What a mystery lies in that word “teaching!” One will constrain you irresistibly, and another shall not be able to persuade you. One will kindle you with an ambition that aspires to what the day before seemed inaccessible heights, while another will labor in vain to stir your sluggish mood to cope with the smallest obstacle. The reciprocal relation is too often forgotten.—R. H. Haweis.
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SYMPATHY, LACK OF
Nothing is so likely to cause a man to lose his head as the conscious lack of sympathetic encompassment. Sometimes a single man will upset a sermon.
I remember such a one who for many months was the plague of my life. He had taken offense at some public utterance of mine, and thereafter in his eyes I was persona non grata, a fact which he took a sort of savage satisfaction in making manifest in season and out of season, especially the latter.
He would seem to be deeply interested in the opening exercises, but the moment when I rose to preach he would double up as if in pain, or avert his face and look wistfully toward the window as if murmuring to himself. “Oh, that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly away and be at rest.” And then instead of “afflatus” I would be taken with a bad spell of “flat us.” It does not take many such hearers to kill a man.—P. S. Henson, Christian Endeavor World.
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SYMPATHY, PRACTICAL
A little boy was riding in a street car, and, observing a kindly looking woman, he snuggled closely up to her, and unconsciously rubbed his dusty feet against her dress, when she leaned over to a woman on the other side of the little boy and said shortly, “Madam, will you kindly make your little boy take his feet off my dress?” The other woman said, “My boy? He isn’t my boy.” The little fellow squirmed uneasily, seemed to be greatly distrest, and looked disappointedly into the face of the woman who had disowned relationship to him. The woman whose attention had thus been called to the little boy presently observed that the child’s eyes were fastened upon her with a peculiarly wistful expression, and she said to him, “Are you going about alone?” “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, “I always go alone; father and mother are dead, and I live with Aunt Clara, and when she gets tired of me she sends me to Aunt Sarah, to stay as long as she will keep me; but they both tire of me so soon, I keep changing from one to the other; they don’t either of them care for little boys like me.” The woman’s heart was drawn to the motherless boy, and she said, “You are a very little boy to be traveling alone like this.” “Oh, I don’t mind,” said he, “only I get lonesome sometimes on these long trips, and when I see some one that I think I would like to belong to, I snuggle up close to her so that I can make believe I really do belong to her. This morning I was playing that I belonged to that other lady, and I forgot about my dirty shoes. But she would not let me belong to her. Do you like little boys?” The pitifulness of that appeal overcame all restraint of the woman’s feelings, and regardless of a car full of spectators, she put her arms around the tiny chap, hugged him close, and kissing him, said, “Yes, and I only wish you wanted to belong to me.” The boy looked at her with rapturous content, and replied, “I do.” And she said, “You shall,” and she adopted him.—James T. White, “Character Lessons.”
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