A little boy said to his sister, "Mary, there would be more room for me on this sofa if one of us were to get off!"
Was he not a selfish boy? Who would want to have that kind of child around—that expects the whole house to get out of his way so he could blow himself?
Some one tells a story of the sweetness of the unselfish life of a little ragged bootblack, who sold his kit to get a quarter to pay for a notice in the paper of the death of his little brother. When the kind newspaper man asked if it was his little brother, with a quivering chin he said, "I had to sell my kit to do it, b-but he had his arms aroun' my neck when he d-died!"
The news went round and that same day at evening, he found his kit on the doorstep, with a bunch of flowers bought with pennies by his chums, who were touched by his unselfish act.
There is something very attractive about a girl or boy who thinks of others and forgets self.
I have read of the wonderful St. Bernard dogs in the mountains of Switzerland.
There is a house called a hospice, 8,000 feet above sea level, where the monks live who keep the dogs to watch for lost travellers who may perish in the snow.
The dogs have baskets strapped on their backs, which contain food for lost men. They are trained so that they will find people and guide them to the place of safety.
The story that interested me was of an Englishman who wanted to see the dogs at work.
The monks told him that the best dog had been out for some time and they were becoming worried over his absence.