after it's mother;' but the doctor was wrong.
"I was brought safe to New York. He tried to find my father, but did not know how to do it, for no one knew my mother's name. At last he left me with a family in New York, and he went to sea again; but he never could find out anything about my mother, although he inquired in Liverpool and elsewhere. The last time he went to sea, I was nine years old, and he gave me a present on my birthday, the day before he sailed. It was the last; he never came back again; he died of ship fever.
"But Father Jack did well by me; he had me placed in a free school, at seven years of age, and always paid my board in advance for a year.
"So you see, sir, I had a fair start to help myself, which I did right off. I went errands for gentlemen, and swept out offices and stores. No one liked to begin with me, for they all thought me too small, but they soon saw I got along well enough.
"I went to school just the same, for I did my jobs before nine in the morning; and after school closed at night, I had plenty of time to work and learn my lessons. I wouldn't give up my school, for Father Jack told me to learn all I could, and some day I would find my father, and he must not find me a poor, ignorant boy. He said I must look my father in the face, and say to him without falsehood: 'Father, I may be poor and rough, but I have always been an honest boy and stood by the ship, so you needn't be ashamed of me.' Sir, I could never forget those words." He dropped his cap, drum, and sticks, bared his little arm, and showed the figure of a ship in full sail, with this motto beneath it, pricked into the skin: "Stand by the ship."
"When I was twelve, I left New York and came to Detroit with a gentleman in the book business. I was there two years, when the war broke out.
"One day, a few months afterward I was passing by a recruiting office, and went in. I heard them say they wanted a drummer. I offered; they laughed and said I was too little; but they brought me a drum and I beat it for them. They agreed to take me. So the old stars and stripes was the ship for me to stand by."
The colonel was silent; he seemed to be in deep thought. "How do you ever expect," he said, "to find your father? You do not even know his name."
"I don't know, sir, but I am sure I shall find him, somehow. My father will be certain to know that I am the right boy, when he does find me, for I have something to show him that was my mother's," and he drew forth a little canvas bag, sewed tightly all around, and suspended from his neck by a string.
"In this," he said, "is a pretty bracelet that my mother always wore on her arm. Father Jack took it off after she died, to keep for me. He said I must never open it until I found my father, and that I must wear it so around my neck, that it might be safe."
"A bracelet, did you say?" exclaimed the colonel, "let me have it—I must see it at once!"
With both his small hands clasped around it, the little boy stood looking into Colonel B.'s face; then, slipping the string from over his head, he silently placed it in his hand. To rip open the canvas was but the work of a moment.
"I think I know this bracelet," stammered Colonel B. "If it be as I hope and believe, within the locket we will find two names,—Wilhelmina and Carleton; date, May 26, 1849"
There were the names as he said. Colonel B. clasped the boy to his heart, crying brokenly, "My son! my son!"
I must now go back in my story. In the first year of his married life, Colonel B. and his lovely young wife sailed for Europe, expecting to remain several years in Southern Europe, on account of the delicate health of his wife. He was engaged in merchandise in the city of Baltimore. The sudden death of his business partner compelled his return to America, leaving his wife with her mother in Italy.
Soon after he left, his mother-in-law died. Mrs. B. then prepared to return to Baltimore at once, and took passage on the ill-fated steamer which was lost. Vainly he made inquiries; no tidings came of her. At last he gave her up as dead; he almost lost his reason from grief and doubt.
Fourteen years had passed; he did not know that God in his mercy had spared to him a precious link with the young life so lost and mourned. Restless, and almost aimless, he removed to Michigan. When the war broke out, he was among the first to join the army.
There stood the boy, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Father," he said, "you have found me at last, just as Father Jack said. You are a great gentleman, while I am only a poor drummer boy. But I have been an honest boy, and tried my best to do what was right. You won't be ashamed of me, father?"
"I am proud to call you my son, and thank God for bringing you to me just as you are."
My little hero is now a grown man; and as the boy was so is the man. "Stand by the ship," the motto which served him so well while a boy, is his motto still.
A FAITHFUL SHEPHERD BOY
Gerhardt was a German shepherd boy, and a noble fellow he was, although he was very poor.
One day he was watching his flock, which was feeding in a valley on the borders of a forest, when a hunter came out of the woods and asked:—
"How far is it to the nearest village?"
"Six miles, sir," replied the boy; "but the road is only a sheep track, and very easily missed."
The hunter looked at the crooked track and said:—
"My lad, I am very hungry and thirsty; I have lost my companions and missed my way; leave your sheep and show me the road. I will pay you well."
"I cannot leave my sheep, sir," replied Gerhardt. "They will stray into the forest, and may be eaten by wolves or stolen by robbers."
"Well, what of that?" queried the hunter. "They are not your sheep. The loss of one or more wouldn't be much to your master, and I'll give you more than you have earned in a whole year."
"I cannot go, sir," rejoined Gerhardt, very firmly. "My master pays me for my time, and he trusts me with his sheep; if I were to sell my time, which does not belong to me, and the sheep should get lost, it would be the same as if I stole them."
"Well," said the hunter, "will you trust your sheep with me while you go to the village and get some food, drink, and a guide? I will take care of them for you."
The boy shook his head. "The sheep do not know your voice, and—" he stopped speaking.
"And what? Can't you trust me? Do I look like a dishonest man?" asked the hunter, angrily.
"Sir," said the boy, "you tried to make me false to my trust, and wanted me to break my word to my master; how do I know that you would keep your word to me?"
The hunter laughed, for he felt that the lad had fairly cornered him. He said:—
"I see, my lad, that you are a good, faithful boy. I will not forget you. Show me the road and I will try to make it out myself."
Gerhardt then offered the contents of his bag to the hungry man, who, coarse as it was, ate it gladly. Presently his attendants came up, and then Gerhardt, to his surprise, found that the hunter was the grand duke, who owned all the country round.
The duke was so pleased with the boy's honesty, that he sent for him shortly after that, and had him educated.
In after years Gerhardt became a great and powerful man, but he remained honest and true to his dying day.
