LXVIII.—GOLDEN DEEDS.
What is a golden deed? It is something which we do for the good of others when we think more of them than we do of ourselves. And it is called golden, because the rarest and most precious things in all the world are the acts of unselfish men.
Let me tell you the story of a golden deed that was performed by Sir Philip Sidney. This brave English knight was fighting in the Netherlands, to help the Dutch in their struggle for liberty against the tyrant, Philip of Spain. In a fierce battle he was struck by a musket ball, which broke his thigh-bone. Thirsty and faint from loss of blood, he called for water.
He had just raised the cup to his lips, when his eye fell on a poor, dying soldier, who was looking longingly at the cool drink. Without so much as tasting it, Sidney handed the cup to the poor fellow with these words: “Thy necessity is greater than mine.”
Here is the story of another golden deed. A little boy, named Peter, who lived in Holland a long time ago, was once on his way home late in the evening, when he became alarmed at hearing water trickling through a sluice or gate in one of the many dikes which are so necessary for the safety of that country; for you must know that Holland is so flat and low that it is in constant danger of finding itself under water.
He stopped and thought of what would happen if the hole were not closed. He had often heard his father tell of the sad disasters which had come from such small beginnings as this—how, in a few hours, the little aperture gradually enlarged until the whole defence was washed away, and the rolling, dashing, angry sea rushed in, and swept on to the next village, destroying life and property. Should he run home and alarm the villagers, it would be dark before they could arrive; and the hole, even then, might become so large as to defy all attempts to close. What could he do to prevent such a terrible ruin—he, only a little boy? He sat down on the bank of the canal, stopped the opening with his hand, and patiently awaited the passing of a villager. But no one came. Hour after hour rolled by, yet there sat the heroic boy, in cold and darkness, shivering, wet, and tired, but stoutly pressing his hand against the water that was trying to pass the dangerous breach. The remainder of the story is thus told by an American poet, Miss Phœbe Cary:—
He thinks of his brother and sister
Asleep in their safe, warm bed;
He thinks of his father and mother,