At length the father yielded, and as he stood, the child stood between us, and, holding up his index-finger, with a glance first at his father, and then at me, he said, “Now you watch, till you see how much my papa loves me.”
His father was a tall and splendidly proportioned man. First he partially extended one arm, but the child exclaimed, “No, more than that.” Then the other arm was extended similarly, but the little fellow was not content, and demanded, “More than that.” Then one after the other both arms were outstretched to the full, only the fingers remaining closed. But still the child insisted, “More than that.” Then, in response to his repeated demands, as he playfully stamped his little foot and clapped his hands and cried, “No! No! It’s more than that!” One finger after another on either hand was extended, until his father’s arms were opened to their utmost reach, and to each was added the full hand-breadth. Then the child turned to me, and, gleefully clapping his hands, exclaimed, “See? That’s how much papa loves me.” Than he ran off to his play content.—C. C. Shields.
(1928)
LOVING ENEMIES
Here is one more illustration of a moral power that occasionally came out of Confucianism. Ieyasu, the founder of the Shogunate, is regarded as perhaps the greatest hero Japan has produced. In his wars, his enemy, Mitsunari, was defeated, and fearing the revenge of Ieyasu’s seven generals, he sent to Ieyasu for pardon. The desired forgiveness was immediately granted, but the seven generals were indignant that such an enemy should escape death, and remonstrated with Ieyasu. The proverb he quoted to them shows how near the best hearts in all ages are to Christ’s “Love your enemies.” His reply was: “Even a hunter will have pity on a distrest bird when it seeks refuge in his bosom.”—John H. De Forest, “Sunrise in the Sunrise Kingdom.”
(1929)
LOYALTY
On the deck of the Republic (January, 1909), when the passengers had all departed, when Captain Sealby was left alone with his men, with his ship, he stood before them. His voice shook a little.
“Men of the Republic,” he said, “I am proud of you. You have acquitted yourselves like men. I look upon no coward. The darkness is drawing on”—it was then four o’clock Saturday afternoon—“and the passengers are gone. You have now the right to leave this vessel. She may sink; she may not—I can not say. But you have done your duty; the boats are at your disposal—”
“How about you, captain?” interrupted a voice.