Various
Stories Worth Rereading
AS GOOD AS HIS BOND
I remember that a good many years ago, when I was a boy, my father, who was a stone-mason, did some work for a man named John Haws. When the work was completed, John Haws said he would pay for it on a certain day. It was late in the fall when the work was done, and when the day came on which Mr. Haws had said he would pay for it, a fearful storm of sleet and snow and wind raged from morning until night. We lived nine miles from the Haws home, and the road was a very bad one even in good weather. I remember that father said at the breakfast-table:—
"Well, I guess that we shall not see anything of John Haws today. It will not make any difference if he does not come, as I am not in urgent need of the money he owes me. It will make no difference if it is not paid for a month."
But about noon Mr. Haws appeared at our door, almost frozen, and covered with sleet and snow.
"Why, John Haws!" exclaimed my father, when he opened the door, and saw who it was that had knocked. "I had not the least idea that you would try to ride away out here in this fearful storm."
"Did I not say that I would come?" asked John Haws, abruptly.
"O, yes; but I did not regard it as a promise so binding that you must fulfil it on a day like this!"
"Any promise that I make is binding, regardless of wind and weather. I said that I would pay the money today, and I am here to keep my word."
"But, then, it is only a small sum, and I do not really need it."
"I need to keep my word. If the sum had been but ten cents, and you were a millionaire, and I had said that I could pay it today, I would be here to pay it if I had been compelled to ride fifty miles."
Do you wonder that it was often said of John Haws that his word was as good as his bond? He was as truthful as he was honest. I remember that a neighbor of ours stopped at our house one day on his way home from the town. He had an almost incredible story to tell about a certain matter, and father said:—
"Why, it hardly seems possible that such a thing can be true."
"John Haws told me about it."
"O, then it is true!"
"Yes, or John Haws never would have told it."
It is a fine thing to have a reputation like that. It is worth more than much worldly glory and honor when they are combined with the distrust of the people. There are men in high positions, with all that wealth can buy at their command, who are much poorer than humble John Haws, because their word is of no value, and they have none of that high sense of honor that glorifies the humblest life.—Selected,
PLAIN BERNICE
The last stroke of the bell was dying away ere Bernice Dahl walked timidly across the schoolroom floor, and sat down in the nearest empty seat.
"O, my, my!" whispered Myrtle Fling across the aisle to her chum. "She is the plainest-looking girl I ever saw."
Elizabeth nodded her head very positively, and two or three others exchanged knowing glances. A moment later a little piece of paper fluttered down at Myrtle's feet from a desk top. On it was written: "She's so plain. She's Rocky Mountainy—all ridges and hubbles."
Meanwhile Bernice sat very still, her great black eyes fixed on the teacher's face.
Have you ever held a frightened bird in your hand, and felt its heart beat? That is the way Bernice's heart was going. She was a stranger. Her father had moved to this place from a distant town, and she had walked to school that morning with a pupil who lived on the same street, but who had fluttered away into a little bevy of children almost as soon as she had shown the new girl the cloak-room; and Bernice, naturally a bit diffident and sensitive, felt very much alone.
This feeling was heightened when the bell struck, and one by one the pupils filed past into the schoolroom, with only a rude stare or indifferent glance, quite as if she were some specter on exhibition. When the last one had passed her, she clasped and unclasped her hands nervously.
"It is because I am so homely!" she thought.
A month or more went by. Somehow Bernice and her schoolmates had not made so much progress in getting acquainted as one would have thought. The new girl was unobtrusive, attended strictly to her studies, and made few demands on those about her; yet it was true that there was among them at least an unacknowledged conspiracy to taboo her, or an understanding that she was to be ignored almost completely. This Bernice attributed to her looks. Ever since she could remember, she had been called "homely," "ugly," "plain," and similar epithets. Now, though she preserved a calm exterior, she could not help being unhappy because she was thus slighted.
One Monday morning a little flurry of excitement was visible among the pupils of the up-town grammar-school. Elizabeth Weston had announced a party to come off later in the week, and several of them had been invited.
"Will you invite Bernice Dahl?" asked Myrtle, bending over her friend.
"I have been thinking about it," Elizabeth answered, slowly. "Miss Somers says she has the best lessons of any one in her class, and then she was so nice to Jimmy Flanders that day he sprained his arm. I have half a mind to." And she really did.
That night when Bernice was telling her mother of the invitation she had received, she said, doubtfully, "I think I shall not go."
"Why not?" was the reply. "It can do no good to stay away, and something may be gained by going."
So it chanced that Bernice found herself at Elizabeth's home on the evening of the party. Her hostess met her smilingly. "She is really glad that I came," thought Bernice. And she felt her soul suddenly warm to life, just as the thirsty earth brightens and glows and sends up little shoots of new green at a patter of summer rain.
The long parlor was decorated in green and white. The bright lights, the gay figures stirring beneath, and the shining faces, half of which were strange to Bernice, formed a pretty picture, and the girl moved here and there in the constantly shifting kaleidoscope with a freedom and happiness she had not known since coming to the town.
At last she found herself, with the others, sitting very quiet and listening to two girls playing a duet on the piano. Then one of them sang a Scotch song. There was warmth and richness, the warbling of birds, the melody of brooks, in the rendering, and Bernice heard a half-sigh close beside her.
"I wish I could sing! O, always I wanted to sing!"
Then for the first time she saw who sat there—a tall, handsome, beautifully gowned girl whom she had noticed several times during the evening, and to whom everybody seemed to defer. She had heard vaguely that this was Elizabeth's cousin, and wondered if it was for her that Elizabeth had given the party.
"And can't you?" she asked, evincing instant interest.
The girl turned toward her with a smile. "Not at all. Sometimes I used to try when no one heard, and once when I was in the hammock with my brother's little girl, I joined her in the song she was singing. She looked at me in a minute with a rueful countenance, and said, 'Aunt Helen, I can't sing when you are making such a noise!'" Bernice laughed. "I haven't tried much since," the tall girl added.
"We have singing lessons at school twice a week," Bernice said, presently, "but I like the every-day lessons better."
"Do you? I like mathematics, and sloyd, and a hammer and nails and saw.
Mama tells me I ought to be a carpenter."
"But you don't look like one," Bernice smiled, critically; and then continued: "We began physical geography this term. It is so interesting. And Miss Somers makes language beautiful; I can't help liking grammar!"
"I never understood it—it was always so blind!"
But Bernice was laughing again. The tall girl turned toward her inquiringly.
"I was thinking of what Johnny Weeks said down in the primary room the other day," Bernice began in explanation. "The teacher asked him what 'cat' was. I guess he was not paying attention. He looked all around, and finally said he did not know. She told him it was a noun. 'Then,' he said, after some deliberation, 'kitten must be a pronoun.'"
An hour afterward, all the lights but one in the house were out. Elizabeth sat with her cousin talking over the events of the evening.
"And how do you like Bernice Dahl?" she asked, and lent an eager ear; for
Helen's word could make or mar things irretrievably.
"Like her? I have never liked any one better. Perhaps I would not have noticed, had you not spoken particularly about her."
"Well?" said Elizabeth, as her cousin paused.
"She is all life and vivacity. I thought you said she was 'dummified.'"
"But she was. I never saw her like this before."
"Then something woke her. If any seemed ill at ease or lonely, she went to them, and, behold, they chatted like magpies! I saw some of her schoolmates look at her wonderingly, and at least one sneered, but I watched. She had just one thought, and that was to make every one happy. You could have spared any one of the girls better; in fact, any three of them."
Long after Helen had gone to sleep, Elizabeth lay thinking. "Jimmy Flanders," she said, and counted off one finger; another followed, and then another. After all, it was wonderful how many good deeds she could reckon up, and all so quietly done. Strange she had never thought of them en masse before. How could Bernice be gay among so many frowns and slights?
The next forenoon session of the grammar-school was well under way. Bernice opened her history, and in it was a little slip of paper that she had used as a book-mark since that first morning. An odd spirit seized her, and almost before she knew it, she had gone up the aisle, and laid it on Elizabeth's desk. The next instant she would have given much to withdraw it. Elizabeth glanced down and flushed painfully. There it was: "She's so plain. She's Rocky Mountainy—all ridges and hubbles." But Bernice was back at her work again, evidently unruffled.
When the bell tapped for intermission, Elizabeth went to her. "Bernice, I did write it. O, I am so ashamed!" and, bursting into tears, she hid her face on Bernice's shoulder.
One of those smiles that somehow have the power of transforming the harshest features, swept over the girl's face, and, picking up Elizabeth's hand, she kissed it softly again and again. "I won't kiss her face," she thought, "I am so homely!" but from that day she slipped into the queenly place she had a right to occupy, and it was not long before every one forgot her plainness.
And let me whisper you a secret, girls,—for even now Bernice does not seem to know,—as she grew older, the rough lines mellowed and softened, the short figure stretched upward, till she was beautiful as ever her dearest wish had pictured. Was it not lovely spirit within, for Bernice was a Christian, molding and modeling the clay into a fit dwelling-place for itself? That is a beauty that never quite withers away. Its roots are planted in the soul beautiful, and a beautiful soul can never die.
MRS. CORA WEBBER.
Say "Thank You"
I saw a needy one relieved,
And forth he went, and glad,
But not one word of gratitude
That lightened spirit had.
His benefactor, bent by cares,
Went wearily all day;
While him his kindnesses had served
Went careless on his way.
If you have given aught for me,
Ought not my voice return
One little word of graciousness?
O, breaking spirits yearn
Just for the human touch of love
To cheer the aching heart,
To brighten all the paths of toil,
And take away the smart!
Say "Thank you!" then. 'Tis small enough
Return for help bestowed
Say "Thank you!" You would spurn to slight
The smallest debt you owed;
But is not this a debt?—Ah, more!
And honor, if true blue
Your loyal heart of rectitude,
Impels to say "Thank you!"
B. F. W. SOURS.
HOW THE BOY WITHOUT A REFERENCE FOUND ONE
John was fifteen, and anxious to get a desirable place in the office of a well-known lawyer, who had advertised for a boy. John doubted his success in obtaining this position, because, being a stranger in the city, he had no reference to present.
"I am afraid I will stand a poor chance," he thought, despondently; "however, I will try to appear as well as I can, and that may help me a little."
So he was careful to have his dress and person neat, and when he took his turn to be interviewed, went in with his hat in his hand and a smile on his face.
The keen-eyed lawyer glanced him over from head to foot. "Good face," he thought, "and pleasant ways." Then he noted the neat suit,—but other boys had appeared in new clothes,—saw the well-brushed hair, and clean skin. Very well; but there had been others quite as cleanly. Another glance, however, showed the finger-nails free from soil. "Ah, that looks like thoroughness," thought the lawyer.
Then he asked a few direct, rapid questions, which John answered as directly. "Prompt," was his mental comment; "can speak up when necessary."
"Let's see your writing," he added aloud.
John took a pen and wrote his name.
"Very well; easy to read, and no flourishes. Now, what references have you?"
The dreadful question at last! John's face fell. He pad begun to feel some hope of success, but this dashed it again.
"I haven't any," he said, slowly. "I am almost a stranger in the city."
"Cannot take a boy without references," was the brusque rejoinder.
As he spoke, a sudden thought sent a flush to John's cheek. "I haven't any reference," he said, with hesitation; "but here is a letter from mother I just received. I wish you would read it."
The lawyer took it. It was a short letter:—
"MY DEAR JOHN: I want to remind you that wherever you find work, you must consider that work your own. Do not go into it, as some boys do, with the feeling that you will do as little as you can and get something better soon, but make up your mind that you will do as much as possible, and make yourself so necessary to your employer that he will never let you go. You have been a good son to me, and I can truly say that I have never known you to shirk. Be as good in business, and I am sure God will bless your efforts."
"H'm!" said the lawyer, reading it over the second time. "That's pretty good advice, John, excellent advice. I rather think I will try you, even without the references."
John has been with him six years, and last spring was admitted to the bar.
"Do you intend taking that young man into partnership?" asked a friend lately.
"Yes, I do. I could not get along without John; he is my right-hand man!" exclaimed the lawyer, heartily.
And John always says the best reference he ever had was his mother's good advice and honest praise.
–Selected.
AN HOUR A DAY FOR A YEAR
"Only an hour a day!" that does not seem much; it hardly seems worth mentioning.
But let us consider a little. An hour a day may mean more than we think. In a year it represents three hundred and sixty-five hours, and, allowing sixteen hours for a waking day, three hundred and sixty-five hours gives nearly twenty-three days,—waking days, too, which is worth taking note of, not days one third of which is spent in necessary sleep.
Now, time is a possession to be parted with for something else; indeed, it forms a large part of the capital with which we trade. We give it and labor, and in exchange get education, money, dexterity, and almost all other things of value. To be watchful of time, then, is wise economy. A person who had astonished many by his achievements was once asked how he had contrived to do so much.
"The year," he replied, "has three hundred and sixty-five days, or eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours. In so many hours great things may be done; the slow tortoise makes a long journey by losing no time."
Just think what an hour's reading daily would amount to in a year. You can read easily a page of an ordinary youth's paper in twenty minutes, and at that rate could get through, in three hundred and sixty-five hours, no fewer than one thousand and ninety-five pages. And suppose the matter were printed in small pages, of, say, three hundred words apiece, your daily reading for one hour would in a year cover something like twelve thousand pages.
As to the books in which the year's reading is to be found, let every one take his choice, remembering that people are known by the company they keep, and that to lead a noble life one should associate as much as possible with the noble.
Instead of reading, suppose one took to writing: an hour a day would then produce quite as remarkable results. Even the short rule of "no day without a line," has resulted in the production of volumes—we might say almost of libraries.
What results may, indeed, be arrived at by an hour's daily industry in anything! "An hour in every day," says a writer, "withdrawn from frivolous pursuits, would, if properly employed, enable a person of ordinary capacity to go far toward mastering a science. It would make an ignorant man a well-informed one in less than ten years."
Of course, the hour's work must not be done listlessly. "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might." It is an advantage, too, to work at intervals instead of a long period at a time. We come to the work fresher, and in better condition to do it justice. When working hours come together, the best work is usually done during the first hour; after that even the most energetic fall off.
In music, an hour's practising every day will carry one far in a year. But remember that practising must be gone through with strict attention. An hour with strict attention is worth more than three hours with carelessness; and if a girl who wants to get on has only one hour to spare each day, she must be to herself a very exacting music master.
It is wise to spend an hour a day in exercise. In an hour one can, without making too great haste, walk three miles. At this rate, a year's walking represents over a thousand miles. Relaxation is essential to keep up the spirit and prevent life from becoming monotonous, as if one were sentenced to perpetual treadmill. Recreation is necessary, and the pursuit of pleasure is sometimes a duty.
If we had but an hour a day to spare, what would be the best conceivable use to put it to?—The best use, perhaps, would be to sit down and think. Suppose we came every day to a full stop for an hour, and thought: "What am I doing? What is to be the end of all this busy life for me? How may I so act that when I go out of the world, it will be the better for my having been in it?" This thinking and planning would make us better characters altogether, would prepare us to face the future, ready for anything that might happen, and would fit us for coming duties. An hour a day spent thus would be a bright streak running through the year.
You say it is easy to talk about devoting an hour a day to anything, and easy to make a start, but very difficult to keep it up. True enough, but there is no end of wonders that can be wrought by the exercise of the human will.
"We all sorely complain," says Seneca, "of the shortness of time. And yet we have much more than we know what to do with. Our lives are either spent in doing nothing at all, or in doing nothing that we ought to do. We are always complaining that our days are few, and acting as if there would be no end to them."
An hour a day for a year squandered in idleness or in foolish pursuits means the sacrifice of all the advantages just mentioned. And any one who keeps up idleness or folly for a year, usually ends in having a lifetime of it.—Selected.
"PLEASE, SIR, I WOULD RATHER NOT"
An old sailor tells the following story of a boy who suffered much in resisting temptation:—
When offered a drink, the lad said, "Excuse me; I would rather not."
They laughed at him, but they never could get him to drink liquor. The captain said to the boy:—
"You must learn to drink grog if you are to be a sailor."
"Please excuse me, captain, but I would rather not."
"Take that rope," commanded the captain to a sailor, "and lay it on; that will teach him to obey orders."
The sailor took the rope, and beat the boy most cruelly.
"Now, drink that grog," said the captain.
"Please, sir, I would rather not."
"Then go into the foretop and stay all night."
The poor boy looked away up to the masthead, trembling at the thought of spending the night there, but he had to obey.
In the morning the captain, in walking the deck, looked up, and cried,
"Halloo, up there!"
No answer.
"Come down!"
Still no answer.
One of the sailors was sent up, and what do you think he found? The poor boy was nearly frozen. He had lashed himself to the mast, so that when the ship rolled, he might not fall into the sea. The sailor brought the boy down in his arms, and they worked upon him until he showed signs of life. Then, when he was able to sit up, the captain poured out some liquor and said:—
"Now, drink that grog."
"Please, sir, I would rather not. Let me tell you why, and do not be angry. In our home in the cottage we were so happy, but father took to drink. He had no money to get us bread, and at last we had to sell the little house we had lived in, and everything we had. It broke my poor mother's heart. In sorrow she pined away, till, at last, before she died, she called me to her bedside, and said: 'Jamie, you know what drink has made of your father. I want you to promise your dying mother that you will never taste drink. I want you to be free from that curse that has ruined your father,' O, sir," continued the little fellow, "would you have me break the promise I made to my dying mother? I cannot, and I will not do it."
These words touched the heart of the captain. Tears came into his eyes. He stooped down, and, folding the boy in his arms, said: "No, no, my little hero. Keep your promise, and if any one tries again to make you drink, come to me, and I will protect you."—Selected.
* * * * *
"There were plans of mischief brewing;
I saw, but gave no sign,
For I wanted to test the mettle
Of this little knight of mine.
'Of course, you must come and help us,
For we all depend on Joe,'
The boys said; and I waited
For his answer—yes or no.
"He stood and thought for a moment;
I read his heart like a book,
For the battle that he was fighting
Was told in his earnest look.
Then to his waiting playmates
Outspoke my loyal knight:
'No, boys; I cannot go with you,
For I know it wouldn't be right.'"