In a few moments, in the dog came, looking completely discouraged. He seemed to have no spirit, although all his companions were barking and jumping around him. The old dog paid no attention, but went and lay down in a sort of hopeless way, without even wagging his tail—like all good dogs do that are pleased with themselves.
The explanation of the monks made me think.
They told the Englishman that that was the way the dog always acted whenever he had failed to help any traveller.
Just think, girls and boys, of the instinct of a well-trained dog—so deeply set on helping, that failure, even when he was not to blame for it, made him ashamed and sad!
Surely we will at least be equal to a trained St. Bernard.
Surely we should far surpass him, by voluntarily, of our own loving choice, seeking to help in a life of shining unselfishness.
I do not know any one who should be better able than a girl or boy to put into their lives the spirit of this little poem, whose author I do not know, but which I give to you:
LITTLE THINGS THAT CHEER
Just to bring to those who need
The little word of cheer;
Just to lift the drooping head
And check the falling tear;
Just to smooth a furrow from
A tired brow a while;
Just to help dispel a cloud,
Just to bring a smile—
Oh, the kindly little deeds,
As on through life we go,
How they bring the sunshine,
Only those who do them know.
Just to do the best we can,
As o'er life's path each day,
With other pilgrims homeward bound,
We take our steady way;
Just to give a helping hand
Some weary weight to bear,
And lend a heart of sympathy
Some neighbour's grief to share—
Oh, those kindly little deeds,
Our dear Lord notes each one,
And sheds His blessings o'er our way
Toward life's setting sun.
VI