<SPAN name="startofbook"></SPAN>
<div class="titlepage">
<h1><b><span class="fsize300">SILAS X. FLOYD’S</span><br/> <span class="fsize200">SHORT STORIES</span><br/> <span class="fsize125"><i>for</i></span><br/> <span class="fsize200">COLORED PEOPLE</span></b><br/> <span class="fsize175">BOTH OLD AND YOUNG</span></h1>
<p class="center highline5 fsize125"><i>Entertaining</i> <span class="padl8 padr8"><i>Uplifting</i></span> <i>Interesting</i></p>
<hr class="full" />
<p class="center fsize125 highline2 blankbefore2"><b>PROF. SILAS X. FLOYD, A. M., D. D.,</b></p>
<p class="center">Author of “The Gospel of Serv’ce and other Sermons,” “Life of<br/>
Charles T. Walker, D. D.,” “National Perils,” etc.</p>
<p class="center highline4 fsize150"><b>ILLUSTRATED</b></p>
<hr class="full" />
<p class="center blankbefore2"><span class="fsize80">Published by</span><br/>
AUSTIN JENKINS CO.,<br/>
<span class="fsize80">BOOK AND BIBLE PUBLISHERS<br/>
WASHINGTON, D. C.</span></p>
<p class="center blankbefore2">AGENTS WANTED</p>
</div>
<!--titlepage-->
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="copyright">
<p class="center highline15"><span class="smcap">Copyrighted</span> 1905<br/>
<span class="fsize80">BY</span><br/>
HERTEL JENKINS & CO.</p>
<p class="center highline15 blankbefore2"><span class="smcap">Copyrighted</span> 1920<br/>
BY<br/>
A. N. JENKINS</p>
<hr class="sec" />
<p class="center fsize80">CAUTION</p>
<p class="fsize80">The entire contents of this book are
protected by the stringent new copyright
law, and all persons are warned not to
attempt to reproduce the text, in whole or
in part, or any of the specially posed
illustrations.</p>
</div>
<!--copyright-->
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page5">[5]</span></p>
<h2>PREFACE.</h2>
<p>Truly the boys and girls of to-day ought to be
thankful that they are alive. There never was
such a golden age for childhood and youth as the
present. To say nothing of the rich opportunities
for mental and spiritual development, what a
multitude of things have been provided for the
innocent pleasure, the wholesome recreation of
the young people of to-day, inventions that
remind one of the magic of the “Arabian
Nights”; tools of sport so perfect that one cannot
imagine how they could be bettered; fascinating
games, all unknown in the days gone by;
books and papers upon which science, art and
literary skill have lavished modern resources—all
these and many other wonderful things have
fallen to the lot of the favored boys and girls of
to-day.</p>
<p>And now enterprising publishers of our grand
country are going to put the boys and
girls of America—and especially the colored
boys and girls of America—under obligation to
them, because they have decided to add to the
list of good books for children and youths
already on the market. I use the word “good”
advisedly; for from the day that I was engaged
to write this book I have had in mind constantly
the thought of making it such a book as would<span class="pagenum" id="Page6">[6]</span>
tell for good. It is an old saying that “evil communications
corrupt good manners,” but evil
reading does more than this: for evil reading
corrupts good morals.</p>
<p>I have endeavored to put into this book of
stories for children only such things as might be
freely admitted into the best homes of the land,
and I have written with the hope that many
young minds may be elevated by means of these
stories and many hearts filled with high and holy
aspirations. Our nation has a right to expect
that our boys and girls shall turn out to be good
men and good women, and this book is meant to
help in this process.</p>
<p class="right highline2 padr4">SILAS X. FLOYD.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page7">[7]</span></p>
<h2>PUBLISHER’S NOTE.</h2>
<p>The publishers of this book have spared neither
pains nor expense in trying to make it as nearly
perfect as a book of this kind can be. The typographical
appearance and the illustrations will
speak for themselves.</p>
<p>We consider ourselves fortunate in having
been able to secure the services of the Rev. Dr.
Silas X. Floyd as the author of this volume. Mr.
Floyd’s life work, aside from his literary training,
has made him the ideal man to speak to the
colored boys and girls of the South. Soon after
graduating from Atlanta University in 1891, Mr.
Floyd became Principal of a Public School at
Augusta, Ga., and remained in that city for five
years consecutively as a teacher. In June, 1896,
he was called from the school-room into the Sunday-school
work, having been appointed by the
International Sunday School Convention as one
of its Field Workers throughout the South. He
continued in this work for three years, retiring
from it to become Pastor of Tabernacle Baptist
Church, Augusta, Ga., one of the largest churches
in the South. After a year and a half in the pastorate,
he returned to the Sunday-school work,
becoming Sunday-school Missionary for Georgia
and Alabama under appointment of the American
Baptist Publication Society.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page8">[8]</span></p>
<p>Mr. Floyd’s work, as the record shows, has
been conspicuously for and in behalf of the children,
and he is known far and wide as a competent
writer and speaker on topics concerning
young people. He has contributed to the Sunday
School Times, the International Evangel, the New
York Independent, The World’s Work, Lippincott’s
Magazine, and many other journals and
periodicals. He is the author of a volume of sermons
published by the American Baptist Publication
Society, and listed in their catalogue as
among their standard works, and is also the
author of the Life of the leading colored Baptist
preacher in America, published by the National
Baptist Publishing Board. From the beginning
of the Voice of the Negro, Mr. Floyd has had
charge of the Wayside Department as Editor,
and his work as a humorist and writer of negro
dialect is known to many through that medium.</p>
<p>In 1894, Atlanta University, his alma mater,
conferred upon Mr. Floyd the degree of Master
of Arts, and in 1902, Morris Brown College conferred
upon him the degree of Doctor of Divinity.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page9">[9]</span></p>
<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
<table summary="ToC">
<tr>
<th colspan="2" class="right"><span class="smcap">Page</span></th>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Cowardly Hero</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page17">17</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">A Spelling Lesson</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page22">22</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Truth About Luck</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page31">31</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">An Evening at Home</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page35">35</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Making of a Man</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page38">38</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">False Pride</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page42">42</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Thanksgiving at Piney Grove</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page46">46</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Loud Girl</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page55">55</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Rowdy Boy</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page60">60</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Honesty</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page62">62</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Uncle Ned and the Insurance Solicitor</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page65">65</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Strenuous Life</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page70">70</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">A Humbug</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page73">73</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">How to be Handsome</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page76">76</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Patience</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page78">78</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Going With the Crowd</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page81">81</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Mary and Her Dolls</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page85">85</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Jaky Tolbert’s Playmates</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page88">88</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">A Valentine Party</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page92">92</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">No Money Down</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page95">95</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Tommy’s Baby Brother</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page99">99</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="pagenum" id="Page10">[10]</span><span class="smcap">Keeping School</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page102">102</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The School of the Street</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page105">105</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Fox Hunt</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page109">109</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">A Bold Venture</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page114">114</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Road to Success</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page117">117</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Keeping Ones Engagements</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page120">120</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">A Midnight Mishap</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page122">122</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Frederick Douglass</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page124">124</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Our Dumb Animals</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page127">127</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">A Plucky Boy</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page129">129</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">A Heart to Heart Talk</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page132">132</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">A Ghost Story</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page135">135</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Good Cheer</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page141">141</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Life a Battle</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page144">144</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Hunting an Easy Place</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page149">149</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Big Black Burglar</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page153">153</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Pin Money Made With the Needle</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page156">156</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Self-Help</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page160">160</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Aiming at Something</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page165">165</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Black Sheep of the Reynolds Family</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page167">167</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Holy Bible</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page175">175</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Andrew Carnegie’s Advice to Young Men</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page178">178</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Directions for Little Gentlemen</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page179">179</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Right to Play</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page181">181</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="pagenum" id="Page11">[11]</span><span class="smcap">A Christmas Present</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page183">183</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Nickel that Burned in Frank’s Pocket</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page185">185</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Monument to a Black Man</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page188">188</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Bad Boy—Who He Is</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page190">190</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Bad Boy—How to Help Him</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page193">193</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Thomas Greene Bethune (“Blind Tom”)</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page197">197</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Not Fit to Know</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page200">200</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Right Way</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page202">202</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Keeping Friendship in Repair</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page205">205</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Little Annie’s Christmas</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page208">208</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Velocipede Race</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page211">211</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Fault-Finding</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page213">213</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Random Remarks</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page216">216</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Benjamin Banneker, the Negro Astronomer</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page220">220</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle">“<span class="smcap">A Little Child Shall Lead Them</span>”</td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page224">224</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Directions for Little Ladies</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page230">230</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Three Words to Young People</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page232">232</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle">“<span class="smcap">A Lamp Unto My Feet</span>”</td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page238">238</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Three Brigades</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page241">241</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle">“<span class="smcap">Home, Sweet Home</span>”</td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page243">243</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Each One of Us of Importance</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page247">247</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Poetry of Life</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page248">248</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">On Being in Earnest</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page250">250</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Young People and Life Insurance</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page252">252</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="pagenum" id="Page12">[12]</span><span class="smcap">The Little Sailor Cat</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page255">255</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Advice to Little Christians</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page257">257</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">A Word to Parents</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page259">259</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Unseen Charmer</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page262">262</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Our Country</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page265">265</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The “Don’t-Care” Girl</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page267">267</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">Frederick Douglass to Young People</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page270">270</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">A Good Fellow</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page274">274</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Future of the Negro</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page275">275</SPAN></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="chaptitle"><span class="smcap">The Training of Children</span></td>
<td class="pagno"><SPAN href="#Page277">277</SPAN></td>
</tr>
</table>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page13">[13]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter w600">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo012.jpg" alt="" width-obs="600" height-obs="327" />
<p class="caption">STATE, WAR AND NAVY BUILDING, WASHINGTON</p>
<p class="caption blankabove">Most remarkable Office Building in the world. Right next door to the White House.
Built of solid American Granite with over 500 rooms and over two miles of marble halls.</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page14">[14]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter w600">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo013.jpg" alt="" width-obs="600" height-obs="329" />
<p class="caption">LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, WASHINGTON</p>
<p class="caption blankabove">Most wonderful Library building in the world. Erected at a cost of $7,000,000, upon
a ten acre site. $20,000 worth of pure gold used in covering the Dome. Has room for
4,000,000 books.</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page15">[15]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter w600">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo014.jpg" alt="" width-obs="600" height-obs="354" />
<p class="caption second"><span class="smcap">The “President’s Sheep” are a
Picturesque Sight on the South Lawn of the White House. The President
“Taking the Sun” on the South Porch Frequently enjoys Watching the Gambols of the Flock.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page16">[16]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter w400">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo015.jpg" alt="Dog attacking man" width-obs="400" height-obs="599" />
<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">“Great Heavens, the Brute is Mad,” Gasped Evans.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page17">[17]</span></p>
<h2>THE COWARDLY HERO.</h2>
<p>George Washington Jones was his name.
Where he got it nobody knew,—least of all himself.
For two years he had sold newspapers one
block from the big St. Charles Hotel in New
Orleans. Very slender, with great big hungry
eyes, this little colored waif presented a pitiful
sight to the crowds that hurried by. He was
scorned by the other newsboys, who yelled and
jeered at him, causing him to shrink up even
smaller and to glance fearfully at his tormentors,
for George was what the other boys called a
coward. He would not fight,—when attacked and
imposed upon by his more sturdy associates he
would throw up his hands and cower down against
the ground like a whipped dog. All boys know
what this means,—for months he was the mark
for all of the coarse jokes and abuse of the rather
rough lot of boys who were also engaged in the
newspaper selling business thereabouts. He had
lived ever since he remembered with an old colored
man in a wretched attic over on the South Side,—the
old man was a rag peddler and permitted him
to share his miserable quarters for the payment of
fifty cents every Saturday night. Poor food and
poorer sleeping quarters had their effect, and
George soon developed a hacking cough that
made people turn their heads to see who it was<span class="pagenum" id="Page18">[18]</span>
and then hurry on faster than ever. One cold
morning in December, while George stood shivering
on his corner, scarcely able to shout loud
enough to attract the attention of the passers by,
a lady about to enter an automobile glanced at
him, noted pityingly his emaciated and half-starved
appearance, and the cough that wracked
his slight frame,—she stepped up and asked him
his name and address, which he gave, gazing in
spell-bound admiration at this beautiful, fairy-like
creature from a different world.</p>
<p>It so happened that this young lady’s father
was a very influential man, and so in course of
time the lady who had in the meantime called
several times at George’s wretched quarters, with
eggs and milk and other dainties, prevailed upon
him to arrange for George to spend the spring
and summer in the country.</p>
<p>So one bright day in April, George arrived at a
big Louisiana plantation where he was to have
good food and clothes, and when able, to do odd
jobs and chores about the place to pay for his
board. The Grahams were a couple who had been
married seven or eight years and who had a little
daughter of six who was a dainty and pretty little
miss, somewhat spoiled, but naturally kind and
good-hearted. To George she was the most beautiful
thing he had ever seen, an angel, not to be
thought of at the same time with earthly things.
He soon became her devoted slave, following her<span class="pagenum" id="Page19">[19]</span>
about and trying to think of something he could
do that would make her happy.</p>
<p>Now George did not change in the first few
weeks of his stay with the Grahams. He was
afraid of the cows, of the horses, even of the
geese that ran around the yard. Little Louise,
who had been raised in the country, could not
understand this feeling and did not hesitate to
let George know that she had nothing but contempt
for his running wildly away from an inoffensive
cow who happened to turn her head in
his direction.</p>
<p>“But, dearest,” her mother said, “he has never
even seen a cow before. To him that cow is only
an awfully dangerous thing with horns, a long
tail and big mouth.”</p>
<p>“Oh, but mamma, he is such an awful fraid
cat,—whoever heard of getting scared at a lot of
silly geese?”</p>
<p>“Yes, I fear he is a hopeless coward,” said
Mrs. Graham, “but he certainly does work well.”</p>
<p>But the one thing that George feared above all
other things was the dog that lived on the Evans
place next door. There was considerable excuse
for this fear, as the dog was a surly and somewhat
dangerous brute, an immense Great Dane,
who had no love nor respect for any living thing
except his master. He seemed to take a savage
delight in dashing to the fence and making strenuous
efforts to jump over and attack poor George
whenever he had to pass by. On such occasions,<span class="pagenum" id="Page20">[20]</span>
George would shriek and dash wildly up the road,
screaming in terror,—he feared the Great Dane
more than anything else on earth.</p>
<p>The days and weeks slipped by until the month
of August. There had been a long dry spell;
everything was hot, parched and burning up, and
it seemed as if the earth was crying out for rain.
Every one was cross and irritable and although not
meaning to be unreasonable, Mr. and Mrs. Graham
took considerable of their irritation out on
our little colored friend George,—he was ordered
about and shouted at to move faster and scolded
and generally made the target for the ill humor
of the entire household.</p>
<p>For some days the Great Dane had been acting
strangely,—no one dared to approach him, and on
one occasion he even snapped at his master.</p>
<p>“Guess I’ll chain him up until the rain sets in,”
said Mr. Evans. However, the dog refused to be
tied, avoiding his master and snapping whenever
he approached. Suddenly he gave a roar and
sprang right at Mr. Evans’ throat,—the man
tripped and fell, which was the best thing he could
possibly have done under the circumstances, as
the dog ignored him, and, snapping right and left,
dashed out of the gate and down the road towards
the Graham place.</p>
<p>“Great Heavens! The brute is mad!” gasped
Evans.</p>
<p>If any one has seen a dog go mad, he will testify
that it is not a pretty sight. The maddened animal<span class="pagenum" id="Page21">[21]</span>
raced at top speed along the road, snapping
wildly at sticks and stones along the way, with
froth and foam flying from his mouth, his mammoth
jaws closing and unclosing like the teeth of
an enormous trap.</p>
<p>Straight down the road and straight through
the gate that opened into the Graham yard dashed
the enormous Great Dane—he was a hideous
sight to the bravest; what he looked like to George
no one will ever know. Graham, sitting on the
porch, realized in an instant what had happened,
and sprang to the dining-room to get his rifle,—right
in the path was little Louise, with her dolls,
sitting around a little table, in the midst of a party—she
rose to her feet, the great frenzied brute but
a few yards distant, her face paling, her lips unable
to utter a sound. Graham was quick, but not
quick enough,—the dog would be upon the child
before he could possibly get ready to shoot, but
quicker than Graham, quicker than the dog, was
George,—what he felt, what he suffered in those
few seconds, the Lord alone can tell—with a wild
scream, he threw himself right in the path of the
maddened Great Dane, right at his throat, shrieking
and striking wildly with both clenched fists
at the huge head and body of the dog. With a
snarl, the dog turned and caught the negro boy,—but
it was here that Providence took a hand, for
he grabbed not George himself, but his coat, worn
and shabby from much use, and the coat came off
in his jaws,—before the dog could turn and renew<span class="pagenum" id="Page22">[22]</span>
the attack, Mr. Graham shot twice rapidly from
the porch and the dog fell, writhing terribly in his
death agonies.</p>
<p>White as a sheet, Graham ran quickly down the
path and snatched Louise up in his arms,—but
Mrs. Graham, who had been an agonized eyewitness
of the near-tragedy, was almost as quick
to reach George—throwing her arms around him,
she sobbed, “God bless you, George; that was the
bravest thing I ever saw.”</p>
<p>And in this way, George, the despised and ignored
newsboy, who had always been called a
coward, came into his own. Such is true courage.
Poor boy, he was afraid, fearfully, awfully afraid!
But he did not hesitate to risk everything to save
the golden-haired little daughter of his employer.</p>
<p>George still remains on the Graham plantation,
but you would scarcely know him—he coughs no
longer; he stands erect and is becoming strong
and sturdy; he has found himself, and no one
will ever again have cause to say to him, “You
coward!”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>THE GREAT SPELLING MATCH.</h2>
<p>There was no doubt about it,—of all the little
colored boys and girls who went to the Peabody
school, Margaret was the dullest. Her teacher
said so, her friends said so, her parents were of
the same opinion, and if asked herself, Margaret<span class="pagenum" id="Page23">[23-<br/>24]<SPAN name="Page24"></SPAN></span>
would undoubtedly have frankly acknowledged
that her undisputed and proper place was at the
foot of the class. Her brother Charles, who was
one year younger than she, had proudly graduated
from the fifth grade and was making rapid
progress in the sixth. He did not spend one-half
the time studying that Margaret did, and yet when
it came time for recitations, he would stand up
and recite in a manner that warmed his teacher’s
heart and made him the envy of most all of his
schoolmates.</p>
<div class="figcenter w600">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo022.jpg" alt="School children" width-obs="600" height-obs="367" />
<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">An Exciting Moment.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>If Margaret was backward in her studies, little
Mable Green certainly was not. Arithmetic, geography,
writing, reading, she excelled in all of them.
She was a very bright little colored girl and a
very good looking one, too. Mable knew this just
as well as all of the boys and girls did,—she was
not exactly foolish and vain, but she had been so
praised and petted by her school friends and
teachers that she was inclined to be a little conceited,
what we all would call “stuck up.” Once
a month a prize was given for the scholar who
stood highest in certain studies, and Mable had
twice been the successful pupil,—she had two
highly prized silver medals to show for her skill.</p>
<p>Now one of the members of the school board
was a farmer about forty years of age, kind-hearted,
but a little old-fashioned. He believed
in boys and girls knowing how to read and write
and spell correctly, but he did not care for what
he called the “new-fangled” ideas of some of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page25">[25]</span>
other members of the board. He was very much
opposed to a course in music and elocution that
was being considered by the school board, and
did not hesitate to let every one know how he felt
about it. Now he knew Mable and liked her—he
was very much interested in the way in which she
stood at the head of her classes and wanted to do
something to encourage her in sticking to the
old-fashioned forms of education. He thought
over this for a long time, and finally decided to
hold a spelling match. Now you all probably
know what a spelling match is. Two sides are
chosen who stand up on opposite sides of the
room, and the teacher give out words, commencing
at the head of the row,—any one who misses a
word has to sit down, and the last one to stand
up wins the prize for his side, also is pronounced
the best speller and gets the personal prize.</p>
<p>The board all thought this a fine scheme, and so
it was decided to hold the spelling match on
Thanksgiving evening at the schoolhouse. The
teacher was to pronounce the words, while the
members of the board were to give her lists of
words from which to choose.</p>
<p>“What are you going to give for a prize, Mr.
Edwards?” asked the teacher.</p>
<p>“Well, I thought I would give twenty dollars,”
replied the man. “Yes, I rather plan to give a
bright twenty-dollar gold piece.”</p>
<p>The news spread like wild fire. Never had there
been such excitement. This was a small fortune,<span class="pagenum" id="Page26">[26]</span>
and Mable’s mother pinned a bright red bow in
her hair, and put on her prettiest frock,—Mable
had already considered the prize as won,—in fact,
she had planned just how she would spend it,—she
was a good speller and felt confident that she
could win.</p>
<p>The night arrived, bright and crisp November
weather, with a bright moon overhead,—the little
schoolhouse was packed. It was decided that all
children in the fifth, sixth and seventh grades
would be allowed to compete. Now, Margaret had
been in a highly excited state ever since hearing of
the contest—strange to say, she was a good
speller. It has often been said, and quite correctly,
too, that spelling is a gift,—that some people
spell correctly quite naturally, while no amount
of study or practice can make a good speller out
of any one who was born with a head that ached
and throbbed at the mere thought of spelling.
She had never had fifty cents of her own in her
whole life—twenty dollars in gold—it did not
seem possible that there could be that much
money in the whole world.</p>
<p>Sides were chosen and Margaret was almost
hidden by fat Reggie Andrews, who stood next to
her. Mable was right across the room from her,
and smiled in a somewhat scornful manner at the
girl she thought was a “dummy.”</p>
<p>The teacher began to pronounce the words and
you could have almost heard a pin drop; the first
few times around but few scholars dropped out,<span class="pagenum" id="Page27">[27]</span>
Reggie going down the third time on “mucilage.”
Margaret gave a sigh of relief—Reggie had made
her very nervous.</p>
<p>Nothing happened that amounted to much until
the teacher began to give out words containing
“ie” and “ei.” Now these words are very difficult
unless a speller knows the rule—“ie” is almost
always used except after the letter “c,”—following
this letter “c,” it is always “ei.” Margaret
had learned this rule in the second grade,
and these words had no terror for her—she was
gaining confidence now and the audience began to
sit up and take notice. Soon but five were left
standing,—three on Margaret’s side and only
Mable and one little colored boy on the other. It
seemed for a time that these five would have to
divide the prize,—word after word was spelled
and no one missed—the audience was hanging
spellbound on every syllable, and the dignified
members of the board were trying to act naturally,
although in reality, greatly wrought up.</p>
<p>“Exhaustible,” suddenly said the teacher.</p>
<p>There was a moment’s hesitation, and then Ann
Houston, on Margaret’s side glibly said:</p>
<p>“E-x-a-u-s-t-i-b-l-e.”</p>
<p>“Wrong; be seated,” and with much sniffling
and rubbing her eyes, Ann walked sorrowfully to
her seat.</p>
<p>The boy on Mable’s side shuffled his feet, looked
up, down and around the room, and finally blurted
out:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page28">[28]</span></p>
<p>“E-x-h-a-u-s-t-a-b-l-e.”</p>
<p>“Wrong!” and Bobbie joined Ann in sorrowful
silence.</p>
<p>Rose Holcomb, the one remaining girl on Margaret’s
side, had become rattled—she rolled her
eyes wildly up and down and then guessed,—she
made a very bad guess.</p>
<p>“E-c-h-o-s-t-i-b-l-e!” and Rose was also counted
out and took her seat, tossing her head and looking
indifferently around.</p>
<p>It was now Mable’s turn, and she had sufficient
intelligence to have profited by the experience of
Ann and Bobbie—had the word been pronounced
to her first, she would probably have misspelled
it, but now she spelled it out firmly and confidently,
letter for letter, without a hitch.</p>
<p>Now Mable faced Margaret for the final test—both
were greatly excited, but their nervousness
had passed—it was now that Margaret’s natural
ability came to her aid. Word after word she
spelled, and the crowd watched her in amazement.
Here was the supposedly dull and backward pupil,
the recognized “foot of the class,” standing up
gallantly to the last against Mable, the favorite, to
whom everybody had conceded the prize as already
won.</p>
<p>The largest cities in America, in South America
and Europe, proper names, animals,—the words
became more and more difficult. Finally, the
names of flowers were given—Mable had studied
botany and was familiar with flowers—Margaret<span class="pagenum" id="Page29">[29]</span>
was now relying on her natural ability and nerve—all
things come to an end, and at last the teacher
pronounced the name of the <span class="dontwrap">flower—</span></p>
<p>“F-U-C-H-S-I-A.”</p>
<p>Now it is a fact that there is probably no more
tricky word in the English language than this—it
all depends upon where to place the letter “s.”
Mable knew what fuchsias were,—knew all about
the different parts, the petals, the stem,—she had
spelled the word correctly many times, but, alas,
she was a trifle hasty and exclaimed:</p>
<p>“F-U-S-C-H-I-A.”</p>
<p>“Wrong!”—Mable burst into tears,—and with
loud sobs ran to her seat and threw herself down,
her face buried in her arms.</p>
<p>All eyes were now on Margaret. She was
strongly tempted to spell this commencing “ph”—it
seemed correct, but something told her that
Mable had been almost right. Almost, but not
quite! Mable’s dramatic finish had given her time
to think for a moment, and when the word was
once more pronounced she was ready—without
hesitation she spelled slowly and distinctly:</p>
<p>“F-U-C-H-S-I-A.”</p>
<p>“Correct,—Margaret, you have won the prize.”</p>
<p>Margaret’s knees almost gave way under her—surely
she must be dreaming—it could not possibly
be herself to whom the committeeman was
advancing with a light blue plush case—every one
was clapping their hands, and the boys had so
forgotten themselves as to whistle through their
fingers and noisily stamp their feet.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page30">[30]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo029.jpg" alt="Teacher and pupil" width-obs="367" height-obs="600" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">Margaret, You Have Won the Prize.</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page31">[31]</span></p>
<p>“It gives me great pleasure,” said Mr. Edwards,
“to give this twenty-dollar gold piece to
Margaret Hawkins, and to pronounce her the best
speller in the school.”</p>
<p>Poor Mable cried herself to sleep that night, but
it was a good lesson for her—it taught her to be
more considerate of others, and that there were
something at which she could be beaten.</p>
<p>Every one treated Margaret with increased respect,
and her success was also good for her—she
began to improve in her other studies, and as
she gained in confidence, gradually became, if not
one of the best, at least a very good scholar.</p>
<p>Mr. Edwards says his next prize will be given
for the best all-around pupil at the close of the
term—and Mable is once more looking forward
with hope.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>THE TRUTH ABOUT LUCK.</h2>
<p>How often we hear some one say:</p>
<p>“My, but he’s lucky!” or “It’s better to be
born lucky than rich.”</p>
<p>Boys and girls are too often in the habit of
thinking that one of their schoolmates are
“lucky” because they always stand well in their
classes and frequently have spending money in
their pockets.</p>
<p>It is not likely that “luck” had anything to do
with it. They probably stood well and were at<span class="pagenum" id="Page32">[32]</span>
the head of the class in school because they studied
and tried harder than the other scholars, and had
money to spend because they spent their time out
of school hours in working to earn it instead of at
play.</p>
<p>Some years ago I happened to find myself near
the terminal of the great East River Bridge in
New York City. Two little boys were standing
near one of the large iron posts crying their
afternoon papers. I tarried near them because
I was waiting for a particular car. One little
fellow said to the <span class="dontwrap">other,—</span></p>
<p>“How many papers have you sold today,
Tommie?”</p>
<p>“Nearly one hundred an’ fifty,” was Tommie’s
quick reply.</p>
<p>“Honor bright?”</p>
<p>“Yes; honor bright.”</p>
<p>“Whoopee! but ain’t you in big luck, Tommie?”</p>
<p>“Luck!” exclaimed Tommie, wiping the perspiration
from his brow. “There ain’t no luck
about it; I’ve just been everlastingly at it since
four o’clock this morning—that’s all!”</p>
<p>And that is the <i>all</i> of real success. Those who
achieve success are “everlastingly at” what they
are trying to do. Tommie was right in declining
to have his hard and honest work cheapened by
calling the result of it luck.</p>
<p>“You are the luckiest chap I ever saw,” I once
heard a little boy about sixteen years say to another
boy of about the same age.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page33">[33]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo032.jpg" alt="Two newspaper boys" width-obs="424" height-obs="600" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">How Many Papers Have You Sold Today, Tommy?</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page34">[34]</span></p>
<p>“Why do you say that?” asked the other.</p>
<p>“Because you have had your salary raised
twice in the same year.”</p>
<p>“Well,” was the reply, “you may call it luck;
but I don’t. I have always done my work the
very best I knew how. I have never once in the
whole year been a single minute late in getting to
the office, nor have I ever left a single minute
before it was time for me to leave. When I have
worked over-time, I have not made any fuss about
it. My boss said when he raised my salary last
week that he had taken these things into account.
So, I don’t see where the luck comes in.”</p>
<p>“All the same,” said the first boy, “some
bosses wouldn’t have raised your salary.”</p>
<p>“Then I would have the satisfaction of knowing
that I had done my duty.”</p>
<p>Boys, I tell you that’s right. Nine out of ten
employers know that it is to their advantage
to show appreciation of faithful work and they
show it. When this appreciation comes luck has
had nothing to do with it. The thing that passes
for luck is in nearly all cases the just reward of
honest endeavor.</p>
<p>Do not, therefore, start out in life with the
expectation that some “lucky turn” will bring
you sudden honor or wealth or position without
any effort on your part. Substitute that fine old
word “<i>work</i>” for that deceitful word “<i>luck</i>,”
and base your hopes of future success and usefulness
upon the honorable labor that it is a God-given<span class="pagenum" id="Page35">[35]</span>
privilege for every well and strong and
right-minded boy to give his heart and hands to
performing.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>AN EVENING AT HOME.</h2>
<p>Boys and girls between the ages of eleven and
seventeen ought to spend their evenings at home,
as much as possible. In these busy, bustling twentieth
century days, there are many families—so
much the worse for them—that scarcely know
what it is to spend an evening at home together.
Not only the young people but the older people
are “on the go.” The evenings are crowded
with calls and invitations, which come from far
and near. It is nothing to go five or even ten
miles to an evening concert or social gathering,
the trolley is so near, so cheap and so universal.
But I tell you, boys and girls, no matter
what the pleasure or amusement afforded—no
matter what the instruction or culture received—there
are no social or similar opportunities good
enough to displace the home circle. The sooner
young people realize this the happier they will be.</p>
<p>Boys and girls ought to plan for some evenings
at home. Let other things have a share, but do
not give up all the time to other things. Once a
week the young people ought to arrange for an
evening at home. Decline everything else for<span class="pagenum" id="Page36">[36]</span>
that evening, the same as you would for any
other engagement. Gather the family together.
Make a special place for grandma and grandpa.
Sing merry songs; play innocent and amusing
games; take time to tell the home folks about
some of the things that you do and that you have
seen in the world; get acquainted with the home
folks; be delighted in their delight; by special<span class="pagenum" id="Page37">[37]</span>
appointment, spend one or two cheerful hours
with the folks at home each week.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo035.jpg" alt="" width-obs="461" height-obs="450" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">An Evening at Home.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>The young folks themselves should take the
lead in this matter. A home is not merely a
place with four walls where people meet to eat
and drink and sleep securely beneath a roof.
Nay, boys and girls, a house is reared to be a
<i>home</i>—the center where a family may gather
into one; to be a serene retreat where the tenderest
affections may find rest; where love may have a
dwelling place, and the <i>amenities</i> of life gain
ample scope; where parents and children may
press one another heart to heart; where sorrows
and joys may be freely shared in sacred
confidence; in a word, where the great work of
training human beings for the duties of the present
life, and the perfection of another, may be
begun and carried on.</p>
<p>There is one special reason for making much
of the evenings at home that young people are
not likely to think of. <i>Inevitably</i> the <i>family</i> circle
will be broken up very soon. Perhaps not by
death, but most certainly by change. When Fred
goes to college that is the beginning of new ties
and new associations, and the home privileges
can never be quite so complete to him again.
The years of the complete unity of the home
are very few indeed. While these years are passing,
young people especially should make the
most of them. My dear boys and girls, get the
benefit of these years; get their joys; store up<span class="pagenum" id="Page38">[38]</span>
memories of home life, for they will be in future
years the most beautiful pictures of the heart.
However some may sneer at it, the memory of
home and mother is a great power for righteousness.
It has saved many a person to God and
native land and race.</p>
<div class="poemcenter">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Be it ever so humble—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">There’s no place like home.”<br/></span></div>
</div>
<!--poem--></div>
<!--poemcenter-->
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>THE MAKING OF A MAN.<SPAN name="FNanchor1"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote1" class="fnanchor">[1]</SPAN></h2>
<p>Mr. Stamps, seated near the table, was glancing
over the afternoon paper. Mrs. Stamps, in
an easy chair, was doing some fancy work. Little
Bobby, six years old, more or less, was playing
with his toys on the floor. All at once the precocious
little boy stopped short in the middle of
his sport and, looking up at his mother, <span class="dontwrap">asked,—</span></p>
<p>“Mama, who made the world?”</p>
<p>“God,” replied Mrs. Stamps, sweetly.</p>
<p>“Who made the sea?” continued Bobby.</p>
<p>Mrs. Stamps answered, “God.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said Bobby, “did God make everything?”</p>
<p>“Yes, my son; the Lord made everything.”</p>
<p>“And did he make everybody?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page39">[39]</span></p>
<p>“Yes; the Lord made everybody.”</p>
<p>Bobby was silent for a moment. Presently he
looked anxiously at his father, and then, turning
to his mother, he <span class="dontwrap">asked,—</span></p>
<p>“Mama, did God make papa, too?”</p>
<p>“Yes; God made papa also.”</p>
<p>After a lengthy pause Bobby <span class="dontwrap">asked,—</span></p>
<p>“Mama, do you think that I could make a man,
if I was to try real hard?”</p>
<p>“You had better run out to play now, Bobby,”
said Mrs. Stamps, somewhat non-plused by her
son’s curiosity.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo038.jpg" alt="" width-obs="500" height-obs="323" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Bobby and His “Man.”</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>Bobby left the room almost immediately. He
went straight to the beach in front of the house,
and labored long and earnestly in piling up some
wet sand. Pretty soon he was joined in his work<span class="pagenum" id="Page40">[40]</span>
by two other little boys. For some time the three
little fellows worked vigorously in piling up the
mud. Mrs. Stamps called her husband to the
window, so that he might see what the boys were
doing.</p>
<p>“Wife,” said Mr. Stamps, “I believe those little
Satans are trying to make a man.”</p>
<p>Toward sunset Bobby ran into the house and
exclaimed with <span class="dontwrap">delight,—</span></p>
<p>“Mama, we’ve got our man almost finished.
We didn’t have but one marble, and we used that
for one of his eyes. I came in to ask you to give
me a marble, so that we might put in his other
eye.”</p>
<p>“It’s too late to bother now, Bobby,” said Mrs.
Stamps. “Wait until to-morrow morning; then I
will give you a marble and let you finish your
man.”</p>
<p>The next morning, bright and early, Bobby went
out to look for his man. Lo and behold! the sea
had washed the man away during the night. But,
Bobby, of course, did not suspect that. He thought
that the man had gone away of his own accord.
So the little fellow spent the entire morning looking
for his man. He looked under the house; he
looked in the stable; he went up to the garret; he
walked up and down the beach; he went into the
woods—looking for his man. But his man was
nowhere to be found.</p>
<p>Two or three weeks later an African Methodist
Episcopal Conference assembled in Bobby’s town.<span class="pagenum" id="Page41">[41]</span>
Among the ministers present there happened to
be a short, chubby, tan-colored brother with only
one eye. When Bobby spied him he examined the
man curiously and cautiously from head to foot.
The examination ended, Bobby concluded that that
was his man. At once the little fellow left his
mother and went over and took a seat beside
the man. Bobby’s mother was somewhat embarrassed.
The man was evidently pleased, although,
to be sure, he himself was not quite certain
why he should be an object of special interest
to the little boy. The man went to the secretary’s
table to have his name enrolled—Bobby went with
him. He went into the vestibule to get a drink of
water—and Bobby followed him there. But all
the while the man was still in doubt as to the
cause of the little boy’s apparent affection. By
this time, thoroughly exasperated, Bobby’s mother
decided to go home. She approached the pew in
a very ladylike manner and <span class="dontwrap">said,—</span></p>
<p>“Bobby, dear, come; we must be going home
now.”</p>
<p>“All right, Mama,” said Bobby in dead earnest,
“but you will please let me take my man
home with me—won’t you? I just found him
to-day, and you know I’ve been looking for him
for over two weeks!”</p>
<p>Then, for the first time, it suddenly dawned
upon Mrs. Stamps what was the matter with
Bobby. In spite of herself she laughed heartily at
the boy’s perversity. Finding that his mother<span class="pagenum" id="Page42">[42]</span>
hesitated to reply, Bobby turned to the man and
<span class="dontwrap">said,—</span></p>
<p>“Come on: we’re going home now. Why did
you leave before I finished you?”</p>
<div class="footnote">
<p><SPAN name="Footnote1"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor1"><span class="label">[1]</span></SPAN>
Published in the Voice of the Negro.</p>
</div>
<!--footnote-->
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>FALSE PRIDE.</h2>
<p>Once upon a time the head clerk in a carpet
store requested one of his junior clerks to go to
a patron’s home to measure a room, and suggested
that he take along a five-yard sample. The junior
clerk objected to “carting” such a big bundle, as
he said, “all over town,” and asked that one of
the boys be sent with it. The proprietor of the
establishment, who happened to overhear the remark,
privately told the head-clerk to inform the
proud young fellow that a boy would be sent on
after him with the roll. Shortly after the young
man reached the house, the proprietor of the establishment
covered him with confusion by appearing
at the house in person with the roll of carpet under
his arm. Handing the bundle to the bewildered
young man, the proprietor remarked:</p>
<p>“Here is the carpet, young man. I hope I have
not kept you waiting for it. If you have any other
orders, I’ll take them now.”</p>
<div class="figcenter w350">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo042.jpg" alt="Proprietor and junior clerk" width-obs="350" height-obs="571" />
<p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">Here Is the Carpet, Young Man. I Hope I Have Not Kept
You Waiting.</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p class="center highline2"><span class="padr3">*</span><span class="padl3 padr3">*</span><span class="padl3 padr3">*</span><span class="padl3 padr3">*</span><span class="padl3">*</span></p>
<p>A young woman of my acquaintance refused to
carry home a yeast cake, though it was needed at<span class="pagenum" id="Page43">[43-<br/>44]<SPAN name="Page44"></SPAN></span>
once for the family baking and she was bound
directly homeward. She said that she wasn’t a
delivery wagon, and so the yeast cake had to be
sent to her home.</p>
<p>A great many foolish young people are so absorbingly
regardful of their trim appearance on
the street that they will never under any circumstances
carry a basket or bundle, however much
inconvenience they may cause others by refusing
to do so.</p>
<p class="center highline2"><span class="padr3">*</span><span class="padl3 padr3">*</span><span class="padl3 padr3">*</span><span class="padl3 padr3">*</span><span class="padl3">*</span></p>
<p>Now, it is not proper pride or self-respect which
prompts people to act as the young folks acted
whom I have just referred to. It is silliness which
prompts them to act so. Any honest work is honorable
that is honorably done, and you will notice
that young people of good social position and
strength of character are above such pettiness.
Only inferior people act that way. Superior people
do not act so, because they are well aware that
they cannot be compromised by doing straightforwardly,
without fuss or apology, whatever needs
to be done. Yet, I admit, that it seems to be
human nature that whatever is distasteful or supposedly
menial should be done by somebody else.
When young people, or old people for that matter,
are tempted to be foolish in such things they
should remember the lesson of humility that Christ
taught his disciples, when in that warm Oriental
country, where only sandals are worn, He performed
the necessary service of washing the disciples’<span class="pagenum" id="Page45">[45]</span>
feet. For us to be above our business—for
us to think ourselves too good or too dainty
to soil our hands with honest toil—for us to feel
that it is a lowering of our dignity to carry a bundle
through the street, is to prove by our conduct
that we are not up to the level of our business, that
we are possessed of a great amount of false pride,
and, in a higher sense, it shows that we have a foolish
and wicked distaste of true service. There is
nothing low, nothing degrading, nothing disgraceful,
in honest labor, in honest work of any kind,
whether it be to boil an egg properly, to sweep a
floor well, to carry a bundle or package through
the streets, or bring a pail of water. In fact, if
somebody were to say that “chores” done or undone
are the making or the unmaking of boys and
girls, it would be a homely way of putting an important
truth. Bringing up coal or bringing in
wood, weeding the garden bed, running errands,
washing dishes, sewing seams, dusting furniture,
doing any odd jobs where there is need, cheerfully,
faithfully—these lead to the highway of
greater opportunities and are the usual avenues to
the only manhood and womanhood that is worth
having. My young friends, the castle of your
noblest dream is built out of what lies nearest at
hand. It is the uncommonly good use of common
things, the everyday opportunities, that makes
honored lives, and helps us, and helps us to help
others, along the sunroad. “He that is faithful
in that which is least is faithful also in much.<span class="pagenum" id="Page46">[46]</span>”
“Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty
spirit before a fall.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>THANKSGIVING AT PINEY GROVE.</h2>
<p>The people of the Piney Grove settlement, both
white and black, had been free for nearly a generation.
The whites had been freed from the curse
of being slave-holders, and the blacks had been
freed from the curse of being held in bondage.
But never in the history of this little town, in the
very heart of the so-called “Black Belt” of
Georgia, had the people known anything about the
proper observance of Thanksgiving Day until
189—. And in that year the revolution was
brought about by a young colored woman named
Grace Wilkins.</p>
<p>Grace Wilkins was the only daughter of Solomon
and Amanda Wilkins. Solomon and his wife
were farmers—plain, simple, ordinary country
folk. Amanda was literally her husband’s helpmeet.
She went along with him every morning to
the field, and, in season, chopped as much wood,
picked as much cotton, hoed as much corn, pulled
as much fodder, and plowed as much as her husband
did. Up to her fourteenth year Grace had
been reared on a farm, and had learned to do all
the things that any farmer’s child has to do—such<span class="pagenum" id="Page47">[47]</span>
as milking cows, feeding hogs and chickens, hoeing
cotton and corn, picking cotton, pulling fodder
and the like. In her fourteenth year, acting upon
the advice of an uneducated colored preacher, her
parents sent Grace away from home to attend one
of the great normal and industrial institutes for
the training of the black boys and girls of the
South.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo046.jpg" alt="" width-obs="450" height-obs="462" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Grace Before Going to School.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>At first her mother and father were filled with
forebodings. It was the first time that they had
ever allowed their daughter to be away from them,<span class="pagenum" id="Page48">[48]</span>
and they missed her so much and longed for her
so constantly that they thought that they had
made a mistake in sending her off to “boardin’
school.” Ignorant and superstitious neighbors,
though they knew as little about such matters as
did Solomon and Amanda, were loud in saying
that “Sol” and “Mandy” would live to regret the
step they had taken in sending Grace away from
home. The only rays of sunshine that came in to
brighten these periods of mental unrest and gloom
on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins were found
in the letters which they received regularly from
their daughter. Grace invariably informed her
parents, whenever she wrote, that she was “well
an’ doin’ well.” Thus reassured from time to
time, Solomon and Amanda managed somehow to
undergo the terrible strain of having their daughter
absent from them for eight months. But meantime
they were firmly of the opinion that, once
they got their hands on her again, they would
never allow Grace to return to school.</p>
<p>With glad and thankful hearts Mr. and Mrs.
Wilkins joyously embraced their daughter when
she came home at the close of her first year in
school. With keen and genuine interest, they listened
to her wonderful accounts of the great school
and of the great man at the head of it. Grace
dressed differently and talked differently; and her
mother said, speaking one day in confidence to her
husband shortly after Grace’s return, “Dat gal’s
sho got a new walk on her!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page49">[49]</span></p>
<p>Grace Wilkins brought back a toothbrush with
her from school. That was something which she
had never had before. She used that toothbrush
every morning and night. That was something
that she had never done before. She was now careful
to keep her hair well combed every day. That
was something that she had been accustomed to do
on Sundays only or on special occasions. She
washed her face two or three times a day now, as
her mother and father noticed. Before she went to
school she had been in the habit of giving her face,
as the old people say, “a lick and a promise” early
each morning. Besides, Grace kept the house
cleaner than she had kept it before. She brought
home with her a brand new Bible which she read
regularly at home and always carried to church
and Sunday school. She also had a song book
called “Jubilee Songs and Plantation Melodies,”
and it gladdened the hearts of the good “old folks
at home” to hear their daughter sing from a book
some of the very songs that they had sung all their
lifetime and which were so dear to them.</p>
<p>All these things and others made a deep and
abiding impression upon Solomon and his wife.
And finding that withal their daughter was just as
loving and kind as she had been before, and that
she was just as industrious and faithful as formerly,
Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins were not long in deciding
that their daughter should go back to that
school another year, and that they would work
hard and stint themselves in order that they might<span class="pagenum" id="Page50">[50]</span>
keep her there until she had finished the normal
course.</p>
<p>So back to school Grace Wilkins went—that
year, and the next year, and the next. It was the
proudest day in Solomon’s and Amanda’s lives
when they sat in the magnificent chapel of the
school and heard their daughter read her graduation
essay on “The Gospel of Service.” Glad tears
welled up in their eyes when they heard the principal
call their daughter’s name, and then saw
Grace step up to receive her certificate of graduation.</p>
<p>Coming back to Piney Grove to live, “Miss
Gracie”—everybody called her that after graduation—established
a little school which she called
“The Piney Grove Academy.” It was the first
public school for colored children ever opened
within the corporate limits of the little village.
Before that the schools were district schools or
county schools, which were taught about in different
places for only three or four months in the
year, mainly during the summer. Miss Gracie began
her school the first day of October. By special
arrangement she used the first three months for
the public term allowed by the state, and supplemented
that with a five-months term, for which the
pupils were required to pay fifty cents each per
month. The plan worked well, the parents joining
in heartily in the movement, and the Piney Grove
Academy soon became the model school for the
surrounding counties.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page51">[51]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo050.jpg" alt="" width-obs="400" height-obs="555" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Grace’s Graduation.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>Among other things Miss Gracie had learned
at school what was the import of our national
Thanksgiving Day. At the opening of the second<span class="pagenum" id="Page52">[52]</span>
year of the Piney Grove Academy she decided
that she would inaugurate an annual Thanksgiving
service. Accordingly on the opening day of the
second year Miss Gracie informed the pupils of her
plan, and told them that she would begin the very
next day to prepare a suitable program for the
exercises. Afterwards Miss Gracie secured the cooperation
of the village pastor—the same man who
had been instrumental in having her parents send
her away to school. Through him she was permitted
to talk to the people at the church two or
three times about the proposed celebration. She
was careful to tell them that the Thanksgiving
festival was meant specially to be a home festival
in addition to being a time for the people to come
together in their accustomed places of worship to
thank God for the blessings of the year. She urged
them, therefore, as far as they were able without
going to unnecessary expense, to have family dinners
and bring together at one time and in one
place as many members of the family as possible.
She explained to them how this might be done
successfully and economically, and with pleasure
and profit to all concerned. She also urged them
to be planning beforehand so that nothing might
prevent their attending church Thanksgiving Day
morning. She was going to hold the exercises in
the church, because her little school was not large
enough to furnish an assembly hall for the people
who would be likely to be present.</p>
<p>On Thanksgiving Day nearly everybody in town<span class="pagenum" id="Page53">[53]</span>
went to the exercises. Many white people attended,
including the county school commissioner and the
school trustees. It was the first Thanksgiving
service that any of them had ever witnessed.</p>
<p>The program was made up, for the most part,
of choice selections from negro authors, composers,
orators, and so forth. A selection from Frederick
Douglass on “Patriotism” was declaimed; one
from Booker T. Washington’s Atlanta Exposition
speech was also delivered. Paul Laurence Dunbar’s
poem entitled “Signs of the Times” (a
Thanksgiving poem) was read by one of the
pupils, and also “The Party,” another of Dunbar’s
pieces, was rendered. “The Negro National
Hymn,” words by James W. Johnson and music
by his brother, Rosamond Johnson, was sung by a
chorus of fifty voices. At the opening of the service
the president’s Thanksgiving proclamation
was read and appropriate remarks were made by
Miss Wilkins. The closing remarks were made by
the Rev. John Jones, the village pastor. The remarks
of Mr. Jones were in the congratulatory
mood. He was naturally proud of Miss Gracie’s
achievements, because he had had something to do
with putting her on the road to an education. He
spoke of the teacher as the leaven that was leavening
the whole lump, and the applause which followed
the statement showed plainly the high
esteem in which the teacher was held by all the
people. Everyone enjoyed the service. None of
the villagers had ever seen anything like it before.<span class="pagenum" id="Page54">[54]</span>
After singing “America” all of them went away
happy, many of them, in obedience to Miss Gracie’s
previous counsel, going home to eat for the first
time, well knowing what they were doing, a
Thanksgiving dinner.</p>
<p>At the home of Miss Wilkins there was an excellent
spread of ’possum, potatoes, rice, chicken,
pickles, macaroni, bread, a precious Thanksgiving
turkey, and the inevitable mincemeat pie. Besides
Miss Gracie, there sat at the table that day her
parents, Mr. and Mrs. Solomon Wilkins, John and
Joseph Wilkins, brothers of Solomon who had
come from a distance, Mary Andrews, a sister of
Mrs. Wilkins, who also came from a distance,
Grandma Wilkins, Grandma and Grandpa Andrews,
the Rev. John Jones, his wife, his daughter,
and his only son, Jasper Jones.</p>
<p>Jasper had gone to school at T—— one year
after Gracie went, and, of course, was one year
later in finishing the course there. On this Thanksgiving
Day, nevertheless, he had been out of school
long enough to have successfully established himself
in the business of poultry raising and dairying.</p>
<p>Just before the dinner party was dismissed the
Rev. Mr. Jones arose and said:</p>
<p>“There is another little ceremony you’all is
invited to witness befo’ you go out to see the baseball
game. I am authorized by these credentials
which I hol’ in my hands to unite in the holy bonds
of matrimony Miss Grace Wilkins and Mr. Jasper<span class="pagenum" id="Page55">[55]</span>
Jones. If there is no objection, these two persons
will please stan’ up, an’ I’ll tie the knot.”</p>
<p>Of course there were no objections. The knot
was tied. And when the villagers learned of the
occurrence not long afterwards they had additional
reason for believing that they were right
when they voted that Piney Grove had never seen
the like of such a Thanksgiving Day, and that
Miss Gracie Wilkins was one of the best women
in all the world.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>THE LOUD GIRL.</h2>
<p>I do not know of a more sorrowful spectacle than
that of a girl who is loud in her dress, loud in her
manners, and loud in her speech. It is a great mistake
for a girl to suppose that this loudness will be
mistaken by her friends and acquaintances for
smartness. The desire to be regarded as bright and
witty has led many a girl into the folly of being
loud in her manners. She often cherishes the illusion
that the attention such manners attract is
combined with admiration, when the truth is that
those who witness her strange conduct are simply
wondering how it is possible for her to throw to
the winds that charm of all girlhood—modesty.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo055.jpg" alt="Two girls" width-obs="550" height-obs="591" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Blab-Mouthed and Noisy.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo057.jpg" alt="Girl" width-obs="264" height-obs="600" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Modest and Quiet.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figleft-->
<p>One afternoon not long ago I saw a group of
girls of the loud type. They came into the street
car in which I was sitting. They all wore<span class="pagenum" id="Page56">[56]</span>
boys’ hats. One wore a vivid red jacket with brass
buttons, and another had on a brass belt. A third
one had on a most conspicuous plaid skirt. This
third one had a box of bonbons, and when the three
were seated she opened the box and offered it to
her companions, saying as she did so, in a voice
loud enough and shrill enough to be heard in every
part of the car:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page57">[57]</span></p>
<p>“It’s my treat; have some, chums!”</p>
<p>Upon this invitation one of the girls dived down
into the box like a hungry bear, and held up a
piece of the candy in triumph and then dashed it
into her mouth with a great guffaw. “O, Mame!”
said one of the girls, “if you ain’t just horrid to
go and take the very piece I wanted!”</p>
<p>“Mame” laughed and, taking the candy from
her mouth, offered it to the other girl, saying as
she did so:</p>
<p>“Well, here it is, Lulu!”</p>
<p>“Lulu” struck the candy from “Mame’s” hand,
and it flew across the aisle into the lap of a lady
sitting opposite the girls. This set all three of the
girls to giggling and tittering, and they seemed
in danger of convulsions when the owner of the
box of candy let it fall and a part of the candy
rolled out on the floor.</p>
<p>The conductor came forward and picked up the
box and candy and handed them to the owner.
She giggled out her thanks, and “Lulu” said:
“Why didn’t you give him a gumdrop for his
trouble?”</p>
<p>This seemed to impress the other girls as a most
brilliant witticism, and they fell to tittering violently
over it.</p>
<p>Presently a gentleman came in and stumbled
slightly over the feet of one of the girls thrust
out into the aisle.</p>
<p>“I beg your pardon,” said the gentleman, as he
lifted his hat, whereupon the three girls grinned<span class="pagenum" id="Page58">[58-<br/>59]<SPAN name="Page59"></SPAN></span>
and giggled and giggled and grinned immoderately,
and one of them said:</p>
<p>“Roxy, you had better ride out on the platform,
where there is more room for your feet!”</p>
<p>“Roxy” then struck “Lulu” for making this
speech. “Lulu” pretended to be much offended
and flung herself over to the other side of the car,
where she made a grimace at the other girls.</p>
<p>The conduct of these girls during the half hour
that they were on the car was such as caused every
father and mother who saw them to regard them
with pity. The loud girl, my dear readers, is
always an object of pity. She should be a
sorry object for her own contemplation. An old
writer has said: “You little know what you have
done when you have first broken the bounds of
modesty; you have set open the door of your fancy
to the devil, so that he can represent the same sinful
pleasure to you anew.”</p>
<p>Now, the loud girl may be entirely innocent of
any actual wrong-doing, but she is regarded with
dislike, distrust, and even disdain, by the better
class of people. She acquires a reputation for rudeness
and coarseness, and the people of refinement
will not associate with her. Her character suffers,
no matter how innocent she may be of any intention
of doing wrong. Delicacy, modesty, is the certain
sign of sweetness, purity and gentleness of
character, just as indelicacy is the certain sign of a
lack of these beautiful traits.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page60">[60]</span></p>
<h2>THE ROWDY BOY.</h2>
<p>You can tell him wherever you see him. There
are certain marks or appearances which he carries
about with him and which are never absent. For
one thing you will find him with a cigarette stuck
in his mouth, and a cigarette is one of the deadliest
poisons in the world for boy or man. He wears his
hat on the side or cocked back on his head. Frequently
he stuffs both hands in his trousers’ pockets.
He doesn’t attend school regularly; sometimes
he starts for school and ends at the bathing pond
or the baseball park. He is late at Sunday school,
if he goes at all, and he stands ’round on the outside
at church while the service is going on inside.
He steals rides on trains and on trolley cars, and on
passing vehicles of all descriptions. He is saucy
and impudent to older people, and is always ready
and willing to quarrel or fight with his mates. He
is what the boys call a “bully.”</p>
<p>The loud girl and the rowdy boy are two things
of which we have seen enough in this world. They
are things; they are hardly worth the dignity of
being called human beings.</p>
<p>I saw one of these rowdy boys in his own home
not a great while ago. His mother said to him:</p>
<p>“Johnnie, you must always take off your hat
whenever you come into the house.”</p>
<p>“Good gracious alive,” he said, “I can’t do<span class="pagenum" id="Page61">[61]</span>
anything right. What is the use of grabbing off
your hat every time you come into your own
house?”</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo060.jpg" alt="" width-obs="450" height-obs="482" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">He Stuffed Both Hands in His Trousers’ Pocket.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>His mother looked sad, but said nothing. Presently
she discovered that her little boy had
brought some mud into the house on his shoes.
In her sweetest tones she said:</p>
<p>“Johnnie, you must go to the door and wipe<span class="pagenum" id="Page62">[62]</span>
your feet now. See how you are tracking up the
floor there!”</p>
<p>“Well,” said the rowdy boy with a snarl, “can’t
the old floor be scoured? You must think this old
house is gold.”</p>
<p>Now, I am a preacher, boys, and, being a preacher,
of course I am what is called a “man of peace,”
but I tell you that that was one time I came pretty
near wishing that I wasn’t a preacher so that I
might have given that boy what he deserved. I
was sorry, for the time being, that he wasn’t my
son. No manly little boy will ever talk to his
mother in any such way. I suppose that boy
thought it made him appear to be a very important
personage, but he was very much mistaken.
Don’t be rowdy, boys; don’t be rough; don’t be
rude. You were made for better things.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>HONESTY.</h2>
<p>Early in the morning two little boys came to
the market place. They arranged their little stands
and spread out their wares, and sat down to wait
for customers. One sold watermelons and fruit,
and the other sold fish and oysters. The hours
passed on and both were doing well. By-and-by
Sammie had only one melon left on his stand. A
gentleman came along and said:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page63">[63]</span></p>
<p>“What a fine, large melon! I think I will buy
that one. What do you ask for it, my boy?”</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo062.jpg" alt="Two boys and a gentleman" width-obs="550" height-obs="586" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">How Much for the Melon?</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>“This is my last melon, sir; and though it looks
fair, there is an unsound spot on the other side,”
said the boy, turning the melon over.</p>
<p>“So there is,” said the man. “I don’t believe I’ll
take it. But,” he added, looking straight at the<span class="pagenum" id="Page64">[64]</span>
boy, “is it very good business for you to point out
the defects of your goods to customers?”</p>
<p>“Perhaps not, sir,” said the boy with becoming
modesty, “but it is better than being dishonest.”</p>
<p>“You are right, my boy; always speak the truth
and you will find favor with God and man. I shall
not forget your little stand in the future.”</p>
<p>Then turning to the other boy’s stand the man
asked:</p>
<p>“Are those fresh oysters?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” said Freddie, “these are fresh this
morning—just arrived.”</p>
<p>The gentleman bought them and went away.</p>
<p>“Sammie,” said Freddie, “you never will learn
any sense. What did you want to show that man
that spot on the melon for? He never would have
looked at it until he got home. I’ve got an eye to
business, myself. You see how I got rid of those
stale oysters—sold them for just the same price
as fresh oysters.”</p>
<p>“Freddie,” said the other boy, “I wouldn’t tell
a lie, or act one either, for twice the money we have
both earned today. Besides I have gained a customer
and you have lost one.”</p>
<p>And it turned out just as Sammie said. The next
day the gentleman bought a large supply of fruit
from Sammie, but he never spent another penny
at Freddie’s stand. It continued that way through
all the summer. At the close of the season he took
Sammie into his store, and, after awhile, gave him
a share in the business.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page65">[65]</span></p>
<h2>UNCLE NED AND THE INSURANCE SOLICITOR.</h2>
<p>Life insurance is something that every married
man should carry. In fact, it is a fine investment
for a young man to take out a ten- or twenty-year
payment policy in some good company, which can
be made in favor of his father or mother in the
event of his death, or obtained in cash ten or
twenty years later by himself.</p>
<p>The following story tells of an insurance agent
trying to insure the life of an old colored man—the
story is amusing, but only as a story. We do
not advise any one to follow Uncle Ned’s example.</p>
<p>Charles Turner, an agent of the Workingmen’s
Industrial Aid Insurance Company, called upon
Edmund Grant, an elderly colored man, with a
view to getting him to insure his life.</p>
<p>“Good morning, Uncle Ned,” said Mr. Turner.</p>
<p>“Good morning, Mr. Turner,” said the old man,
raising his hat and making a low bow.</p>
<p>“Uncle Ned, do you carry any insurance?” inquired
the agent.</p>
<p>“Do I carry what?” asked Uncle Ned.</p>
<p>“Do you carry any insurance? Is your life insured?”
asked the agent.</p>
<p>“Bless the Lord, yes, indeed, sir,” replied the
colored man; “long, long ago.”</p>
<p>“In what company?” asked the solicitor.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page66">[66]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo065.jpg" alt="Two gentlemen in the street" width-obs="371" height-obs="600" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">That’s Just What My Religion Does!</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page67">[67]</span></p>
<p>“I’m a Baptist, sir,—a deepwater Baptist,”
answered Uncle Ned.</p>
<p>The agent realized that the old man had not
understood him, but, anyhow, he asked him:</p>
<p>“How long has it been since you joined?”</p>
<p>“I joined the same year the stars fell,” replied
the old man.</p>
<p>The solicitor knew that the old man referred to
the year when the great meteoric display of shooting
stars took place, and said:</p>
<p>“That’s quite a long time ago. Does your company
pay any dividends?”</p>
<p>“Mr. Turner,” said Uncle Ned, with a smile,
“that question is out of my reach,—just what do
you mean?”</p>
<p>“Why, Uncle Ned,” said Mr. Turner, “a dividend
is interest paid on your money; and if you
have been paying your money into one company
for more than thirty years, surely you ought to
have been receiving your dividends long before
now, especially if it’s an old-line company.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said Uncle Ned, “it surely is the oldest
line company that ever was. The Lord set it up
himself way back yonder on Calvary’s tree. But I
haven’t ever heard of any interest or dividends—nothing
of the kind. And you haven’t heard me
talk about paying in money for thirty years,—you
know you haven’t. Salvation’s free, man,—salvation’s
free! You know that as well as I do.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Turner; “I see that I
have misunderstood you. You’re talking about
your soul’s salvation.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page68">[68]</span></p>
<p>“I certainly am,” answered the old man.</p>
<p>“Well, I came here to talk to you about insuring
your life in case of death or your body in case of
accident or sickness,” replied the agent.</p>
<p>“Accidents, sickness and death come to all of
us,” said Uncle Ned very solemnly. “There’s no
way of getting away from death.”</p>
<p>“That’s so,” replied the agent patiently; “insurance
companies cannot prevent sickness and
death any more than you can, Uncle Ned, but insurance
companies can and do help you to bear
your burdens in time of trouble.”</p>
<p>“That’s just what my religion does,” said the
old man, with great satisfaction.</p>
<p>“But we do it in a different way,” persisted
the agent.</p>
<p>“How do you do it?” asked Uncle Ned.</p>
<p>Then the agent went on to explain all about insurance,
the benefits, the premiums, accident
benefits, sick benefits, etc., dwelling particularly
on the fund that would be paid in the event of the
old man’s death. Uncle Ned listened with a great
deal of interest, and after he had finished,
inquired:</p>
<p>“Mr. Turner, who do you say the money goes
to when I die?”</p>
<p>“To your wife,” answered Mr. Turner, “or to
your children, or any one else you name.”</p>
<p>“Well, Mr. Turner, let me ask you one question:
Don’t you think that would help the other
fellow more than it would me?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page69">[69]</span></p>
<p>“What other fellow?” asked the agent.</p>
<p>“My wife’s second husband,” replied Ned.
“You know as well as I do that if I was to die
and leave five or six hundred dollars to her that
some other colored gentleman would be trying to
change her name before I got cold in the ground.”</p>
<p>The agent could not suppress a smile, and Uncle
Ned went on:</p>
<p>“Women are mighty curious; if I went into this
thing, I wouldn’t dare let Dinah know about it.
She is a mighty fine and loving wife right now, but
if she knew there was all that money waiting for
her when I died, wouldn’t she be sort of looking
forward to the time when she would get it to
spend? Why, Mr. Turner, she might even be
tempted to put something in my tea, and the first
thing I knew some morning I’d wake up dead. I
don’t want anything to do with this insurance.
The Baptist Church is good enough for me.”</p>
<p>When Mr. Turner gave it up and laughingly
left him, he heard Uncle Ned <span class="dontwrap">singing—</span></p>
<div class="poemcenter">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“I’m a Baptist bred and a Baptist born,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And when I die, that’s a Baptist gone.”<br/></span></div>
</div>
<!--poem--></div>
<!--poemcenter-->
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page70">[70]</span></p>
<h2>THE STRENUOUS LIFE.</h2>
<p>They were having a rough-and-tumble time of it
and Pansy was getting some pretty hard blows.
She took them all good-naturedly, nevertheless,
and tried to give as good as she received, much to
the delight of her little boy friends. A lady who
was standing near, afraid for the little girl, chided
the boys and said:</p>
<p>“You shouldn’t handle Pansy so roughly—you
might hurt her.”</p>
<p>And then Pansy looked up in sweet surprise and
said with amusing seriousness:</p>
<p>“No; they won’t hurt me. I don’t break easy.”</p>
<p>It was a thoroughly childlike expression, but it
had more wisdom in it than Pansy knew. She
spoke out of a little girl’s experience with dolls,
some of which, as she had learned, broke very easily.
Pansy knew how delightful it was to have a
doll that didn’t break so easily. Though she was
not a homely girl by any means, and though she
was not a wicked little girl, yet she wanted it understood
that she was not like a piece of china.
That was why the other children liked her so
much—because she knew how to rough it without
crying or complaining at every turn. Pansy was
not a cry-baby.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo070.jpg" alt="Lady and children" width-obs="450" height-obs="522" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">I Don’t Break Easy.</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>There is all the time, my dear boys and girls,
a great demand everywhere all through life for<span class="pagenum" id="Page71">[71]</span>
people who don’t break easily—people who know
how to take hard knocks without going all to
pieces. The game of life is sometimes rough, even
among those who mean to play fair. It is very
trying when we have to deal with people who
break easily, and are always getting hurt and<span class="pagenum" id="Page72">[72]</span>
spoiling the game with their tears and complaints.
It is so much better when we have to deal with
people who, like little Pansy, do not break easily.
Some of them will laugh off the hardest words
without wincing at all. You can jostle them as
you will, but they don’t fall down every time you
shove them, and they don’t cry every time they
are pushed aside. You can’t but like them, they
take life so heartily and so sensibly. You don’t
have to hold yourself in with them all the time.
You can let yourself out freely without being on
pins as to the result. Young people of this class
make good playmates or good work-fellows, as the
case may be.</p>
<p>So, boys and girls, you must learn to rough it
a little. Don’t be a china doll, going to smash at
every hard knock. If you get hard blows take
them cheerily and as easily as you can. Even if
some blow comes when you least expect it, and
knocks you off your feet for a minute, don’t let it
floor you long. Everybody likes the fellow who
can get up when he is knocked down and blink the
tears away and pitch in again. Learning to get
yourself accustomed to a little hard treatment will
be good for you. Hard words and hard fortune
often make us—if we don’t let them break us.
Stand up to your work or play courageously, and
when you hear words that hurt, when you are hit
hard with the blunders or misdeeds of others,
when life goes roughly with you, keep right on in
a happy, companionable, courageous, helpful<span class="pagenum" id="Page73">[73]</span>
spirit, and let the world know that you don’t
break easily.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>A HUMBUG.</h2>
<p>A boy or girl who is pleasant and agreeable
everywhere except at home is a humbug. I know
one boy who is a good deal of a humbug, although
you would never think so if you were to see him in
any place outside of his home. He is good-looking,
neat and tidy, and carries himself like a little man.
I do not know of a boy who can tip his hat more
gracefully to a lady, or who can say, “I beg your
pardon,” or “excuse me, please,” more pleasantly
than he can. But, for all that, he is a humbug.</p>
<p>I visited his home the other day. I heard his
mother speak to him.</p>
<p>“Alexander,” she said.</p>
<p>“Well, what do you want?” he asked in a voice
which plainly indicated his displeasure.</p>
<p>“I want you to do something for me.”</p>
<p>“Oh, you are always wanting me to do something
just when I want to be doing something
else,” said Alexander, and this time he was whining.</p>
<p>In departing on his errand Alexander accidentally
ran against his little sister in the hall. I expected
to hear him say, “I beg your pardon” in<span class="pagenum" id="Page74">[74]</span>
the pleasant way that I knew he could say it, but
he snapped out instead:</p>
<p>“Oh, get out of the way, can’t you?”</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo073.jpg" alt="Alexander and his sister" width-obs="450" height-obs="569" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">Oh, Get Out of the Way, Can’t You?</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>When he returned from the postoffice, Alexander’s
mother was out in the yard trimming the<span class="pagenum" id="Page75">[75]</span>
flowers. While Alexander was reporting to her
she happened to drop her scissors. I expected to
see her polite and dutiful son pick them up, as he
was close by when the scissors fell; but the boy
paid no attention to the scissors. When his
mother said, “Please pick up my scissors for me,
Alexander,” he said:</p>
<p>“What did you drop ’em for?”</p>
<p>I spent the best part of one whole day at Alexander’s
home, and never once during all that day
did I hear him speak politely to his mother or
sisters, nor did he observe the ordinary rules of
courtesy and good behavior in their presence. He
was continually grumbling and complaining and
finding fault. So I think I have a right to say
that this boy is a good deal of a humbug. Any
boy is a humbug who is polite and gracious to
others and in every way discourteous and disagreeable
at home. Don’t you think so, too?</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page76">[76]</span></p>
<h2>HOW TO BE HANDSOME.</h2>
<p>Do you want to be handsome? I’ll tell you how.</p>
<p>First, look well to your health. Eat regularly
and simply, and take proper rest, in order to be
healthy. Do not crowd the stomach. The stomach
can no more work all the time, night and day,
than a horse; it must have regular rest. The body
must have proper rest also. Do not keep late
hours. Go to bed early. If you have work which
must be done, it is a good deal better to rise early
in the morning and do it than it is to sit up late
at night and work.</p>
<p>Secondly, good teeth are essential to good looks.
Brush the teeth regularly with a soft brush morning
and night, especially at night. Be sure to go
to bed at night with clean teeth.</p>
<p>Thirdly, look well to the ventilation of your
bedrooms. No one can have a clear skin who
breathes bad air. Fresh air is a preventive of a
multitude of diseases. Bad air is the cause of a
great many premature deaths.</p>
<p>Fourthly, cleanliness of the entire body is of
vast importance. Some one has said that “Cleanliness
is next to godliness,” and some one else has
added, “And soap is a means of grace.” Handsome
people not only eat regularly and simply;
they not only sleep regularly and look well to<span class="pagenum" id="Page77">[77]</span>
proper ventilation; but handsome people will take
regular baths.</p>
<p>Fifthly, more than all else, in order to look well
you must wake up the mind and soul. When the
mind is awake, the dull, sleepy look passes away
from the eyes. Keep thinking pleasant and noble
thoughts; do not read trashy novels or books; read
books which have something good in them. Talk
with people who know something. Be often in the
company of those who know more than you do.
Hear lectures and sermons and profit by them. If
we listen and understand and heed, the mind and
soul are awakened. So much the better if the spiritual
nature is aroused. Sometimes a plain face
is really glorified with the love of God and of man
which shines through it.</p>
<p>Lastly, keep a strong and vigorous body by taking
plenty of wholesome outdoor exercise, and do
all the good you can.</p>
<p>Why not begin to grow handsome today?</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo076.jpg" alt="Portrait of a girl" width-obs="450" height-obs="401" /></div>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page78">[78]</span></p>
<h2>PATIENCE.</h2>
<p>Patience is one of the marks of a high character.
It might well be called the habit of closing
the mind against disagreeable and annoying conditions.
To acquire this habit so effectually as to
hide even from one’s self any sense of suffering
or offense from contact with such conditions is
what the truly cultivated aim at. Life, it is true,
is full of trying things, but to let the mind dwell
upon them only serves to increase their offense to
the feelings or the senses.</p>
<div class="hh">
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo078.jpg" alt="Chopping wood" width-obs="300" height-obs="528" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Patience.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter--></div>
<!--hh-->
<div class="scr">
<div class="figright top078">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo078a.jpg" alt="Top part" width-obs="199" height-obs="352" /></div>
<!--figright-->
<div class="figright bot078">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo078b.jpg" alt="Bottom part" width-obs="300" height-obs="176" />
<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Patience.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figright--></div>
<!--scr-->
<p>There are people, of course, who are incapable
of self-concentration, and whose imagination, if
left free to gad about, seems always to fix upon
and exaggerate every element of disturbance. They
live in what is called an elementary stage of moral
discipline, and are perpetually fretting about
things they cannot help. They are never able to
shut down the will against any unpleasantness.
They permit merely accidental conditions to exercise
a kind of tyrannical sway over them, which, if
their minds were once bent to the practice of putting
up with things, would cease to present any
annoyance whatever.</p>
<p>It is difficult, no doubt, to acquire this habit, but
this is what patience means in its highest sense. It
is spiritual endurance, and its chief power consists<span class="pagenum" id="Page79">[79]</span>
not so much in adding to the number of our
joys as in lessening the number of our sufferings.
It is, therefore, a mark of power over one’s self
and a means of power over others. With patience
the outward success or failure of a man is a small
thing compared with that
success which he has achieved
within himself. And that
kind of success—the success
which enables a man to
laugh at failure and rise superior
to discouragements
and difficulties—that kind of
success is a means of help
and inspiration to all those
about him.</p>
<p>If we consider the works
of nature we shall see
that nature’s most
beneficent operations
are the results of patience.
Anything
which grows must
have time, and the
best things in the
world are generally those things which demand the
longest time for their growth and development.
The rank and short-lived weed reaches its full development
in the shortest possible time, but the
oak, which is to stand for centuries, demands the
sunshine and the storm of years before its strength
is fully developed.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page80">[80]</span></p>
<p>Now, boys and girls, one of the hardest demands
which nature makes upon people (especially upon
young people, full of strength and energy and ambition)
is to wait for the results of growth. No
man becomes instantly strong morally; he must
grow into strength. However great his ambition
and his zeal may be, no man becomes a scholar in
a year. It takes time, and lots of it. No man
reaches at a single bound the full development of
his whole nature. He grows into strength. A
good soldier cannot be made without war, nor can
a skillful seaman be made on land.</p>
<p>So in the race of life we must fight hard for all
we get and be patient. Whatever else may be true,
or may not be true, only patient and continued
efforts—not hasty efforts—lead to success.</p>
<p>Before me lies a block of wood. It is full of
knots. It seems to me I can never split it. But
I bravely make the attempt. The first blow makes
little impression. The axe springs back with a
bound. Again and again I strike. Then a tiny
crack appears. A few more licks—and the block
yields. I have succeeded. Can you tell me which
blow did the work? Was it not the first blow and
the last and all between? You have tried something
and failed. Try again. If you fail, try once
more. And on and on, keep trying until you win
the victory.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page81">[81]</span></p>
<h2>BEAUTIFUL EYES.</h2>
<div class="poemcenter">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Eyes like the violet—in them I see<br/></span>
<span class="i0">All that is fair, that is holy to me!<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Eyes that shed fragrance, so constant, so true,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Pure as a clear drop of morning dew.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Eyes like the violet, gently along<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Lead me to vespers—to prayer and to song.<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Eyes like the violet, let me I pray<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Live within range of thy glances all day!<br/></span></div>
</div>
<!--poem--></div>
<!--poemcenter-->
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>GOING WITH THE CROWD.</h2>
<p>“But all the girls went, mother. I didn’t like
to be the only one left out. Besides, when I said I
wouldn’t go they all laughed at me and said that
I was a coward.”</p>
<p>It was Wednesday morning, before school time,
and Anna was dreading to go back to school—dreading
to meet her teacher. The day before a
circus had been in town. At recess, while the
children were on the playground, they heard the
noise of the band, and one of the girls said:</p>
<p>“Let’s go and see the parade.”</p>
<p>“All right,” said Anna. “I’ll go and ask the
teacher if we may.”</p>
<p>“No; don’t ask her—she might say no. We can
get back before the bell rings, and she will never
know that we left the grounds.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page82">[82]</span></p>
<p>Anna and one or two other girls held back. They
all knew that it was against the rules to go off the
playground at recess without permission.</p>
<p>“Oh, come on! Come on!” insisted one of the
girls. “You’re afraid; you’re afraid! Come on!
Don’t be such a coward; all the rest are going.”</p>
<p>And so Anna went.</p>
<p>When the girls saw the parade pass one point
they wanted to see it once more, and away they
went through the cross street to get to another
corner ahead of the procession. School was forgotten;
and when they did remember, recess time
was long past and it was too late to go back.</p>
<p>The next morning, as Anna stood in the kitchen
talking it over with her mother, her little heart
was very heavy. She knew she had done wrong;
she dreaded to go to school; and she was very
unhappy.</p>
<p>“Perhaps,” said her mother, “if you had been
brave about not going, the other girls would have
stayed on the school grounds too. Or, if you had
asked the teacher, I think she would have let you
all go. But whether she did or not, it is never safe
to do a thing just because ‘all the rest do it.’ Going
with the crowd is not a good plan unless you
are sure that the crowd is going in the right direction.
The only wise thing for you to do is to be
sure you are right, and then stick to it and never
mind what the crowd does.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t mean to do wrong,” said Anna, as the
tears started in her eyes.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page83">[83]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo082.jpg" alt="Anna and her mother" width-obs="371" height-obs="600" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">Mother, I’m So Happy. Teacher Forgave Me!</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page84">[84]</span></p>
<p>“I know that, my dear,” said her mother, “but
you were more afraid of being teased than you
were of doing wrong. I hope you will remember
from this day forward that the brave girl is not
the girl who dares to do wrong, but the brave girl
is the one who does what she knows to be right,
in spite of the taunts and jeers of her playmates.”</p>
<p>“What shall I tell my teacher?” asked Anna in
a low voice, as she dropped her head.</p>
<p>“Oh,” said her mother, kissing her, “you go
right straight to your teacher and tell her that
you have done wrong, and that you are sorry for
it. Ask her to let you say so to the whole school.
Be sure to beg her pardon, and promise not to do
so again.”</p>
<p>Little Anna did as her mother told her. That
afternoon, when she came back from school, she
ran into her mother’s arms and said:</p>
<p>“Mother, I’m so happy. Teacher forgave me,
and I mean to be good.”</p>
<p>And the smile on Anna’s face spoke plainly of a
happy heart.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>MARY AND HER DOLLS.</h2>
<p>Was there ever a time when the first doll was
born? Was there ever a time when little boys
and girls, especially little girls, did not love dolls
and did not have something of that nature to play<span class="pagenum" id="Page85">[85]</span>
with? It would appear that dolls, or playthings
somewhat like unto dolls, are as old as babies
themselves—that is to say, boys and girls, that
ever since there have been little children in the
world there have been little things for them to
play with. And I never saw a sane person in my
life who regrets that it is so. It is not only amusing,
it is inspiring to see the little children making<span class="pagenum" id="Page86">[86]</span>
merry with their dolls and their toy animals and
their little express wagons and their wooden guns
and their toy steam engines and their whistles and
their balloons and their brownies and their jumping-jacks
and their hobby-horses and a hundred
and one other things.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo084.jpg" alt="" width-obs="450" height-obs="486" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Mary and Her Dolls.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>Mary had put away her dolls for the night and
was cleaning the doll house when papa came in.</p>
<p>“How many doll babies have you now, Mary?”
he asked.</p>
<p>“I have five dolls now, papa,” said Mary, “but
only one is a baby—that is little Flossie. Robbie
and Nell are three years old now; Mattie is two
and Jerusha is one year old. Flossie is now the
only little baby.”</p>
<p>The Rev. Dr. Smithson smiled.</p>
<p>“Well,” he said after a time, “five dolls make
a big family, I think.”</p>
<p>“I don’t,” said Mary quickly. “Rolla Mays
has thirteen girls and two boys in her doll family,
and I haven’t but five in all!”</p>
<p>“I shouldn’t think,” said Dr. Smithson, “that
Rolla would know what to do with so many.”</p>
<p>“Why, papa, of course she does!”</p>
<p>“Mary,” said Dr. Smithson, looking thoughtfully
at his little daughter, “I have a little girl in
my Sunday school class who hasn’t a single doll.
I thought you might like to give her one of yours.
You could spare one—couldn’t you?”</p>
<p>“Oh, papa, I couldn’t—not a one,” exclaimed
Mary.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page87">[87]</span></p>
<p>“Not one—when this poor little girl hasn’t
any?”</p>
<p>“Oh, papa, I love my dolls so—how can I give
them away?”</p>
<p>“You’d have four left—wouldn’t that be
enough?”</p>
<p>Mary thought a long while before speaking. She
looked distressed.</p>
<p>“Papa,” she said at last, “Mrs. Grant was over
here the other day, and she said that she wished
you and mamma would give me to her because she
didn’t have any little girl of her own. You’ve got
five children yourself, papa—but would you give
any of ’em away just because you would have four
left?”</p>
<p>Dr. Smithson took his little daughter in his
arms and kissed her.</p>
<p>“No, dear,” he said; “papa wouldn’t give any
one of his children away. You may keep all of
your dollies, and we’ll think of some other way
to help poor little Hattie.”</p>
<p>The next morning Mary said:</p>
<p>“Papa, I have thought it all out for Hattie.
You know I have been saving up a little money
to buy me a little iron bank—but I can wait for
that. I have saved up fifty cents—don’t you think
that will be enough to buy a nice little dolly for
Hattie, and let me keep my babies?”</p>
<p>Dr. Smithson knew that Mary had long been
planning for the bank. So he asked:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page88">[88]</span></p>
<p>“Are you quite sure that you want to spend
your money in this way?”</p>
<p>“Yes, papa, I’m very sure,” said Mary with a
smile, though there was a hint of sadness in her
eyes.</p>
<p>Dr. Smithson and Mary bought Hattie a pretty
doll. Hattie was overjoyed when she saw it. Mary
went back home, glad that her papa had understood
how she loved her dolls, and glad to find
that not one of her beloved children was missing.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>JAKY TOLBERT’S PLAYMATES.</h2>
<p>“Well, Johnnie, where are you going this morning?”
asked Mrs. Jones as her little boy started
towards the gate.</p>
<p>“I’m goin’ over to Jaky’s, mamma; you know
I must go over to Jaky’s every day.”</p>
<p>“What do you find at Jaky’s to make you so
anxious to go over there every day almost before
you are out of bed good?”</p>
<p>“Oh, mamma, Jaky has the nicest playmates
over to his house you ’most ever saw.”</p>
<p>“Who else goes over to Jaky’s besides you?”
asked Mrs. Jones.</p>
<p>“Jaky don’t have no reg’lar visitor but me,”
said Johnnie proudly. “Me an’ Jaky is the whole
thing.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page89">[89]</span></p>
<p>“Well, you are saying a good deal for yourself
when you say that Jaky has the nicest playmates
in the world—don’t you think so?”</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo088.jpg" alt="Circus manager and his mother" width-obs="386" height-obs="500" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">I’m Going Over to Jaky’s, Mamma.</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>“I didn’t mean me,” explained Johnnie.<span class="pagenum" id="Page90">[90]</span>
“Jaky’s playmates ain’t folks at all. Jaky’s playmates
is animals—just animals, but I do believe
that they have got as much sense as some folks I
know.”</p>
<p>“What kind of animals?” asked Mrs. Jones, becoming
interested.</p>
<p>Then Johnnie went on to explain. He said:</p>
<p>“Jaky’s got chickens and dogs and cats and
birds. He’s got names for all of ’em, and they
all know their names and they just run to Jaky
when he calls them. The chickens and birds, too,
will just walk right up and eat out of Jaky’s hand.
And his trained dogs and cats are just the funniest
things I ever saw. His little dog, Trip, can carry
a gun and obey the commands, “Carry arms!”
“Present arms!” “Parade rest!” just like a little
soldier. One time at a fair he saw trained dogs
and horses, elephants, and even lions. Then he
decided that he would train some animals himself.
And, mamma, he has done well. Why, he’s got a
cat that can spell some words. Jaky printed some
letters of the alphabet on separate cards, and he’s
got a cat that will pick out the right ones every
time. One of his little dogs can play the fiddle.
It may seem strange, but he certainly can do it.
He can hold the fiddle, and draw the bow across it
just the right way, and he can play a little tune.
Jaky calls it a dog tune, and I think he ought to
know.</p>
<p>“You just ought to see Jaky’s chickens—he’s
got six of ’em. He calls them and they all come<span class="pagenum" id="Page91">[91]</span>
running. Then he holds out his arm, and calls
them by name, and they will jump up on his little
arm, one after the other, and will sit there until
Jaky tells them to jump down. And Jaky is so
kind to his two birds that they won’t fly away
when he lets them out of their cages for a little
while. He can take them up in his arms and pat
them gently, and then he puts them down, and
they will lie still right by Jaky until Jaky calls
them by name and tells them to go into the house—that
is, I mean, into their cages.</p>
<p>“By the way, mama, I forgot to tell you. Jaky
is getting up an animal show, and he says
that I am to be his manager. He’s going to print
the cards to-day. He’s going to call his circus,
“JAKY TOLBERT’S GREAT ANIMAL SHOW—THE
GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH,” and
he’s going to make me the manager of his circus.
Won’t that be fine? You’ll come and see it—won’t
you? We’re going to charge only one cent
for you to come in. Oh, it’s going to be great,
and I don’t want you to miss it.”</p>
<p>“To be sure, I’ll come,” said Mrs. Jones. “Tell
Jaky I’m glad to hear about how much he loves
the dumb animals—every manly boy ought to
love and protect them.”</p>
<p>“I tell you,” said Johnnie, as he hurried out of
the gate, “Jaky will fight anybody who hallooes
at one of his pets or mistreats one in the least.
He’s just as kind to them as he can be. Don’t
you forget the show. It’ll come off next week.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page92">[92]</span></p>
<h2>A VALENTINE PARTY.</h2>
<p>It was one week from St. Valentine’s Day, and
the Berry children had already provided a number
of the tokens, comic and otherwise, which
they meant to send to their friends. Jack produced
a grotesque and awfully exaggerated caricature
of a withered, stoop-shouldered old woman,
with some cruel lines of doggerel printed beneath
it.</p>
<p>“I’m going to send this to old Mrs. Gray,” said
Jack, as he exhibited the comic picture.</p>
<p>Nearly all the children laughed, and said that
the picture and the words beneath it would just
suit the old woman. Mrs. Gray was an old and
poverty-stricken widow woman, and many of the
children of the little village took delight in playing
tricks on her on Hallowe’en and Valentine
nights. In this way, the children, especially the
boys, had made her life so miserable that the old
woman often said that she hated even the sight of
a boy. In the midst of the merriment over the proposed
venture of Jack Berry, it was Lillie Berry
who spoke up, <span class="dontwrap">saying,——</span></p>
<p>“Jack, I tell you what I think. I think we
ought to give Mrs. Gray a genuine surprise next
week. She has had so many ups and downs in this
life, I really believe that we can give her a little
pleasure if we give her a true—true surprise. Of<span class="pagenum" id="Page93">[93-<br/>94]<SPAN name="Page94"></SPAN></span>
course, all the boys and girls will be invited to
join in, but it is not going to be like a regular
party, but something like the ‘surprise’ parties
or donation parties that we sometimes give the
preacher; we’ll just put the things on the doorstep
and run, the way we do with valentines, you
know. What do you say to that, Jack? And what
do the rest of you think?”</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo093.jpg" alt="" width-obs="373" height-obs="600" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Old Mrs. Gray.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>Very quickly the Berry children agreed with
what Lillie had said, and immediately they set
about planning for the valentine party.</p>
<p>The night of February fourteenth was clear,
cold and moonless. Across the fields in the darkness,
a throng of merry young children, with a
wagon or two (little goat wagons) piled high with
baskets and bundles and wood, slipped silently
toward the little house where old Mrs. Gray sat
shivering over her scanty fire. A sudden knock
at the door aroused Mrs. Gray from her musing.
She hobbled painfully to the door. Opening it,
she saw by the light of the tallow candle a basket
of rosy apples and another of potatoes. Nothing
else was in sight.</p>
<p>A second knock followed almost as soon as the
door had closed on the two baskets which were
hurriedly drawn inside. This time a can of kerosene
oil held a lonely vigil on the doorstep.</p>
<p>“I haven’t had a drop in my lamp for two
weeks,” Jack heard the old lady say, as she peered
out eagerly into the darkness before closing the
door.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page95">[95]</span></p>
<p>As she was busy filling her lamp, she was interrupted
by a third knock, which resulted in a
basket filled with groceries in parcels in all shapes
and sizes. Great tears stood in Mrs. Gray’s eyes,
and a great lump arose in her throat.</p>
<p>At last knock number four revealed the real
Saint Valentine—a group of laughing boys and
girls, every one of whom carried an armful either
of pine or oak wood for the stove.</p>
<p>“Where shall we put it?” asked Jack Berry,
as eager now to help as he had been the week
before to tease. Mrs. Gray was rubbing her eyes,
and wondering if she could possibly be awake and
in her right mind.</p>
<p>“Wish you many happy returns of Valentine’s
Day!” said Lillie Berry, as she slipped into the
withered hand a small purse containing the valentine
money of the boys and girls; and before the
bewildered woman could say more than a fervent
“God bless you,” her guests had melted away in
the darkness, and she was left to weep tears of
thankfulness among her new possessions.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>“NO MONEY DOWN.”</h2>
<p>Boys and girls, I suppose you are quite familiar
with what is known as buying things on the instalment
plan. You have seen people in your own
neighborhood—perhaps in your own homes—buy<span class="pagenum" id="Page96">[96]</span>
things that way. Chairs, tables, bed-steads, rugs,
pictures, things for the kitchen and things to
wear, and many other things are bought that way.
Most people think they are getting a great bargain
when they are able to buy things by paying
a small amount in cash as the first payment—say
fifty-cents or a dollar—and then pay the balance
in small weekly or monthly payments. And especially
do some of our mothers and fathers think
that they are getting a great bargain, if they are
able to buy things they want for “no money
down” and so much a week. In such matters, my
dear boys and girls, your parents are making a
terrible mistake and are setting you a wrong
example. They lose sight of the fact, when they
fall into the habit of buying anything and everything
on the instalment plan or on the “no money
down” plan, that a day of reckoning is sure to
come; that the time comes when they must pay for
everything that they have been led into buying.
Thoughtful people—wise people—prefer to pay
“money down” when they buy anything; and
this habit of paying as they go helps them in at
least two ways. First, it saves money in their
pockets, and, secondly, it keeps them from running
in debt.</p>
<p>Children, these men who come to your homes
with great packs on their backs always charge
you double for whatever they may sell you on the
“no money down” plan—no matter what it is!
That is why they are willing to make the terms so<span class="pagenum" id="Page97">[97]</span>
“easy,” as they say. In the end they profit by
their schemes, and nobody else does profit by their
schemes except these peddlers. You ought to
avoid them as you would a wild beast. You do
not know now, boys and girls, what a terrible
thing debt is. I honestly hope that you may never
know, and if you will take the advice of older and
wiser persons I am sure you will always be free
from the bondage of debt.</p>
<p>Not long ago, I saw two women standing at the
window of one of these “no money down” or
“hand-me-down” stores. One said to the <span class="dontwrap">other—</span></p>
<p>“I just believe I’ll get me a new cloak this winter.
My cloak didn’t cost but three dollars, and
it is so old and shabby that I am ashamed to wear
it in the street. Look at that beauty over there in
the corner. Only ten dollars and ‘no money
down’.”</p>
<p>“Yes;” said her companion, “but I guess the
money will have to come down sometime.”</p>
<p>“Oh, of course; but, you know, I won’t have to
pay it all at once. I could probably get it for fifty
cents a week.”</p>
<p>“Well, why don’t you just save the fifty cents a
week until you have enough to pay ‘cash down’ for
the cloak, and in that way you would save, I am
sure, three or four dollars; because you can buy
that same cloak for six dollars or seven dollars in
cash.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” said the woman, “I’d never save it as I<span class="pagenum" id="Page98">[98]</span>
would if I had the cloak and knew that I just had
to pay for it.”</p>
<p>“But, Delia, the cloak would not really be yours
until you had paid for it, and I would feel kind of
cheap wearing a cloak that didn’t belong to me.
If I were you I would stick to the old cloak until
I could pay the money down for a new one. That’s
what I would do.”</p>
<p>And that is exactly what anybody should do
who wants a new cloak. It is what people should
do, no matter what they want. I know a boy
fifteen or sixteen years old who had the courage
and the manliness and the honesty to wear a very
shabby old overcoat all of last winter rather than
buy one on the “no money down” plan. It is his
plan always to “pay as he goes,” and be debtor
to no one.</p>
<p>I heard the other day of a young fellow who
goes two or three blocks out of his way to avoid
passing certain stores because he owes the proprietors
of those stores money that he cannot pay.
That boy, I know, is miserable night and day.
Mr. Longfellow, in his “The Village Blacksmith,”
tells us that the honest old blacksmith could look
“the whole world in the face,” because he did not
owe anybody anything—he was out of debt. And
boys and girls, if you are level-headed, you will
fight shy of the “no money down” plan. By
choosing the “money down” plan, you will save
your self-respect and your good name.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page99">[99]</span></p>
<h2>TOMMY’S BABY BROTHER.</h2>
<p>For several months Deacon Tadpole’s little son,
Tommy, had made constant and repeated reference
to the fact that he had no little baby brother or
sister to play with. One day, when he was feeling
unusually sad over his misfortune, he said to his
<span class="dontwrap">father,——</span></p>
<p>“Papa, I ain’t got no little baby brother to play
with—you might at least buy me a little pony.”</p>
<p>“Papa can’t buy a pony, son;” said the deacon.
“A pony costs too much. I thought you wanted
a little brother or sister.”</p>
<p>“I do,” said Tommy, “but if I can’t get what I
want I’m willing to take what I can get.”</p>
<p>“But, you would rather have a little brother
than a pony, wouldn’t you?” asked Mr. Tadpole.</p>
<p>Tommy thought awhile and then said he
thought he would rather have a little baby brother
than to have a pony.</p>
<p>“You see,” he said, “it costs so much to keep
a pony, and we would have to build a stable for
him, wouldn’t we, papa?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” answered his father, “and we haven’t
got any room in the backyard for a stable.”</p>
<p>“And we’d have to buy hay, too,” said the
child.</p>
<p>“Yes,” said his father.</p>
<p>“Well, I’d rather have the little brother.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page100">[100]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo099.jpg" alt="Tommy and his father" width-obs="408" height-obs="550" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">Papa, Won’t You Buy Me a Little Pony?</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>So the matter was left in abeyance until a month
ago, when little Tommy was told one morning that
a little brother had come to him.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page101">[101]</span></p>
<p>He was delighted. He danced around in the hall
and made such a racket on the stairs that the
nurse threatened to have him sent away. When
he was permitted to see the baby, Tommy went
into ecstasies. He wanted to kiss the baby, and
cried because they wouldn’t let him hold it in his
arms.</p>
<p>But Tommy’s enthusiasm for the new baby
began to wear off in about a week’s time. It was
always, “Sh-sh! Sh-sh! You’ll wake the baby,”
or “Tommy, you must be more quiet!” or “You
can’t come in this room now!”</p>
<p>In fact, the little baby brother seemed to be interfering
with little Tommy’s fun to such an
extent that he decided to go to his father and see
if some new arrangement could not be made.
Tommy found his father in the library. He ran to
Deacon Tadpole and climbed upon his knee, and
said:</p>
<p>“Papa, I don’t believe I want my little brother
any more. I can’t have any fun with him. I’ll
tell you what let’s do. Let’s trade him for a
pony.”</p>
<p>“Oh, we couldn’t do that,” said the deacon.</p>
<p>Tommy was silent for a time. Then he said:</p>
<p>“Well, I don’t suppose we could find anybody
that would want to trade a pony for him, but don’t
you think you could trade him for a goat?”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page102">[102]</span></p>
<h2>KEEPING SCHOOL.</h2>
<p>Every boy and girl in America ought to go to
school. The public school is one of the best institutions
connected with the life of our nation. But
did you ever hear of a little girl who went to
school to herself? I have, and I want to tell you
about it.</p>
<p>We will call her Tootsie.</p>
<p>There was no school-house, and no teachers;
nothing only just little Tootsie; not even her dolls;
just simply Tootsie sitting all alone on the couch
near the window. That was all there was to this
little school, so far as anybody could see.</p>
<p>But Tootsie said she had a large school, with
some sixty pupils. Sometimes she would say that
her scholars had been naughty and that they
would have to stay in at recess; and then again
she would say that they had been promoted to a
higher grade; she often talked to her pupils as if
they were real live people, telling them how they
should stand and how they should sit and giving
them permission to be excused, and so on. So you
see it seemed in Tootsie’s mind very much more
like a real school than it could to us.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo102.jpg" alt="" width-obs="450" height-obs="384" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Tootsie!</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>Every morning, when Tootsie’s sister would
start for school, Tootsie would watch her until
she was out of sight, and then she would go and
sit down on the couch. Not having a true-true<span class="pagenum" id="Page103">[103]</span>
school book, she would take her Christmas story
books. At first she would only look at the pictures
and try to think what the story about them
must be. Then she would ask mamma or grandma,
or whoever happened to be nearest, what the
words of the picture-story were. She would then
say the words of the story over to herself and look
at the picture. Next day she would read over the
words of the same story as far as she could remember
them, and when she came to a word that she
did not know, up she would jump and go and ask
some one what it was. When she had learned a
story herself, she would then talk to her sixty<span class="pagenum" id="Page104">[104]</span>
imaginary scholars about it, showing them the
picture and explaining the story to them just as
though the children were all there before her in
her little school room.</p>
<p>In this way Tootsie went through one after
another of her story books, picking out the stories
that had pleasing pictures.</p>
<p>But the nice thing of it all was that Tootsie was
really learning to read, and she did get so that she
read real well; for she knew just what she was
reading about, and often, when she would find a
story that was funny, she would laugh right out
even if she was at school, and then she would find
mama or grandma and read the funny part to
them.</p>
<p>Maybe one reason why Tootsie learned so fast
was because her school was just like play to her
and not like work. Of course, it is easier to play
than it is to work. But could you think of any
better thing to play than to play keeping school?
Why not try it? It helped Tootsie wonderfully,
and I believe it would help many other boys and
girls. What do you think about it?</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page105">[105]</span></p>
<h2>THE SCHOOL OF THE STREET.</h2>
<p>Little Joe, ten years old, had followed his business
as a newsboy and bootblack in Smutville for
three or four years, and, of course, had turned out
to be a first-class little citizen of the street. He
could curse and swear, and drink and smoke, just
the same as any old hardened sinner.</p>
<p>One day, after Joe had finished one of his daily
fights with some other small boy, a kind-hearted
gentleman stepped up to him and <span class="dontwrap">said,——</span></p>
<p>“My little man, do you go to school?”</p>
<p>“Nope,” said Joe.</p>
<p>“Do you go to Sunday-school?”</p>
<p>“Nope.”</p>
<p>“Well,” said the gentleman, “what do you
expect to do when you are grown?”</p>
<p>“I ain’t going to wait till I’m grown—I’m
going to be a jockey; that’s what I’m going to
be.”</p>
<p>“How would you like to be bank cashier or
president of a great bank? Wouldn’t you like
that better?”</p>
<p>“Yep,” said the boy, “but a poor boy can’t get
no job like that—now you know he couldn’t.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes; he could if he were to prepare himself
for it. But a poor boy, and no other boy, will ever
be a great business man if he is going to live forever<span class="pagenum" id="Page106">[106]</span>
in the street—cursing
and swearing
and fighting and, it
may be, stealing, and
having no higher ambition
than to be a
jockey.”</p>
<p>“Are you a parson?”
asked the boy,
becoming interested.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo105.jpg" alt="" width-obs="400" height-obs="473" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Little Joe.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>“No, but I am interested
in little boys.
I am the secretary of
the Young Men’s
Christian Association
and we have a boys’ department. I want you to
join it. I have found out about your habits and
your surroundings; I was told of the death of
your mother and father; and I made up my mind
to come and ask you to come over to the Young
Men’s Christian Association and live with us.
You may continue to sell your papers and black
boots, but, you see, living with us, you can go to
school at night, and some day you will have a good
education—and you might be a bank cashier.”</p>
<p>Little Joe took this good man’s advice and went
to live in the Y. M. C. A. building. He did not
turn out to be a bank cashier or president, but
what was better, Joe turned out to be a General
Secretary of one of the largest Y. M. C. A.’s among
the colored people of this country, and in that way<span class="pagenum" id="Page107">[107]</span>
has been instrumental in saving a great many
other boys from the gutter.</p>
<p>But Joe would never have amounted to anything
if he had not been taken away from the wicked
influences of the street, and placed on the road to
higher things. The worst school in this world
that any boy can go to is the school of the street.
The school of the street turns out the most impure,
the most dishonest and the most illiterate boys,
and those boys and girls who ever rise to be anything
or anybody in the world are the ones who
leave the influences of the street in due time, as
Little Joe did. The street offers most of its work
and most of its attractions at night, as many boys
can tell. The life of the street leads to no career
that is worth following. The good careers are made
by those whom the street has not had a chance to
spoil, or by those who are taken out of the streets
before they become hopeless cases.</p>
<p>There is no greater error than the common
notion that it is a good thing to let a boy run the
streets and become “hard” and “tough” and
“have his wits sharpened” and make “a little
man” of himself, as some foolish people say. A
boy learns more downright mischief in one night
in the street than he can unlearn in the home in six
months. And so, what will the teaching of the
home, the public school and the Sunday-school
amount to, if we are going to give our boys in
their young and tender years the freedom of the
streets? If now and then a street boy—that is to<span class="pagenum" id="Page108">[108]</span>
say, a boy hardened in the ways of the street—does
get a good place, in most cases he will lose it
and fall back to the old, free life of the gutter.
The boys who succeed are the boys who get away
from, or who are taken away from, the influences
of the street and who are surrounded by better
and more wholesome influences. Those who remain
under the influences of the street become in
the course of time members of the great army of
beggars, tramps and criminals. It is a great pity
that there should be so many stories going the
rounds which tell about newsboys and messenger
boys and so on rising to be bank clerks and telegraph-operators
and so forth. On the whole, these
stories are misleading, and for the reason that
they seem to give the impression to many innocent
boys and to many thoughtless parents that the
surest way to give a boy a good start in life is to
send him out into the streets to “rough it” and
fight his way to the front over beer bottles, games
of chance, the race-track, and the pool room, to
the accompaniment of vulgar jokes, profane
swearing and evil associates. I repeat: The school
of the street is the worst school in the world, and
the sooner boys get out of it the better it will be
for them.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page109">[109]</span></p>
<h2>THE FOX HUNT.</h2>
<p>Uncle Hambright used to pride himself upon his
ability to invent amusing games for the children.
Sometimes he found it hard to think of anything
new, but the demands of the children were so
insistent and his desire to please them always was
so intense that it often happened that Uncle Hambright
could almost make a way out of no way.</p>
<p>Dinner-time was fast approaching. All the
morning, the half-dozen little children, who were
spending the day with Uncle Hambright at the
Sunday-school picnic, had been playing every conceivable
sort of game and had been enjoying every
imaginable kind of story told in Uncle Ham’s
inimitable way,—but still the children were not
satisfied. “Just one more story,” or “Just one
more game,” or “Give us your best game now for
the last before dinner,”—the children clamored
one after another.</p>
<p>“Very well,” said Uncle Ham. “You all wait
until I come back, and then we’ll play fox-hunting.”</p>
<p>Uncle Ham went and told his sister and her
husband, the parents of the little children, to take
the dinner-baskets far into the woods to the place
which they had already agreed upon as the spot
where the dinner-table should be spread. Coming
back to the children, Uncle Ham <span class="dontwrap">said,——</span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page110">[110]</span></p>
<p>“Now, we are ready.
Come close and listen
while I explain.”</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo109.jpg" alt="" width-obs="350" height-obs="368" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Uncle Hambright.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>With anxious hearts
and eager faces, and
clapping their glad
hands, the children
gathered around Uncle
Ham.</p>
<p>“Now,” said he, “I
have a piece of chalk
here in my hand. I am
going to make something like this wherever I
go along.” While he was speaking he made a
round ring on the fence close by. He put marks
for the ears and feet and a mark for the tail.
Then he continued: “This is the fox. I’m
going to make foxes along the path that I take
into the woods—sometimes these foxes may be on
fences, sometimes on trees, sometimes on rocks, or
anywhere I wish to place them. Whenever you
find a fox you will know that you are on the right
road, and you must be sure each time to follow in
the direction that the head of the fox points. Then
you won’t lose your way. You must give me a
little start, because I must be out of sight before
you all begin the hunt. At the end of the hunt, if
you follow carefully, you will find a large present
waiting for each one of you. You may help yourself
to whatever you like, and then we shall all
come back together, because, you know, I will be<span class="pagenum" id="Page111">[111]</span>
at the end myself waiting for you when you come.”</p>
<p>It seemed that the ten minutes start that the
children had agreed to give Uncle Hambright
would never come to an end, so eager were they
to begin the hunt. By-and-by the time came, and
they were off. The first few foxes had been drawn
on the board-walk, so the hunters had easy sailing
for a little while. Pretty soon, however, one of the
girls discovered a fox on a tree, and the head of
the fox pointed right into the woods. At first the
children halted. The eldest girl said finally, after
studying a few <span class="dontwrap">minutes,——</span></p>
<p>“Let’s go on; Uncle Hambright wouldn’t take
us where anything could hurt us, and, besides, he
said he would be waiting at the end.”</p>
<p>Thus re-assured, all of them plunged into the
woods. Once in the woods the little foxes drawn
on trees and stumps carried them right along by
the side of a babbling brook for a long distance.
Sometimes they would find one fox, and then they
would find it very hard to locate the next one. It
was great fun for them to scurry about in the
woods, examining trees, stumps, rocks and everything,
hunting for the foxes. Finally one of the
little girls found a fox on a fence. The head of
the fox pointed upwards. The little child <span class="dontwrap">said,——</span></p>
<p>“This little fox seems to be pointing to heaven;
I’m sure we can’t go up there.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no;” said the oldest girl, again coming to
the rescue,—“I think that that little fox leads over
the fence—that’s all.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page112">[112]</span></p>
<p>So, over the fence they jumped and continued
the chase.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo111.jpg" alt="Uncle Ham and the children" width-obs="450" height-obs="541" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">Wait Here Until I Return.</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>The course proved to be zig-zag now for a few
minutes, and the children found the foxes more
and more difficult to locate. They felt safe again,
when the foxes were found on stones or rocks leading<span class="pagenum" id="Page113">[113]</span>
up the side of a hill. The woods began to thin
out, and the children were no longer timid. Up
the hill they went with a merry laugh and a shout.
Once on top of the hill, they lost their course again.
After a time, they found a fox, though, and that
fox pointed straight down the hill. The children
bravely followed. At the foot of the hill, they
came suddenly upon an open space, and close by
there was a great big fox marked upon a piece of
black paste-board and standing right over a bubbling
spring of water.</p>
<p>“Uncle Hambright must have meant for us to
stop here,” said one.</p>
<p>“Maybe, he meant for us to stop and get some
water,” said another.</p>
<p>One or two of the fox-hunters stopped and
drank some water. Then the oldest one <span class="dontwrap">said,——</span></p>
<p>“Come on now, let’s look for another fox; I
guess we are most through now.”</p>
<p>About twenty yards away from the spring, the
children came to another open space that was well
shaded. What was their delight and surprise to
find there stretched out before them on a large
white table cloth, laid on the bare ground, a sumptuous
picnic-dinner. And in the middle of the
table there was a true-true stuffed fox with a large
red apple in his mouth. For a few moments the
children stood around the table in bewilderment.
But they were not to be kept in suspense a great
while. Pretty soon, Uncle Hambright and mama
and papa came out of the woods near by, and such<span class="pagenum" id="Page114">[114]</span>
a laugh as went around that picnic-dinner was
never heard before or since!</p>
<p>At the close of the meal, the children all voted
that that was the best game that Uncle Ham had
played during the day.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>A BOLD VENTURE.</h2>
<p>“Mr. Slocum, good morning, sir; I came around
to ask you to lend me five dollars.”</p>
<p>Mr. Slocum, Manager of the Harlem Steamboat
Company, looked up from his desk in surprise
when he heard this abrupt announcement.</p>
<p>“What’s that?” he asked curtly.</p>
<p>“Lend me five dollars,” said the little boy who
had first addressed him.</p>
<p>“Who are you?” demanded Mr. Slocum.</p>
<p>“I’m nobody,” said the boy,—“nobody, but I
want you to lend me five dollars.”</p>
<p>Mr. Slocum, who was generally said to be a hard
man to deal with, was surprised at the boy’s presumption,
yet, nevertheless, he was secretly
pleased at the boy’s frank and open manner.</p>
<p>“Do you know what borrowing money means?”
asked Mr. Slocum, rising and looking down upon
the diminutive figure standing before him. The
boy was barefooted, held his hat in his hand, and
his hair was nicely combed. Mr. Slocum continued:<span class="pagenum" id="Page115">[115]</span>
“Don’t you know when a person borrows
money he is supposed to pay it back?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes,” said the boy; “I know that. You
lend me the money, and I’ll pay it back all right.
I only want it for three months. I’ll pay it back.”</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo114.jpg" alt="Slocum and Tommy Tolliver" width-obs="450" height-obs="427" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">Lend Me Five Dollars!</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>There was something about the boy’s face and
general deportment that won Mr. Slocum’s favor.
He ran his hand into his pocket, pulled out a five-dollar
bill and handed it to the boy.</p>
<p>“Thank you, sir,” said the boy, as he turned to
go,—“thank you, sir; I’ll pay it back.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page116">[116]</span></p>
<p>Three months later, the same little boy entered
Mr. Slocum’s office.</p>
<p>“Here’s your five dollars, Mr. Slocum,” said the
little boy. “I’m much obliged to you, sir.”</p>
<p>“Who are you?” as Mr. Slocum, as he reached
out and took the money.</p>
<p>“I’m nobody,” said the boy.</p>
<p>“Well, why do you bring me this money?”</p>
<p>“Because I owe it to you,” explained the little
fellow.</p>
<p>The boy told Mr. Slocum of the loan made three
months before, and made Mr. Slocum recall the
transaction. Mr. Slocum asked him to have a
seat.</p>
<p>“Well, what did you do with that money?”
asked Mr. Slocum.</p>
<p>“Well,” said the boy, “I was hard up when I
called on you. Me and my ma had been selling
papers for a living up to that time, but somehow
we had got behind with our expenses. House rent
was due, and we didn’t have nothing to eat. I had
to find a friend somewhere. So, after trying two
or three places where I was known and failing to
get any help, I decided to drop in here and see
you. You know the result. Well, I paid my rent
for a week; rented a little stand for my ma to sell
papers on the corner, while I continued to hustle
in the street. That five dollars you lent me give me
good luck, and I’ve been going right up ever since.
Me and ma are living in a better place now; we’ve
got a plenty to eat; and we’ve got a plenty of fine<span class="pagenum" id="Page117">[117]</span>
customers. I told you when I came here before
that I was nobody then, but I’m somebody now,
Mr. Slocum,—anyhow, I feel so—and I want to
thank you again for the help you gave me.”</p>
<p>The boy’s story pleased Mr. Slocum very much.
It is needless to say that he took an interest in that
boy, and continued to befriend him.</p>
<p>This happened many years ago. Today Tommy
Tolliver—that was the boy’s name—is the Assistant
General Manager of the Harlem Steamboat
Company, and a very well-to-do man. Mr. Slocum
says that there is nobody in the world like him.
Tommy’s mother died some years ago, but she
lived long enough to see her little boy taken out of
the streets, put to school, and started on his career
of usefulness.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>THE ROAD TO SUCCESS.</h2>
<p>The world is constantly looking for the man
who knows the most, and it pays little regard to
those who are proficient in the usual degree in the
same things. One must excel, or, in other words,
know more than his associates in order to succeed
notably. The world will bid high for you if you
know more than other men.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page118">[118]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo117.jpg" alt="Studying student" width-obs="450" height-obs="280" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Road to Success.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>So that boys and girls who are preparing themselves
for the duties of life should not aim simply
at being as good as somebody else, but they should
aim at being the best that it is possible to be in
any chosen line of life or business. I have noticed
in my short life-time that there is a great tendency
on the part of
young people to
cut short their
education. Being
able to shine in
the intellectual
and social worlds with the small attainments made
in some college or normal school or industrial
school, the average young negro man is content to
stop with a diploma or certificate from one or another
of these institutions. They will never realize
what injury they have done themselves by so doing
until it is too late. On the other hand, there is
another large class of young people that stop
short even before they have finished the course in
even any one of the normal or industrial schools.
They must go out to work; they know enough to
make a living; what’s the use of so much education,<span class="pagenum" id="Page119">[119]</span>
anyhow? This is the way some of them talk.
This is what some of them believe. Boys and
girls, no man or woman with such low ideals will
ever reach the topmost round of the ladder of
fame. Such boys and girls will always play a
second-rate part in the great drama of life. The
boys and girls who are going to the front—the
boys and girls who are going to have the leading
parts—are the boys and girls who are willing to
take time to prepare themselves. And preparation
means hard work; and not only hard work,
but hard and long-continued work. A person can
learn a good deal in one year; a person can learn a
good deal in two years; but nobody can learn
enough in one or two years, or in three or four
years, to make it at all likely that he will ever be
sought by the great world.</p>
<p>Aside from the rudimentary training, it ought
to take at least ten years to make a good doctor,
or a good lawyer, or a good electrician, or a good
preacher. Four of these years ought to be spent
in college; and four in the professional school;
and the other two ought to be spent in picking up
a practical or working knowledge of the calling—whatever
it may be. The young doctor obtains
this practical knowledge in hospitals and in practice
among the poor. The electrician obtains it by
entering some large electrical industry or manufactory,
in which a thoroughly practical knowledge
of mechanical engineering and electricity
can be secured. It is true that some men have<span class="pagenum" id="Page120">[120]</span>
become distinguished in these callings without
this long preparation of which I have spoken; yet
it is, also, true that they would have been better
off—they would have been more likely to have
become eminent—if they had taken the longer
course. College is a little world which every one,
other things being equal, ought to enter and pass
through before launching in the great world.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>KEEPING ONE’S ENGAGEMENTS.</h2>
<p>What would happen if everybody should begin
tomorrow to keep all his promises and fulfill all
his engagements? I think it would make a new
world at once. There is great need that the attention
of young people should be called to the importance
of keeping engagements. Much of the
confusion and annoyance and trouble of this world
would be done away with if people would learn
to keep their promises. The oft-repeated excuse,
“I forgot,” is not reasonable. If the memory is in
the habit of playing tricks with you, then you
ought to make notes of your engagements, write
them down in some way, so that you will not
forget them. Arnold of Rugby said: “Thoughtlessness
is a crime,” and he was right. The great<span class="pagenum" id="Page121">[121]</span>
Ruskin has also uttered strong words in condemnation
of thoughtlessness in youth. He said:
“But what excuse can you find for willfulness of
thought at the very time when every crisis of
future fortune hangs on your decisions? A youth
thoughtless! when the career of all his days depends
on the opportunity of a moment. A youth
thoughtless! when his every act is a foundation-stone
of future conduct, and every imagination a<span class="pagenum" id="Page122">[122]</span>
fountain of life or death. Be thoughtless in any
after years rather than now, though, indeed, there
is only one place where a man may be nobly
thoughtless—his deathbed. No thinking should
ever be left to be done there.”</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo120.jpg" alt="Knocking on the door" width-obs="300" height-obs="492" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Keeping One’s Engagements.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>And, then, boys and girls should remember that
promptness should always accompany the fulfilling
of an engagement, otherwise the engagement
is not really kept. A person’s time is a valuable
possession, which should be respected by all. Who
has not been exasperated by some one with apparent
indifference keeping (?) an engagement a half
or three-quarters of an hour late! And often a
whole train of troubles will follow in the wake of
tardiness. The punctual boy or girl in this life
is the one who advances most rapidly. The punctual
boy or girl will make a punctual man or
woman. A promise-breaker, or one who is late in
keeping his appointments, cannot in the true sense
of the term be considered a first-class person.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>A MIDNIGHT MISHAP.<SPAN name="FNanchor2"></SPAN><SPAN href="#Footnote2" class="fnanchor">[2]</SPAN></h2>
<p>Uncle Ned returned from his ’possum hunt about
midnight, bringing with him a fine, fat ’possum.
He built a glowing fire, dressed the ’possum, pared
and split the sweet potatoes, and pretty soon he
had the “’possum an’ ’taters” in the oven. While<span class="pagenum" id="Page123">[123]</span>
the meal was cooking Uncle Ned amused himself
with his favorite old banjo. When the ’possum
had been baked brown and
crisp he took it out of the
oven and set it on the
hearth to give it time to
cool. Mentally congratulating
himself upon the
glorious repast he thought
soon to enjoy, he sat
silently for awhile in the
old armchair, but presently
he was snugly wrapped
in the arms of “tired
nature’s sweet restorer—balmy
sleep.”</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo122.jpg" alt="Uncle Ned and the 'possum" width-obs="200" height-obs="507" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">A Midnight Mishap</span>.</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>It happened that two
young fellows who were
pretty well acquainted
with Uncle Ned’s habits
had been stealthily watching
about the house waiting
this particular chance.
As soon as they were convinced
that the old man
was safe in the arms of
Morpheus, they crept into the house and hurriedly
helped themselves to Uncle Ned’s supper, including
even the coffee and bread. When they finished
the hasty meal, by way of attempting to
cover up their tracks, they smeared Uncle Ned’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page124">[124]</span>
hands and mouth with the ’possum gravy and
then beat a retreat.</p>
<p>After a time Uncle Ned aroused from his peaceful
slumber. It is needless to say that he had
dreamed about his supper. At once he dived down
to inspect the viands, when, lo and behold, the
hearth was empty! Uncle Ned steadied himself
and studied awhile.</p>
<p>“Well,” said he finally, “I must ’a’ et dat ’possum;
I must ’a’ et dat ’possum in my sleep!”</p>
<p>He looked at his hands. They were greasy. He
smelt his hands. As he did so he said:</p>
<p>“Dat smells like ’possum grease! I sho must ’a’
et dat ’possum.”</p>
<p>He discovered grease on his lips. Out went his
tongue.</p>
<p>“Dat tas’es like ’possum grease,” he said. He
got up. He looked about the house. There was
no sign of intruders. He rubbed his stomach. He
resumed his seat, and, giving up all for lost, he
said:</p>
<p>“Well, ef I did eat dat ’possum, hit sets lightah
on my appertite dan any ’possum I evah et befo’.”</p>
<div class="footnote">
<p><SPAN name="Footnote2"></SPAN><SPAN href="#FNanchor2"><span class="label">[2]</span></SPAN> Published in Lippincott’s.</p>
</div>
<!--footnote-->
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>FREDERICK DOUGLASS.</h2>
<p>In 1893 the World’s Columbian Exposition, or
World’s Fair, was held in Chicago in commemoration
of the four hundredth anniversary of the discovery
of America. A negro man, the Hon. Frederick<span class="pagenum" id="Page125">[125]</span>
Douglass, attended that exposition and delivered
an address on negro day. Speaking of this
great man’s visit the Advance, one of Chicago’s
great religious papers, said:</p>
<p>“It was fine to see at the Congress on Africa
the tall form and magnificent head of the grand
old man, Frederick Douglass, now seventy-five
years of age, perfectly erect, kindly, majestic, the
‘ancient fires of inspiration welling up through all
his being yet’; affable to all; finding it still to be
as natural to be eloquent as to speak at all; sympathetic
to the core with the people of his own
race, yet none the less loyal to the common interests
of all the people of his country; neither blind
to the obstacles in their path and the cruel social
injustice and meanness to which they are often
exposed, nor, on the other hand, unmindful of the
friends they have in the South as also in the
North, or above all to the over-shining care and
purpose of God Himself, with the ‘far-off divine
intent’ that so clearly takes in the future of both
the American and African continents. Few Americans
have had a more conspicuously providential
mission than Frederick Douglass. And hardly
anything in this remarkable congress was more
eloquent or more convincing than his personal
presence.”</p>
<p>Frederick Douglass was born a slave, and his
life as a slave was one of peculiar hardship. Of
it he himself says in his autobiography:</p>
<p>“I suffered little from any punishment I received,<span class="pagenum" id="Page126">[126]</span>
except from hunger and cold. I could get
enough neither of food or clothing, but suffered
more from cold than hunger. In the heat of summer
or the cold of winter alike, I was kept almost
in a state of nudity—no shoes, jackets, trousers, or
stockings—nothing but a coarse tow linen shirt
reaching to the knee. That I wore night and day.
In the day time I could protect myself by keeping
on the sunny side of the house, and in bad weather
in the corner of the kitchen chimney. The great
difficulty was to keep warm at night. I had no
bed. The pigs in the pen had leaves, and the
horses in the stable had straw, but the children
had nothing. In very cold weather I sometimes
got down the bag in which corn was carried to
the mill and got into that. My feet have been so
cracked by frost that the pen with which I am
writing might have been laid in the gashes.” With
regard to his food he said that he often disputed
with the dogs over the crumbs that fell from his
master’s table.</p>
<p>Now this man, born so lowly and surrounded
by such circumstances, turned out to be in the
course of time by hard work and self-application
one of the most influential American citizens and
one of the greatest orators that this country has
ever known. Among other high offices of trust
and responsibility, he was once marshal of the
District of Columbia, recorder of deeds of the District
of Columbia, and United States minister to
Hayti.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page127">[127]</span></p>
<p>He died February 20th, 1895, at his home in
Anacostia, D. C., at the age of seventy-seven years.
A monument to his memory has been erected in
Rochester, N. Y., where he once lived.</p>
<p>What Frederick Douglass made of himself is
possible for any American boy with grit. Every
boy and girl in America should read the life of
this pre-eminent negro and strive to emulate his
virtues. His memory is worthy to be honored to
the last day of time.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>OUR DUMB ANIMALS.</h2>
<p>Domestic animals—like horses, cats and dogs—seem
to be almost as dependent upon kind treatment
and affection as human beings. Horses and
dogs especially are the most keenly intelligent of
our dumb friends, and are alike sensitive to
cruelty in any form. They are influenced to an
equal degree by kind and affectionate treatment.</p>
<p>If there is any form of cruelty that is more
reprehensible than another, it is abuse of a faithful
horse who has given his whole life to the service
of the owner. When a horse is pulling a heavy
load with all his might, doing the best he can to
move under it, to strike him, spur him, or swear
at him is simply barbarous. To kick a dog around,
to tie tin cans to his tail, or strike him with sticks,<span class="pagenum" id="Page128">[128]</span>
just for the fun of hearing him yelp or seeing him
run, is equally barbarous. No high-minded man,
no high-minded boy or girl, would do such a thing.
We should never forget how helpless, in a large
sense, dumb animals are—and how absolutely dependent
upon the humanity and kindness of their
owners. They are really the slaves of man, having
no language by which to express their feelings or
needs.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo127.jpg" alt="Dog, horse, cat" width-obs="600" height-obs="305" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Our Dumb Animals.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>The poet Cowper said:</p>
<div class="poemcenter">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“I would not enter on my list of friends,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Yet wanting sensibility, the man<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.”<br/></span></div>
</div>
<!--poem--></div>
<!--poemcenter-->
<p>Every boy and girl should be willing to pledge
himself to be kind to all harmless living creatures,
and every boy and girl should strive to protect<span class="pagenum" id="Page129">[129]</span>
such creatures from cruel usage on the part of
others. It is noble, boys and girls, for us to speak
for those that cannot speak for themselves, and it
is noble, also, for us to protect those that cannot
protect themselves.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>A PLUCKY BOY.</h2>
<p>The boy marched straight up to the counter.</p>
<p>“Well, my little man,” said the merchant,
“what can I do for you?”</p>
<p>“If you please,” said the boy, “I came in to
see if you wouldn’t let me work for you.”</p>
<p>The boy was not yet ten years old, and he was
small for his age. But there was something in his
speech or manner that held the man’s attention.</p>
<p>“Do some work for me, eh?” said the man.
“What kind of work could you do? You can
hardly look over the counter.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes; I can,” said the little fellow, as he
stood on tiptoe and peeped over the counter.</p>
<p>Out of sheer curiosity the merchant came from
behind the counter, so as to get a good look at the
boy.</p>
<p>“Oh,” he said, “I see you’ve got copper taps
on your shoes; I suppose your mother couldn’t
keep you in shoes if they didn’t have taps on
them!”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page130">[130]</span></p>
<p>“She can’t keep me in shoes anyway, sir,” and
the little boy’s voice hesitated.</p>
<p>“How old are you?” asked the merchant.</p>
<p>“I’m older than I look; folks say that I’m small
for my age.”</p>
<p>“Well, what is your age?”</p>
<p>“I’m going on ten,” said Davie, with a look
of great importance. “You see,” he continued,
“my mother hasn’t anybody but me, and this
morning I saw her crying because she could not
find five cents in her pocketbook, and she thinks
she must have lost it—and it was—the—last cent—that
she had—in the world; and—I—have—not—had—any—breakfast,
sir.” The voice again
hesitated, and tears came into the little boy’s eyes.</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t cry, my little man; I guess I can
help you to a breakfast. Here, take this quarter!”
He pulled a quarter from his vest pocket and
handed it to the boy. The boy shook his head.</p>
<p>“Mother wouldn’t let me beg,” was his simple
answer.</p>
<p>“Humph!” said the merchant. “Where is your
father?”</p>
<p>“We never heard of him, sir, after he went
away. He was lost in the steamer City of New
York.”</p>
<p>“That’s too bad. But you’re a plucky little fellow,
anyhow. Let me see,” and he looked straight
down into the boy’s eyes, and the boy looked
straight up at him. Turning to the head man,
after awhile, the merchant said:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page131">[131]</span></p>
<p>“Palmer, is cash boy No. 5 still sick?”</p>
<p>“Dead, sir; died last night,” was the reply.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry; but here’s a boy you might use.
Put him down in No. 5’s place. We’ll try him for
awhile, anyhow. What’s is your name, my little
man?” he asked, turning again to the boy.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo130.jpg" alt="Davie Thomas and the merchant" width-obs="600" height-obs="528" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Boy Marched Straight Up to the Counter!</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>“Davie Thomas.”</p>
<p>“Well, Davie, we’ll give you three dollars a
week to start with; you come tomorrow morning
and I’ll tell you what to do. Here’s a dollar of
your wages in advance. I’ll take it out of your
first week’s pay. Do you understand?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page132">[132]</span></p>
<p>“Yes, sir; I understand, and I thank you, too.
I’ll be back in the morning.”</p>
<p>Davie shot out of the store, and lost no time in
getting home. The old creaky steps in the old
ram-shackle house fairly sang with delight as the
weight of the little boy hurried up them.</p>
<p>“I’ve got it, mother;” exclaimed Davie. “I’m
a cash boy! The man’s going to give me three
dollars a week, and he says I’ve got pluck, too;
and here’s a dollar to get some breakfast with, and
don’t you cry any more, for I’m going to be the
man of this house now.”</p>
<p>At first the mother was dumfounded; then she
looked confused; and then she looked—well, it
passes my power to tell how she did look as she
took Davie in her arms and hugged him and
kissed him, the tears streaming down her cheeks.
But they were tears of joy and thankfulness!</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>A HEART-TO-HEART TALK.</h2>
<p>“Henry, I asked you to remain after school a
few minutes because I wanted you to help me re-arrange
the desks and furniture, but I had another
reason for asking you to remain, and I think
it is more important than the one I have just
stated.”</p>
<p>The desks had all been arranged according to<span class="pagenum" id="Page133">[133]</span>
the teacher’s notion, and Henry Holt had gathered
up his books to go home. It was then that his
teacher, Miss Ada Johnson, addressed him.</p>
<p>“Won’t you sit down here a minute, David?”
she continued. “I wish to speak to you a minute
or two.”</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo132.jpg" alt="Ada Johnson and David Oliver" width-obs="600" height-obs="453" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">A Heart-to-Heart Talk.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>David quietly took a seat. He was one of the
largest boys in school, and had been giving an
unusual amount of trouble during the day. In
fact he had been a source of annoyance ever since
the new teacher had taken charge.</p>
<p>“David,” the teacher went on, “I wonder if you
realize how hard you have made it for me in
school today? Is there any reason why we cannot<span class="pagenum" id="Page134">[134]</span>
be friends and work together? And I wish to be
a friend to you, if you will let me. You could
help me so much and you could help your schoolmates
so much if you only would. I want to ask
you if you think your conduct has been manly to-day?
Has it been kind?”</p>
<p>David said nothing, but hung his head.</p>
<p>“I heard before I came here that you were an
unruly boy. People say that you will neither
study nor work, and some people say that you
are a very mean boy. Some of these things may be
true, David, I am sorry to say, but I want to tell
you that you are the only hope of a widowed
mother, and I want to say, also, that I think that
you are breaking her heart.” The teacher’s voice
faltered at the last words.</p>
<p>“I know that your father,” the low voice went
on, “was a brave and noble man; and when I hear
people say, ‘It is a good thing that Henry Oliver
died before he knew what his son was coming to,’
I think what a pity it is that they cannot say,
‘How sad it is that Henry Oliver died before he
could know what a fine, manly fellow his son
would be, and what a stay and comfort to his
mother’.”</p>
<p>The boy’s head dropped to the desk in front of
him, and he began to sob. The teacher went over
to him and said gently:</p>
<p>“You can be all this. It is in your power to
be all that your father would have you, all that
your mother would have you. Will you not turn<span class="pagenum" id="Page135">[135]</span>
over a new leaf now, not only in your behavior and
work in school, but in your whole life as well?”</p>
<p>David raised his head.</p>
<p>“I am with you—I’ll do it, teacher,” he replied,
a new resolve shining in his face. All that day
he did some of the most serious thinking of his
life. And he kept his promise.</p>
<p>The years have been many since then. The little
teacher has long since passed to her rest, but
David Oliver is a living monument to the power
of a few searching words, the potency of a little
personal interest and kindliness manifested at a
critical time.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>A GHOST STORY.</h2>
<p>Uncle Mose, an old-time colored man, once said
in a company of people who were talking about
ghosts that he wasn’t afraid of any ghost that ever
walked the earth.</p>
<p>“No, sah; not me,” he said; “I’se got my fuss
time to be skeered uv anyt’ing dat’s dead.”</p>
<p>Whereupon Noah Johnson told Uncle Mose that
he would bet him a load of watermelons that he
couldn’t spend one night in the “Widder Smith’s
house.” Now, the Widow Smith’s house was said
to be haunted, or, in other words, it was filled with
ghosts.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page136">[136]</span></p>
<p>“Des name de night,” said Uncle Mose. “I’ll
stay dar; no ha’nts won’t bodder wid me. No, sah;
no ha’nts won’t bodder wid me, an’ yo’ watermillions
is des ez good ez gone already!”</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo135.jpg" alt="Uncle Mose and the ghost" width-obs="600" height-obs="456" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">Huh! Huh! There don’t Seem to be but Two of Us
Here To-night.</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>The details were arranged; judges were appointed;
and Uncle Mose was to stay in the haunted
house that very night. He got him some pine-knots
to keep a good blaze in the old-fashioned
fireplace, carried along an extra plug of tobacco,
secured a large drygoods box to be used for a
chair, and then he set out for the house.</p>
<p>He made a blaze and seated himself on the pine
box. For a time he sung a number of old plantation<span class="pagenum" id="Page137">[137]</span>
songs for his own amusement, as well as to
keep him company. About midnight, feeling somewhat
drowsy, Uncle Mose got up, took a light
and went on a tour of inspection. He examined
every room in the house. His search revealed
nothing unusual. He wound up his search chuckling
to himself:</p>
<p>“I sho is makin’ dis load uv watermillions easy.
Noah Johnsing didn’t know who he’s foolin’ wid.
I’m a man myse’f; I ain’t afeared uv nothin’—I
ain’t!”</p>
<p>Down he sat on the box, and pretty soon he was
dozing. It was not very long before he suddenly
awoke. He was at once seized with strange and
sudden fear. He was too frightened to move. Although
he did not look around, he was conscious
that there was another presence in the room. His
hair stood on ends. He felt a cold chill run up and
down his back. By that time he knew that the
object in the room, whatever it was, was moving
towards him. Still he did not move, because he
could not. The ghost (for that was what all the
people said it was) stood over Uncle Mose for a
little while, and then quietly sat down on the box
beside him. Uncle Mose looked straight into the
fireplace, but his heart was beating like a runaway
horse. The silence in the room at that moment
was like unto the silence of death. Everything
was still and solemn. Uncle Mose could almost
hear his own heart beating. The ghost finally
broke the silence by saying, with a loud sigh:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page138">[138]</span></p>
<p>“Huh! Huh! There don’t seem to be but two
of us here tonight!”</p>
<p>It was then that Uncle Mose looked around for
the first time. As he did so he exclaimed:</p>
<p>“Yas; an’ f’um dis out dah won’t be but one!”
And with that he jumped through the window,
taking a part of the sash with him.</p>
<p>The judges had been waiting in the open air
near the house, so as to watch the proceedings.
They called to the fleeing Uncle Mose, as he passed
them, and ordered him to stop. They said that
they were all there and would protect him. But
Uncle Mose, as he kept on running, hallooed back:</p>
<p>“I’ll see y’all later!”</p>
<p>He ran at the top of his speed for more than a
mile, for he was well nigh scared to death. By-and-by,
from sheer exhaustion, he was compelled
to stop for a little rest. He was wet with perspiration
from head to foot, and his clothes were as
limp as a wet dishrag. But the poor old man had
no sooner seated himself on a stone by the roadside
than up jumps the ghost and sits down beside
him once more.</p>
<p>“Huh!” said the ghost. “You seem to have
made pretty good time tonight.”</p>
<p>“Yas,” said Uncle Mose; “but what I hase done
ain’t nothin’ to what I’se gwinter do!” And up
he jumped and lit out once more.</p>
<p>He had not gone far on his second trip before an
old rabbit ran out of the bushes and took out down<span class="pagenum" id="Page139">[139]</span>
the road ahead of him. Uncle Mose hallooed at
the rabbit and said:</p>
<p>“Git out uv de way, rabbit, an’ let somebody
run what kin run!”</p>
<p>On and on the poor old man, almost scared to
death, ran and ran. Perhaps he would have been
running until now but for a very unfortunate accident.
About five miles from the Widow Smith’s
house he came in contact with the limb of a weeping
willow tree that hung across the road. The
poor old fellow, already tired out, was knocked
speechless and senseless. Toward the break of day
the judges, who had followed him, found him lying
on the ground doubled up near the tree. Dim
consciousness was slowly returning when they
picked him up. They rubbed him, and walked him
around for a little while, and soon he was able to
move himself.</p>
<p>The first thing Uncle Mose said was:</p>
<p>“Tell Noah not to min’ ’bout dem watermillions.
I stayed in dat house des ez long ez I could
keep my conscience quiet. My ole mammy allus
tole me dat hit wuz a sin an’ a shame to bet, an’
now I b’lieves hit!”</p>
<p>And to this day, boys and girls, if you want to
see a really mad man, you just ask Uncle Mose if
he ever saw a ghost.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page140">[140]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo139.jpg" alt="" width-obs="600" height-obs="360" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">A Group of Happy School Children in the Sunny South.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page141">[141]</span></p>
<h2>GOOD CHEER.</h2>
<p>Everybody loves the cheerful boy or girl, the
cheerful man or woman; and everybody ought to
love such people. I wish all the boys and girls in
America would organize one grand SUNSHINE
SOCIETY, whose chief object should be the promotion
of good feeling, good cheer, peace and happiness
among all the people everywhere. But, first,
a boy or girl, man or woman, must have sunshine
in their own souls before they can communicate
sunshine to others. And, boys and girls, it would
greatly assist us in securing sunshine in our souls
if we looked at our mercies with both eyes, as I
might say, and at our troubles and trials with only
one eye. What we enjoy in this world is always
a good deal more than that which we do not enjoy;
but we do not magnify our blessings sufficiently.
We do not make as much of them as we ought.
We do not rejoice because of them as we ought.
We ought to keep daily a record of God’s goodness
and kindness and patience and love. The
Lord’s mercies are new every morning and fresh
every evening; but we do not realize that they are
so, because we do not stop to count them up; we do
not think about them. If we stopped to weigh the
matter I think we should find more in our lives
to be happy about than to be sorry about. Our<span class="pagenum" id="Page142">[142]</span>
good fortunes always outweigh our misfortunes;
and we should find it so if we only acquired the
habit of remembering God’s goodness to us as well
as the disappointments and sorrows and afflictions
which are for us all.</p>
<p>Then we should study contentment. We should
study to be content. We must cultivate the habit
of being satisfied with what we have at present,
and we should not worry about those things which
we do not possess. Worry because of things they
did not possess has made countless thousands
mourn. Let us enjoy what we have. Let us make
the most of what we have. And let us not worry
about things which we do not possess. No matter
how miserable our own lot may be, there is
always some one whose lot is more miserable still.
Worry kills more people than work. In fact worry
unfits a man for work. The man who has learned
the philosophy of being content in whatsoever
state he is is the man who is and will be happy.
One of the things in this world that pays a hundred-fold
is contentment, and there is nothing that
casts so much blight and mildew upon life’s fairest
flowers as discontent.</p>
<p>Again, it would help us to keep cheerful if we
kept steadily engaged in some work of usefulness.
Let us go about doing good. Let us go about
seeking opportunities of doing good. Doing good
makes the heart healthy, and heart-health makes
sunshine, happiness and good cheer.</p>
<p>A little thought will convince you, boys and<span class="pagenum" id="Page143">[143]</span>
girls, that your own happiness in this world depends
very largely on the way other people bear
themselves toward you. The looks and tones at
your breakfast table, the conduct of your playmates,
the faithful or unreliable people that you
deal with, what people say to you on the street,
the letters you get, the friends or foes you meet—these
things make up very much of the pleasure
or misery of your day. Turn the thought around,
and remember that just so much are you adding to
the pleasure or misery of other people’s days. And
this is the half of the matter that you can control.
Whether any particular day shall bring to
you more of happiness or of suffering is largely
beyond your power to determine. Whether each
day of your life shall give happiness or suffering
to others rests with yourself. And there is where
the test of character comes. We must be continually
sacrificing our wills to the wills of others,
bearing without notice sights and sounds that annoy
us, setting about this or that task when we
would rather be doing something else, persevering
in it often when we are very tired of it, keeping
company for duty’s sake when it would be
a great joy to us to be by ourselves; and then
there are all the trifling and outward accidents
of life, bodily pain and weakness, it may be, long
continued, losing what we value, missing what we
desire, deceit, ingratitude and treachery where we
least expected them; folly, rashness and willfulness
in ourselves. All these little worries which<span class="pagenum" id="Page144">[144]</span>
we meet each day may lie as stumbling blocks
across our way, or we may make of them, if we
choose, stepping stones of grace.</p>
<p>I want all the little boys and girls who read
this book to be joy-makers, to be burden-bearers,
to be among those who shall assist in filling the
whole world with good cheer. It is our duty to
cheer and comfort others; it is our duty to make
the world not only better but happier—happier because
better—for our having lived in it. To all
the other beatitudes might well be added this one:
Blessed are the cheerful people, for they shall inherit
the earth.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>LIFE A BATTLE.</h2>
<p>Boys and girls, I want to repeat to you now
some words which were delivered long ago by the
Hon. Schuyler Colfax, a man who was once the
vice-president of the United States. These words
are wholesome, and should be read and considered
by parents and school teachers and by children
themselves all over our land:</p>
<p>“Above all things, teach children what their
life is. It is not breathing, moving, playing, sleeping,
simply. Life is a battle. All thoughtful people
see it so. A battle between good and evil from
childhood. Good influences, drawing us up toward<span class="pagenum" id="Page145">[145]</span>
the divine; bad influences, drawing us down to the
brute. Midway we stand, between the divine and
the brute. How to cultivate the good side of the
nature is the greatest lesson of life to teach. Teach
children that they lead these two lives: the life
without and the life within; and that the inside
must be pure in the sight of God as well as the
outside in the sight of men.</p>
<p>“There are five means of learning. These are:
Observation, reading, conversation, memory, reflection.</p>
<p>“Educators sometimes, in their anxiety to secure
a wide range of studies, do not sufficiently
impress upon their scholars the value of memory.
Now, our memory is one of the most valuable
gifts God has bestowed upon us, and one of the
most mysterious. Take a tumbler and pour water
into it; by-and-by you can pour no more: it is
full. It is not so with the mind. You cannot fill
it full of knowledge in a whole lifetime. Pour in
all you please, and it still thirsts for more.</p>
<p>“Remember this:</p>
<p>“Knowledge is not what you learn, but what
you remember.</p>
<p>“It is not what you eat, but what you digest,
that makes you grow.</p>
<p>“It is not the money you handle, but that you
keep, that makes you rich.</p>
<p>“It is not what you study, but what you remember
and reflect upon, that makes you learned.</p>
<p>“One more suggestion:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page146">[146]</span></p>
<p>“Above all things else, strive to fit the children
in your charge to be useful men and women; men
and women you may be proud of in after-life.
While they are young teach them that far above
physical courage, which will lead them to face
the cannon’s mouth; above wealth, which would
give them farms and houses and bank stocks and
gold; is moral courage—that courage by which
they will stand fearlessly, frankly, firmly for the
right. Every man or woman who dares to stand
for the right when evil has its legions, is the true
moral victor in this life and in the land beyond
the stars.”</p>
<p>These brave and true words were spoken by Mr.
Colfax long years ago. They were true then;
they are no less true now. Every boy in America
should treasure them in his heart. Every girl in
America should commit them to memory and make
them the rule of her life. Mothers and fathers,
school teachers and preachers, and all who have
the care of the young in any way would do well
to study these wise counsels and reflect upon them
and strive to impress upon those for whom they
are laboring.</p>
<p>If you would win the victory in the battle of life,
my young friends, you must watch the little
things. It is said that there is a barn upon the
Alleghany Mountains so built that the rain which
falls upon it separates in such a manner that that
which falls upon one side of the roof runs into
a little stream that flows into the Susquehanna<span class="pagenum" id="Page147">[147]</span>
and thence into Chesapeake Bay and on into the
Atlantic Ocean; that which falls upon the other
side is carried into the Alleghany River, thence
into the Ohio, and onward to the Gulf of Mexico.
The point where the waters divide is very small,
but how different the course of these waters! So
it is with people, young or old. A very little
thing changes the channel of their lives. Much
will depend upon the kinds of tempers you have,
boys and girls. If you are sour and cross and
crabbed, no one will love you. If you are kind
and cheerful, you will have friends wherever you
go. Much will depend upon the way in which you
improve your school days; upon the kind of companions
you have; and upon the kind of habits
you form. If you would win a great victory in
fighting the battle of life you must look well to
the little things.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page148">[148]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo147.jpg" alt="" width-obs="600" height-obs="357" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">On One of New York’s Many Playgrounds.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page149">[149]</span></p>
<h2>AN IDLE BOY.</h2>
<div class="poemcenter">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">An idle boy one idle day<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Played with a gun in an idle way:—<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And now the grasses idly wave<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Above his idle little grave.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<!--poem--></div>
<!--poemcenter-->
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>HUNTING AN EASY PLACE.</h2>
<p>A nicely dressed young man, fifteen or sixteen
years old, who had just finished his course in the
high school, stepped into the office of the president
of the Smutville Short Line Railroad.</p>
<p>“Well,” said the president, looking up from a
mass of correspondence, “what can I do for you,
sir?”</p>
<p>“I have just finished my course in the high
school,” the young man began nervously, “and I
thought that I might be able to secure a desirable
position with your company. I came in to talk
with you about it.”</p>
<p>The president asked the young man to have a
seat.</p>
<p>“So,” said the president, “you want a desirable
place, eh?”</p>
<p>“I do, sir,” said the young man, his heart beating
high with hope.</p>
<p>“A place,” continued the president, “that
would pay you something like a hundred dollars
a month?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page150">[150]</span></p>
<p>“Something like that,” said the young man
eagerly.</p>
<p>“I guess you would like it very well, too, if I
could arrange it so that you could report for work
at nine o’clock in the mornings and get off every
afternoon at three or four o’clock. In other words,
you want something easy. I can see by looking at
you that you are not accustomed to hard work,
and you could not fill a place that required you to
report at six o’clock every morning and work until
six every afternoon. Do I size you up correctly?”</p>
<p>“I think so, sir,” was the reply.</p>
<p>“In plain English then, you are looking for a
soft place with the Short Line?”</p>
<p>“I am, sir.”</p>
<p>“Well, sir,” said the president, smiling for the
first time, “I regret to inform you that there is
only one such place on our railroad. I occupy that
place myself, and I am not thinking of resigning.”</p>
<p>The young man’s face flushed.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo150.jpg" alt="" width-obs="500" height-obs="520" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">I Have Just Finished My Course in the High School.</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>The president continued: “I hope you will not
think that it is going beyond what is right and
proper for me to say, but I must tell you, young
man, that you have started out in life with the
wrong notion. No brave and strong young man is
going about looking for an easy place. The brave
and true man asks only for work. And the men
who are occupying what you call the easy places
in this life today are the men who have climbed
into them by hard work. You are very much mistaken<span class="pagenum" id="Page151">[151]</span>
if you think that they have stepped into
them from the high school. In fact, and you’ll
find it out soon enough for yourself, there are
really no soft or easy places in this world, and the
man who goes about seeking such places stamps
himself at once as a failure. Nobody will ever employ
such a boy, and such a boy would be no good
if he were employed. Let me, as a friend, advise
you, young man, that the next place you go to to<span class="pagenum" id="Page152">[152]</span>
apply for a job, you ask for a chance to begin at
the bottom. If it happens to be a railroad, ask
to be given a chance to do anything—firing an engine,
or cleaning cars, or laboring in the roundhouse.
Be willing to begin low down in the business,
and, if you’re made out of the right stuff,
you will fight your way to the front. I started in
with the Short Line as a day laborer myself, and
if I had not done so I would not be at its head
today. You advertise your own folly when you
go and ask a sensible business man to put you at
the start at the head of something. You must begin
at the bottom and work up to the top. That is
the rule everywhere, and you will not, I am sure,
prove an exception to it.”</p>
<p>Let us hope, boys and girls, that this young man
left the president’s office a wiser young man. Be
sure not to follow his example. Don’t go around
hunting for easy places.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page153">[153]</span></p>
<h2>AT THE ZOO.</h2>
<p>Father and son, making the rounds of the
Zoological gardens, paused before a cage containing
a beautiful zebra.</p>
<p>“Oh, papa,” exclaimed the little boy, “see that
donkey with a baseball sweater on!”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo154.jpg" alt="" width-obs="300" height-obs="491" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Hunting the Burglar.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<h2>THE BIG BLACK BURGLAR.</h2>
<p>One cold winter night, about midnight, my good
wife called to me, saying:</p>
<p>“Dan! Dan! Get up! Get up!”</p>
<p>“What’s the matter?” I asked, with much
alarm.</p>
<p>“Somebody’s in the dining-room; I heard them
rattling the dishes just a minute ago.”</p>
<p>“I don’t hear anything, wife,” I said slowly.</p>
<p>“There’s somebody in these sure; I heard them
myself. Do get up, Dan, before they take everything
we’ve got.”</p>
<p>“I haven’t got a gun or any kind of weapon,”
I said, still fighting for time.</p>
<p>“Well, get up and make a noise—walk around
heavy—that’s frighten ’em and make ’em leave.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page154">[154]</span></p>
<p>I got up quietly, turned up the lamp, and looked
about me with a sigh.</p>
<p>“Be quick,” said my wife.</p>
<p>“In a minute,” said I.</p>
<p>I tipped around to the wall on the side of the
bed, and took down an old iron sword, which had
done duty in the Mexican war, and which we had
preserved as an heirloom.</p>
<p>“Hurry, hurry, Dan!” said my wife.</p>
<p>“All right,” I said with meekness.</p>
<p>I took the sword in one hand and the lamp in
the other, and moved gently toward the door,
which opened from our bed-room into the dining-room.</p>
<p>Pausing at the door, I <span class="dontwrap">said,——</span></p>
<p>“Hallo! Hallo, in there!”</p>
<p>The response came from my wife in bed.</p>
<p>“Open the door, Dan; open the door!”</p>
<p>Humbly I placed the lamp on the floor close by
the door, caught a tight grip on my old war-piece,
and then quickly shoved the door wide open. I
intended, of course, after getting my bearings, to
pick up the lamp and enter the dining-room on a
tour of inspection. But, I assure you, there was
no time for any such careful procedure. As soon
as the door was opened and the light went streaming
into the dining-room, something fell to the
floor with a terrible thud, and quicker than it
takes to tell it a great big black something, that
looked to me like a buffalo or elephant, came
bounding toward me. It was all so sudden that it<span class="pagenum" id="Page155">[155]</span>
surprised me, and I fell back trembling. Over
went the lamp. It broke. Out came the oil. It
took fire, and pretty soon the Cambrequin close by
took fire. Down I snatched it. I reached for the
first thing handy, and tried to smother the fire on
the floor. In doing so, I stepped on a piece of
glass and cut my
foot. I burnt my
hands terribly. My
night shirt caught
on fire. I ran to
the bed and sat
down in order to
quench the blaze.
This shows I still
had some presence
of mind left, although,
as a matter
of fact, this new extinguishing
process
scorched my legs
awfully.</p>
<p>When all was
quiet again, and I
lit another lamp in
order to take an inventory,
my bedroom was a sight to behold! I
found that in the struggle, my old army sword
had been plunged amidship into the handsome
mirror of our dresser, and had also
made havoc of a reproduction of Millets’ Angelus.<span class="pagenum" id="Page156">[156]</span>
I discovered, also, that I had used my brand-new
$50 overcoat to extinguish the fire, and that
many of the handsome photos of our friends
that stood on the mantle had been ruined. Altogether
that one night’s experience cost me in the
neighborhood of $100, not to mention my own personal
injuries. It was a terrible night, I tell you.
And far off in one corner, I saw, crouching in
abject fear, the cause of all my troubles—the
burly black burglar. And what do you think it
was? It was nothing in the world but an old black
Tom Cat, who had been a member of our family
for many years!</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>PIN-MONEY MADE WITH THE NEEDLE.</h2>
<p>Surely all young girls ought to know how to
sew, and, not only sew, but all girls, I think, ought
to love the purely feminine occupation of sewing.
Since I am sure that many of the little girls who
will read this book know how to sew, I am going
to tell you about some little sewing that my wife
did.</p>
<p>In 1913 the Ladies’ Home Journal, of Philadelphia,
offered a prize of fifty dollars for the best
way to make pin-money at home. You know,<span class="pagenum" id="Page157">[157]</span>
girls, that pin-money means pocket change or
spending money. Many hundreds of women all
over the world sent in suggestions to the Ladies’
Home Journal, each one hoping, I am sure, that
her suggestion would win first prize. The following
letter sent to my wife will tell you just how
her suggestion was received:</p>
<p class="lhj">“THE LADIES’ HOME JOURNAL,</p>
<div class="lhjletter">
<p class="right padr2">“Philadelphia. February 5, 1913.</p>
<p>“Dear Madam:</p>
<p>“It gives me much pleasure to tell you that
among the hundreds of letters received in response
to the offer made in our January magazine in connection
with The Editor’s Want-Box, Mr. Bok has
chosen your offering as the one entitled to the first
prize of fifty dollars. He congratulates you upon
your success and thanks you for the interest you
have shown.</p>
<p>“Our Treasurer will send you a check within a
week.</p>
<p class="right"><span class="padr10">Very truly yours,</span><br/>
<span class="padr4">“Wm. V. Alexander,</span><br/>
<span class="padr2">“Managing Editor.</span></p>
</div>
<!--lhjletter-->
<p class="addressee">“Mrs. Ella Floyd.”</p>
<p>The check came all right, girls, and my wife
thought, as she said to me, that in winning the
prize she had found a new way to make pin-money—that
is, by telling others how to make pin-money
at home.</p>
<p>Two hundred of the little articles were afterwards
published from time to time in The Ladies’
Home Journal. The first article of the series appeared<span class="pagenum" id="Page158">[158]</span>
in the magazine for January, 1914, and my
wife’s little story, which won first money, was at
the head of the list. I am going to give here the
whole of the little article, as published in The
Ladies’ Home Journal. Of course, I am proud
that she won the prize, and I hope other young
ladies by-and-by may be the happy winners in
such contests. And here is the article:</p>
<p>“When one’s pin-money is all gone but twenty-five
cents the question comes as to the way to
replenish it. One day when I found that I had
only that amount I invested it as follows:</p>
<table class="pinmoney" summary="Investment">
<tr>
<td class="article">1 yard of lawn</td>
<td class="cost">.10</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="article">1 yard of lace</td>
<td class="cost">.10</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="article">1 spool of cotton</td>
<td class="cost">.05</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="article"> </td>
<td class="cost bt">.25</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p>“The same day I made three baby caps as
daintily as I could with these materials. The next
day I sold them for twenty-five cents each, and
then I had seventy-five cents. I then bought</p>
<table class="pinmoney" summary="Investment">
<tr>
<td class="article">1 yard of lawn</td>
<td class="cost">.15</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="article">2<sup>1</sup>⁄<sub>2</sub> yards of lace</td>
<td class="cost">.25</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="article">2 yards of ribbon</td>
<td class="cost">.25</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="article">2 tiny buckles</td>
<td class="cost">.05</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="article">1 spool of cotton</td>
<td class="cost">.05</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="article"> </td>
<td class="cost bt">.75</td>
</tr>
</table>
<p>“With these materials I made two baby caps,
somewhat larger than the first ones, and trimmed<span class="pagenum" id="Page159">[159]</span>
more prettily. I found no trouble in selling them
for $1.50. Straightway I invested the sum in
lawn, lace, ribbon, etc., and as I had done so well
with the caps I thought I would try my hand on
little bonnets. I made two. A friend offered me
$5 for them before they were finished. I accepted<span class="pagenum" id="Page160">[160]</span>
her offer and from that day to this I have never
been troubled about pin-money.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo158.jpg" alt="" width-obs="470" height-obs="550" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Pin Money Made With the Needle.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>“In four weeks’ time I made and sold twenty
caps and eleven bonnets. The material for the
caps cost me $2.50—twelve and a half cents for
each. I sold them for twenty-five cents each. The
material for the bonnets cost me $8.25, or seventy-five
cents each. I sold them for $2.50 each. So I
netted $21.75 for my work. The time which I
devoted to this enterprise was that which ordinarily
I would have used in calling or in running
up bills for my husband to pay.</p>
<p>“Since the first four weeks of which I have
spoken in detail I have made more expensive caps
and bonnets for babies from six months to about
three years old. The last one I made was of silk,
beautifully trimmed, tucked and hemstitched. I
sold it for $6, making a clear profit of $3. My
husband says I’ll soon be in position to organize
a trust.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo160.jpg" alt="" width-obs="600" height-obs="359" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">A Game of Marbles in the Shadow of the Washington Monument.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>SELF-HELP.</h2>
<p>If there is one idea for which more than any
other the public school system should stand, it is
the idea of self-help. Self-help is the best kind of
help in the world, and one cannot learn this lesson
too early in life. Even little children—three, four,
five, six and eight years old—should be taught to
work. Any little child is just as capable of doing
the little things in work as he is in play. Why<span class="pagenum" id="Page161">[161-<br/>162]<SPAN name="Page162"></SPAN></span>
should not the little girl be taught to trim and
wash the dress of her doll? Why should not the
little children be taught to sweep up the dirt that
they have scattered in play? Why should they
not be taught to remove the dishes from the table,
brush up the crumbs, set back the chairs, pick up
chips, put the kindling wood in its place, bring
the potatoes in from the garden, help to pick over
the berries, and so forth? We might argue this
question from now until doom’s day, and nobody,
I think, would be able to give any good reason why
children should not be taught to do the little
things. Little children who are accustomed to having
everything done for them by others are very
soon beset with the rust of laziness and the canker
of pride. Whereas, on the other hand, if children
are taught to help themselves as soon as and as
much as they are able, it will tend to improve their
faculties, and will, at the same time, have a good
influence upon their dispositions.</p>
<p>Childhood and youth are periods of life which
materially influence all of its following periods,
and whether the earlier years of one’s life be
passed in idleness and indolence, or in well-directed
industry, is a point on which greatly depends
the worth or the worthlessness of human
character. Where is the man who guides his
affairs with discretion, or the woman that looketh
well to the ways of her household, and yet was not
in some measure imbued with industrious and
provident habits in early life? On the other hand,<span class="pagenum" id="Page163">[163]</span>
who that has been treated until the age of fifteen
or twenty like a helpless infant, and had every
want supplied without being put to the necessity
of either mental or bodily exertion, was ever good
for anything afterwards?</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo162.jpg" alt="" width-obs="400" height-obs="482" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Washing Dollies’ Clothes.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page164">[164]</span></p>
<p>The tendency of the age is by far too much in
the direction of keeping our young boys solely for
the purpose of loafing about the streets, or standing
around the soda fountains on Sunday—and
our young girls for parties, social entertainments,
picnics, excursions and the like. So that by the
time our boys and girls reach manhood and
womanhood, they despise honest labor and are
afraid to engage in real hard work. A young
woman may know how to read and write—may
understand grammar, history, and geography—may
sing sweetly and play the piano well; but,
whatever else she may know or may not know, if
she does not know how to bake a hoe-cake of
bread, make her little brother or sister a pair of
pants or a plain dress, she is only half educated.
In fact, every young woman should not only know
how to perform every duty connected with a
household, but every young woman should take
some part in household work. No girl need tell
me that she really loves her mother if she is willing
to leave to her mother the work of washing
the dishes, sweeping and scouring the floors, caring
for the little children, doing the Monday washings,
the house cleaning, and the like, while she
devotes herself to pleasure, novel reading, social
calling, butterfly parties, or playing rag-time
music or singing rag-time songs.</p>
<p>The home and the public school are the two
great agencies which are jointly engaged, or which
should be jointly engaged, in teaching children to<span class="pagenum" id="Page165">[165]</span>
help themselves. If children are taught, as boys
and girls, to think for themselves, speak for themselves
and act for themselves, when they are old
they will not forget the precious lesson, and will
be less likely to become burdens on the community.
The highest ambition of every American
man and woman should be to be of some useful
service to the world; and the first step will be
taken toward this noble end when we have thoroughly
learned the value and importance of the
lesson of self-help. First, learn to help yourself,
and then you will be able to see more clearly how
to help others.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>AIMING AT SOMETHING.</h2>
<p>It is true, boys and girls, that it is what you hit,
not what you aim at, that counts; but, nevertheless,
it is a very important thing to take the right
aim. The man who aims deliberately at the center
of the target stands a better chance, a hundred to
one, than the man who shoots without taking aim.
So, in life, that boy or girl who has a purpose—who
is aiming at something—will be more successful
than those boys and girls who have no plans
and who aim at nothing.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo165.jpg" alt="" width-obs="450" height-obs="553" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Aiming at Something.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>It is not sufficient, in the moral world, to aim at
something, but every boy and girl should aim at
the best things. The best and highest things in this
world are the unseen things, the eternal things,
the things that will last forever. Money is a good
thing, but there is something higher than money.
A high position in the business or professional or
political world is a good thing, but there is something<span class="pagenum" id="Page166">[166]</span>
higher and better than office and position.
Character is the grandest, the highest and best
thing in this world. We include in this one little
word “character” a world of things. Honor, uprightness,
speaking
the truth, dealing
fairly with people, being
willing to help the
lowly and unfortunate,
paying your debts promptly,
these things, and many
other things like them, are
included in the one word
“character.” And these
are the things that are
worth while in this world.
These are the things that
every boy and girl should aim at. It may not
be possible for every boy and girl to become
a millionaire; it may not be possible for every
boy and girl to fill high offices in this world, or<span class="pagenum" id="Page167">[167]</span>
succeed in large business enterprises; but one
thing is certain: every boy can be a good and true
boy, every girl can be a noble and beautiful girl.
Beautiful as to conduct, as to words and deeds, I
mean. Good boys are the fathers of good men.
Pure girls are the mothers of pure women. For,
what, after all, is a boy? And what is a girl?
What is a man? What is a woman? I will tell
you. A boy is a little man—that’s all; and a man
is a grown-up boy. A girl is a little woman—that’s
all; and a woman is a grown-up girl.</p>
<p>It is important, then, that boys and girls should
aim at the right things, the good, the true and
noble things early in life. What boys and girls
aim at, in nine cases out of ten, they will reach as
men and women. And to help you in taking the
proper aim early in life, I am going to give you
something to aim at. Let every boy and girl make
this little motto his rule of life:</p>
<div class="poemcenter">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Know something—know it well;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Do something—do it well;—<br/></span>
<span class="i4">And be Somebody!<br/></span></div>
</div>
<!--poem--></div>
<!--poemcenter-->
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>“THE BLACK SHEEP” OF THE REYNOLDS FAMILY.</h2>
<p>Will Reynolds was “the black sheep” of the
Reynolds family. He knew it and felt it, because
he had been frequently slighted and treated with<span class="pagenum" id="Page168">[168]</span>
contempt by his relatives. The only person who
never lost faith in him was his mother. She
always felt that there was something good in her
wayward son, and often said that it would show
itself some day. But Will’s mother died in the
early stages of his backslidings. Will’s father
married the second time, and the boy, finding it
impossible to get along with his stepmother, left
home. He went from bad to worse. Being
arrested on the charge of drunkenness and vagrancy,
he sent to his two brothers, who were prosperous
brokers in D. St., asking them to pay his
fine. Word came back that they would not interfere
in his behalf. His brothers sent word that he
had brought the trouble upon himself and he must
get out of it the best way he could. Will was sent
to the Work House for six months. And nobody’s
hand was raised to help him.</p>
<p>While he was serving his time, his only sister, a
young woman not yet grown, died. He knew
nothing of it until about a month after it occurred,
and then he read the account in an old newspaper
which he had borrowed from a fellow prisoner.
The news of his sister’s death deeply affected him.
His sentence was shortened by one month on account
of his good behaviour. The first thing he
did, on coming to the city, was to visit the family
lot in Myrtle Hill Cemetery. He carried with him
some wild flowers and green leaves, being too poor
to purchase a floral offering from the dealers in
such things. With uncovered head, he knelt and<span class="pagenum" id="Page169">[169]</span>
placed these tokens of respect on the graves of his
mother and sister. This done, he stood in silence
for a moment, and then wept like a little child.
While riveted to the spot, he made a solemn vow
that he would quit the old life and make a man of
himself. “It’s in me,” he said to himself, “and
I’m going to prove it.”</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo168.jpg" alt="" width-obs="500" height-obs="565" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">He Carried With Him Some Nice Flowers.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page170">[170]</span></p>
<p>Slowly he turned away from the sacred place.
He went directly to the offices of his brothers. He
had been furnished with a new suit of clothes,
according to custom, upon leaving prison, and so
made quite a decent appearance. He found his
oldest brother, John B. Reynolds, seated at a desk
in the front office. He entered at once and <span class="dontwrap">said,—</span></p>
<p>“Well, John, I suppose sister is dead?”</p>
<p>“How dare you,” exclaimed John, rising to his
feet,—“how dare you to speak of Annie as your
sister, you jailbird, you miserable convict! Get
out of here this minute! Leave this room at once,
and never set foot in it again!”</p>
<p>There was fire in the man’s eye as he spoke.
Will attempted to speak, but was not permitted.
With tears streaming down his cheeks, he left the
room. He had gone to tell of his new determination
and ask for another chance, and this was the
reception which he met. On his way down the
steps, he came face to face with his other brother,
Thomas Reynolds. Thomas tried to pass without
speaking, but Will intercepted him.</p>
<p>“Tom,” he said, “I’m your brother still. I’m
not asking help now; I only came to tell you that
I’m going to do better. I thought you would be
glad to hear it.”</p>
<p>“I want to hear nothing from you,” said
Thomas. “You’ve disgraced us forever, and you
can go your way; we don’t want anything to do
with you; we don’t want to see you again!”</p>
<p>Will went forth into the street weeping.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page171">[171]</span></p>
<p class="center highline2"><span class="padr3">*</span><span class="padl3 padr3">*</span><span class="padl3 padr3">*</span><span class="padl3 padr3">*</span><span class="padl3">*</span></p>
<p>Thirty years have come and gone since Will was
driven away from the offices of his brothers. What
changes have these years worked?</p>
<p>Soon after leaving prison Will was a constant
visitor at the Railroad Men’s Branch of the Y. M.
C. A. Through the Secretary of the Association,
he soon secured a place as a day laborer in the
machine shops of the Big Bend Railroad. After
securing regular employment, he went to live in
the Y. M. C. A. building. At the close of his first
year’s service with the railroad, he was promoted
from a common laborer and made an apprentice.
After four or five years, he had learned the trade
and was receiving the daily wages of a machinist.
After twelve years with the company, he was
made the Master Machinist. At the end of fifteen
years’ service, he was made Superintendent of
Construction. Five years later he was made a
Division Superintendent. At the expiration of
more than twenty-five years of faithful service,
Will Reynolds was able to write after his name,
“General Manager of the Big Bend Railroad.”
He had, also, been married for several years, and
was the father of five children.</p>
<p>Will’s father and brothers lost sight of him for
nearly twelve years, or until the papers announced
his appointment as Master Machinist of the Big
Bend Railroad. They suddenly awoke to find that
their conclusions that he had probably long since
died a drunkard’s death, or had gone off as a<span class="pagenum" id="Page172">[172]</span>
tramp and had been killed, or was again serving
a sentence in prison somewhere—were wrong.</p>
<p>The same week that Will was made Superintendent
of Construction of the Big Bend Railroad,
the newspapers spread all over the country the
news that Col. Oliver P. Reynolds had committed
suicide. According to their way, the newspapers
gave all the sickening details of the tragedy, together
with the whole family history. They said
that Col. Reynolds had been driven to suicide by
his wife. They said that she was much younger
than he; that she was extravagant; that she was a
leader in gay society; they told how, on her
account, Col. Reynolds had driven his son away
from home fifteen years before; they declared that
the old man’s life had been a hell to him; and that
his wife had brought him almost to the verge of
bankruptcy, and, in order to escape facing open
disgrace, he had murdered himself.</p>
<p>When Will heard of his father’s death, he hastened
at once to the city, but was denied admission
to the family residence, and had to attend the
funeral in the little church around the corner not
as a member of the family but merely as an outsider.</p>
<p>We are not concerned in this story with the fate
of Will’s stepmother. But, as to Will’s brothers,—well,
the crash came eight or ten years after the
death of Col. Reynolds, or a short while before
Will became the General Manager of the Big Bend
Railroad. John B. Reynolds and Thomas Reynolds,<span class="pagenum" id="Page173">[173]</span>
members of the firm of John B. Reynolds &
Bro., had been arrested and placed in the Tombs,
charged with misappropriating $175,000 of trust
funds. Again the family history was rehearsed
in the newspapers. The papers did not fail to
recall the suicide of Col. Reynolds, nor did they<span class="pagenum" id="Page174">[174]</span>
fail to tell how these two brothers had earlier in
life turned their backs on a younger brother.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo172.jpg" alt="" width-obs="450" height-obs="535" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">Well, John, I Suppose Sister Is Dead?</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>Will read the papers, and, saying to his wife,
“Well, Mary, perhaps they’ll be glad to see me
this trip,” he went immediately to offer his services
to his brothers.</p>
<p>He had prophesied correctly. John and Thomas
were very glad to see him. They had no friends
among those high in financial circles because they
had for many years conducted their business in
such a way that business men had no confidence in
them. They had no credit and could get nobody
to go on their bonds. Will took in the situation at
a glance. He had been thoughtful enough to
bring along with him the leading attorney of the
Big Bend Railroad, and he put matters straightway
into his hands. Bail was arranged, the
brothers were released, and the lawyer then
turned his attention to the prosecutors. It was
discovered that almost half of the amount stolen
was the property of Simon B. Nesmith, President
of the Big Bend Railroad. When Will
Reynolds and the lawyer found that their own
superior officer had been so heavily hit by John
B. Reynolds & Bro., they came near fainting. Fortunately
Nesmith when he heard the whole story
agreed not to prosecute, and not only said that he
would be satisfied with any settlement that the
Railroad’s Attorney might arrange but also volunteered
to see the others concerned and use his influence
in having them do likewise.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page175">[175]</span></p>
<p>In a short time matters were adjusted, and John
Reynolds and Thomas Reynolds were saved from
prison. But they lost all their earthly possessions
and their brother, “the black sheep” of the
family, had to secure them for the sum of $40,000
besides.</p>
<p>John B. Reynolds and Thomas Reynolds came
to their senses. It was their time to cry now.
Amidst great sobs they <span class="dontwrap">said,——</span></p>
<p>“We treated you wrongly, brother Will; we
ought to have helped you many years ago; we are
so sorry we didn’t; and it was such a small matter,
too.”</p>
<p>But Will <span class="dontwrap">said,——</span></p>
<p>“Don’t talk about the past: I’m your brother
still. Go and do as I did. Start over and make
men of yourselves—you’ll have enough time.
That’s all I ask.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>THE HOLY BIBLE.</h2>
<p>I heard a minister say the other day that a
mother had not necessarily done much for her boy
because she had bought him a nice Bible and put
it in his trunk, when he was about to leave home
to seek his fortune in the world. I think it wrong
for anybody—minister or what not—to indulge in
such loose and flippant talk. The effect is bad—always<span class="pagenum" id="Page176">[176]</span>
bad, and no hair splitting, and no higher
criticism, and no curiously ingenious explanations
can mend the matter. As for me, give me the
old-fashioned mother who sends her son out into
the world with a Bible in his trunk, and give me
the old-fashioned boy who reads that Bible every
night with tears in his eyes, as he thinks of the old
folks at home and of their simple lives devoted to
Jesus Christ. Give me the man, woman or child,
whose hands touch the Bible reverently, instead of
slinging it about as a dictionary or some common
dime novel. Give me the plain old fellow who
quickly takes leave of that circle in which critics
are proceeding to ably explain away certain chapters
of the Bible.</p>
<p>As for me, I want no new theories about the
Bible—no new versions—no new criticisms. No
man has a right to weaken the faith of others.
No man has a right to knock away the staff that
supports the crippled wayfarer. And no man has
a right to tell an aged mother that it does no good
to give her boy a Bible unless he can suggest a
better substitute. Destroy the old-fashioned idea
concerning the Bible, and we shall have a nation
of infidels defying God, defying the law, and
repeating the licentiousness and horrors of the
French Revolution. We should make the Bible
first in all things. Make the Bible first in the
family, in the Sunday-school and church, make it
first in state and society, and we shall have a
Republic that will grow brighter and brighter as<span class="pagenum" id="Page177">[177]</span>
the years come and go, and then we “shall go out
with joy, and be lead forth with peace: and the
mountains and the hills shall break forth before
us into singing, and all the trees of the field shall
clap their hands.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="figcenter w500">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo176.jpg" alt="" width-obs="500" height-obs="432" />
<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Carnegie Library, Washington, D. C.</span><br/>
<span class="smcap">Colored People are Welcome Here.</span></p>
<p class="caption long blankabove">Andrew Carnegie, Greatest Philanthropist of the Age, who
has climbed from the position of messenger boy and telegraph
operator to become America’s richest steel manufacturer, a
Multi-Millionaire, has given practically every large city that
would accept it, a Library for the general public, averaging in
value $500,000.00. His gifts have had enormous money value,
but the value to humanity cannot be estimated.</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page178">[178]</span></p>
<h2>ANDREW CARNEGIE’S ADVICE TO YOUNG MEN.</h2>
<p>“Do not make riches, but usefulness, your first
aim, and let your chief pride by that your daily
occupation is in the line of progress and development;
that your work, in whatever capacity it
may be, is useful work, honestly conducted, and as
such ennobles your life.</p>
<p>“Whatever your salary be, save a little; live
within your means. The man who saves a little
from his income has given the surest indication of
the very qualities that every employer is seeking
for.</p>
<p>“The great successes of life are made by concentration.
Do not think you have done your full
duty when you have performed the work assigned
you. You will never rise if you only do this.</p>
<p>“You hear a good deal about poverty nowadays,
and the cry goes up to abolish poverty, but it will
be the saddest day of civilization when poverty is
no longer with us. It is from the soil of poverty
that all the virtues spring. Without poverty,
where will your inventor, your artist, your philanthropist,
come from?</p>
<p>“There are three classes of young men in the
world. One starts out to be a millionaire. Another
seeks reputation, perhaps at the cannon’s
mouth. A third young man, who will be successful,
is he who starts out in life with self-respect
and who is true to himself and his fellow-men.
He cannot fail to win.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page179">[179]</span></p>
<h2>DIRECTIONS FOR LITTLE GENTLEMEN.</h2>
<p>1. The essential part of good breeding is the
practical desire to afford pleasure and to avoid
giving pain. Any boy possessing this desire requires
only opportunity and observation to become
a little gentleman.</p>
<p>2. Never be guilty of what are called practical
jokes; that is to say, never place a pin in a chair so
that somebody may come along and sit on the
pin’s point; never pull back a chair when a person
is about to sit down, and in that way cause
such a person to fall on the floor. No little gentleman
will play such tricks.</p>
<p>3. Whenever a lady enters a room, it is proper
for boys to rise, if they are seated, but you must
never offer a lady a chair from which you have
just risen, if there is another chair in the room.</p>
<p>4. Never engage in conversation while a person
is singing. It is an insult not only to the singer
but to the company.</p>
<p>5. Always take off your hat when assisting a
lady to or from a carriage.</p>
<p>6. If in a public place, you pass and re-pass
persons of your acquaintance, it is only necessary
to salute them on the first occasion.</p>
<p>7. Do not wear anything that is so conspicuous<span class="pagenum" id="Page180">[180]</span>
as to attract attention; and, particularly, avoid
the ruffian style.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo179.jpg" alt="" width-obs="442" height-obs="600" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Directions for Little Gentlemen.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>8. Do not lose your temper. Particularly if<span class="pagenum" id="Page181">[181]</span>
you are playing innocent games for amusement
and happen to lose; avoid the exhibition of
anxiety or vexation at lack of success.</p>
<p>9. In all your associations, keep constantly in
view the old adage, “too much familiarity breeds
contempt.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>THE RIGHT TO PLAY.</h2>
<p>The right to play is one of the divine rights of
men and women, of boys and girls, and is just as
essential to the peace, happiness and prosperity
of the world as is the right to pray. Never be
afraid or ashamed, my young friends, of honest,
vigorous, healthy play. Dominoes, lawn tennis,
baseball, football, ping-pong, golf, foot-racing,
leaping and jumping, boxing and wrestling, pole-vaulting,
punching the bag, swinging dumb-bells
or Indian clubs, and a hundred other things are
perfectly sane and wholesome amusements for old
or young. To refrain from all forms of amusements
is just as destructive of happiness and injurious
to character as is the other extreme of
indulging too freely in pleasures and pastimes.
Puritan austerity and unrestrained excess are
alike to be condemned. But a certain amount of
play—play of the right kind and within proper
limits—is a divine right of young people. Young
people must have fun and relaxation, and, if they
do not find it in their own homes, it will be sought
in other and perhaps dangerous places.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page182">[182]</span></p>
<p>For myself, I believe that anybody is an enemy
to young people who desires to repress and crush
out the naturally buoyant spirits of childhood and
youth, and he is a benefactor of humanity who
makes it a part of his business to see that proper
places of amusement are provided for the young
people. Aside from the physical advantages of
play, there are moral advantages also. A man
who helps to keep his body in good condition by
regular exercise is, in that way, beyond a doubt,
adding to the number of his days; that is to say,
he will live longer than the man who doesn’t play.
But beyond and above that, he is a happier man
while he lives; he gets more joy and satisfaction
out of life than the other fellow. Sane and healthy
play tends to blot out the remembrance of cares
and hardship; it gives our minds something else
to think about. But young people must be careful
not to become absorbed in these things. I believe
in play; I believe in pleasure, in fun. But
when I see young people, or old people for that
matter, devoting all their time to wheeling, footballing,
card parties, the giddy whirl of the dance,
the bacchanalian hilarity of the dram shop, and so
on, I am forced to say that things which may be
right when taken in moderation, and as a relief
from the overtaxing burdens of life, are wrong
when they become the chief object for which one
lives.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page183">[183]</span></p>
<h2>A CHRISTMAS PRESENT.</h2>
<p>A forsaken little kitten wandered up and down
the street on the day before Christmas. It had no
home; it had no name; it had no ribbon around its
neck; and it had no saucer of nice milk in one corner.</p>
<p>It began to grow dark, and colder too, and the
stars came peeping out, and the first flakes of a
real Christmas snowstorm began floating down
through the air. The kitten mewed a trembling
little mew, which told as plainly as it could that it
was very hungry, and it fluffed out its fur to keep
itself warm.</p>
<p>Now, somewhere along that street, up on top of
a house (hiding behind a chimney where he
couldn’t be seen), was Santa Claus, getting everything
in shape before starting on his evening
round. When old Santa saw that lonesome little
kitten strolling around he smiled—yes, old Santa
Claus smiled. He smiled because he knew that two
blocks up the street a little girl was standing with
her nose pressed against the window, looking out
into the deepening night.</p>
<p>He had seen her as he went by. And he had also
seen the poor little supper laid out for two on the
table, and heard her say to her mother, in a quavering
voice:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page184">[184]</span></p>
<p>“Not even one present, mamma—not the teeniest
little one!”</p>
<p>“No, Susie,” her mother had answered, “I’m
sorry I couldn’t get anything for my little girl this
year, but—you know there wasn’t any money,
dear.” And there was a tremble in her mother’s
voice, too.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo183.jpg" alt="" width-obs="400" height-obs="557" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">Mamma This is the Present
Santa Brought.</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>Susie wiped away
the tears, and turned
to look out of the window.
Perhaps she
said to herself, “perhaps
Santa Clause
has something for me
after all!”</p>
<p>Now, the sad, really
dreadful part about
it was that Santa
Clause didn’t have
one single thing for
Susie in his pack.
Perhaps it was because
she had moved
into that house since
last Christmas, or perhaps for once old Santa had
made a mistake. Anyway, he was just saying to
himself: “Why, bless me, what shall I do about
it?” when he caught sight of that shivering little
kitten.</p>
<p>“The very thing!” he thought. “I’ll give them
to each other!” and he chuckled till his reindeer
looked around to see what was the matter.</p>
<p>And what happened next? Well, that kitten<span class="pagenum" id="Page185">[185]</span>
never knew really. It only seemed as if there was
a sudden rush and jingle of bells, which frightened
it so that it flew up the street as fast as its
four little legs could carry it, until it saw a small
friendly face at a window, and rushed up some
steps nearby. Then a door opened, and two soft
little arms picked it up gently from the cold snow
and a voice cried:</p>
<p>“Oh, mamma, see the poor little kitten—it’s so
cold—oh, we’ll keep it, won’t we, mamma! The
poor little thing. Do you think it would drink
milk?”</p>
<p>Would it drink milk? What a question to ask
about a little kitten. While the little kitten was
nearly choking itself trying to drink a saucerful
of milk and purr at the same time, there was a
jingle of bells outside, and Susie said:</p>
<p>“Mamma, I hear old Santa’s bells, and, of
course, this is the present he brought.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>THE NICKEL THAT BURNED IN FRANK’S POCKET.</h2>
<p>Deacon Hepworth kept a little fish market.</p>
<p>“Do you want a boy to help you?” asked Frank
Shaw one day.</p>
<p>“Can you give good weight to my customers
and take good care of my pennies?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” answered Frank.</p>
<p>Forthwith he took his place in the little store,
weighed the fish and kept the room in order.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page186">[186]</span></p>
<p>“A whole day for fun, fireworks and noise tomorrow!”
exclaimed Frank, as he buttoned his
white apron about him the day before the Fourth
of July. A great trout was thrown down on the
counter by Ned Tant, one of Frank’s playmates.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo185.jpg" alt="" width-obs="500" height-obs="521" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">You Have Forgiveness, Frank.</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>“Here’s a royal trout, Frank. I caught it myself.
You may have it for ten cents. Just hand
over the money, for I’m in a hurry to buy my firecrackers,”
said Ned hurriedly.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page187">[187]</span></p>
<p>The deacon was out, but Frank had made purchases
for him before, so the dime spun across to
Ned, who was off like a shot. Just then Mrs. Sinclair
appeared.</p>
<p>“I want a nice trout for my dinner tomorrow.
This one will do; how much is it?” she asked as
she carefully examined it.</p>
<p>“A quarter, ma’am,” and the fish was transferred
to the lady’s basket and the silver piece
to the money drawer.</p>
<p>But here Frank paused.</p>
<p>He thought to himself: “Ten cents was very
cheap for that fish. If I tell the deacon it cost
fifteen cents he’ll be satisfied, and I shall have five
cents to invest in firecrackers.”</p>
<p>The deacon was pleased with Frank’s bargain,
and when the market was closed each went his
way for the night.</p>
<p>But the nickel buried in Frank’s pocket burned
like a coal. He could eat no supper, and was cross
and unhappy. At last he could stand it no longer,
but, walking rapidly, tapped at the door of Deacon
Hepworth’s cottage.</p>
<p>The old man was seated at a table, reading the
Bible. Frank’s heart almost failed him, but he
told the story and with tears of sorrow laid the
coin in the deacon’s hand.</p>
<p>Turning over the leaves of the Bible, the old
man read:</p>
<p>“He that covereth his sins shall not prosper,<span class="pagenum" id="Page188">[188]</span>
but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall
have mercy.”</p>
<p>“You have forgiveness, Frank,” he said. “Now
go home and confess to the Lord, and remember
you must forsake as well as confess. Here, you
may keep this coin as long as you live to remind
you of your first temptation.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2 class="noshow">A MONUMENT TO A BLACK MAN</h2>
<div class="hh">
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo187.jpg" alt="Monument" width-obs="500" height-obs="533" /></div>
</div>
<!--hh-->
<div class="scr">
<div class="figleft top187">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo187a.jpg" alt="Monument top" width-obs="500" height-obs="102" /></div>
<div class="figleft bot187">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo187b.jpg" alt="Monument bottom" width-obs="260" height-obs="431" /></div>
</div>
<!--scr-->
<p class="monument">In the city of Columbus,
Georgia, there was
erected in the year 1904
a monument to the
memory of a colored
man named Bragg
Smith. Mr. Smith lost
his life in the autumn
of 1903 in an effort to
save the life of the city
engineer of Columbus,
who had been buried
under an excavation in
the street. A large
crowd of colored men<span class="pagenum" id="Page189">[189]</span>
was at work digging deep trenches in which were
to be placed pipes for running water about the city.
In some way the sides of the narrow trench had
not been properly supported by planks or otherwise,
and by-and-by a great stretch of dirt caved
in. Unfortunately the city engineer, a white man,
was caught underneath the falling dirt. Bragg
Smith did not stop to say: “Oh, it’s a white man;
let him die!” but at once jumped down into the
ditch and tried to pull the white man from under
the heavy dirt. It was while he was engaged in
this work that the dirt fell from both sides a second
time, and Bragg Smith, in his effort to save
the life of the white man, lost his own life. The
Bible says: “Greater love hath no man than this,
that a man will lay down his life for a friend.”</p>
<p>The city council at its first regular meeting after
the accident voted to erect a suitable monument
to the memory of Mr. Smith. The monument was
dedicated in April, 1904. The monument is of Vermont
and Georgia marbles, and bears on one side
this inscription:</p>
<p>“Erected by the City of Columbus to mark the
last resting place of Bragg Smith, who died on
September 30, 1903, in the heroic but fruitless
effort to save the life of the city engineer.”</p>
<p>On the other side appears this quotation from
Alexander Pope:</p>
<div class="poemcenter">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Honor and fame from no conditions rise;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Act well your part; there all the honor lies.”<br/></span></div>
</div>
<!--poem--></div>
<!--poemcenter-->
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page190">[190]</span></p>
<h2>THE BAD BOY—WHO HE IS.</h2>
<p>My dear children, I am happy to say that all
boys who are called bad boys are not bad boys.
There is quite a difference between a bad boy
and a merely mischievous boy. A boy is not necessarily
bad because he makes unearthly noises
about the house, or now and then twists the cat’s
tail just to hear her mew, or muddies his clothes
in an effort to catch crawfish. He is not bad just
because he likes to “play fantastic” on the fourth
day of July. So many people complain of their
boys being bad when they are only mischievous—that
is to say, when they are only full of life. Some
people think that a good boy is one that has a pale
face and looks sickly; one that wears a sanctimonious
look and moves along through the world as
though he were afraid to put one foot in front of
the other. That isn’t my kind of a boy. I do not
think that kind of a fellow is a boy at all—he is
’most a girl! A boy who never enjoys a romp in
the woods, who never climbs the apple tree before
or after the apples are ripe, who never plays ball,
who will not shoot marbles, etc.—this sort of a
boy usually dies young, or he grows up to be a
“male woman.” I mean by that, that he grows
up to be a man who acts like a woman; and that
kind of man is hardly fit for anything.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page191">[191]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo190.jpg" alt="" width-obs="500" height-obs="552" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">“Play Fantastic” on the Fourth of July.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>But there are some bad boys, I am sorry to say—really
bad boys, bad in heart and in deed. I
have seen some on the chain gangs; I have seen
some hanging around the street corners—especially
on Sundays, with no clean clothes on; I have
seen them smoking cigarettes—and a cigarette is
something which no manly boy will use; I have
seen them in saloons, drinking, playing pool and<span class="pagenum" id="Page192">[192]</span>
playing cards; I have sometimes seen them shooting
dice in the street for money. There are probably
one thousand boys in the jails, reformatories
and in the penitentiaries in the single state of
Georgia. To form anything like an adequate estimate
of the total number of bad boys in the South
we must add to the above number the boys imprisoned
in the other states; and, also, that much
larger number who have never been imprisoned
because they happen never to have been arrested,
or who have been arrested and have had their
fines paid in money; and, finally, we must add
those who have already served their time and are
again at large. So, you see, there are many
thousands and thousands of bad boys in the world,
and they are very easily found. Are you a bad
boy or a good boy? Isn’t it better to be a good
boy than to be a bad boy?</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="scr">
<div class="figleft top192">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo192a.jpg" alt="Broken window" width-obs="95" height-obs="118" /></div>
<div class="figleft mid192">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo192b.jpg" alt="Top boy" width-obs="315" height-obs="143" /></div>
<div class="figleft bot192">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo192c.jpg" alt="Bottom boy" width-obs="149" height-obs="283" />
<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Bad Boy</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<!--scr-->
<h2>THE BAD BOY—HOW TO HELP HIM.</h2>
<div class="hh">
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo192.jpg" alt="" width-obs="350" height-obs="544" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Bad Boy</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter--></div>
<!--hh-->
<p>Almost anybody can make something out of a
boy who is naturally good, but it takes one of very
Christlike power and patience to make anything
out of a really bad boy. Yet all boys may be reclaimed,
reformed, saved; at least so I believe.
And the first step in making a good man out of a
bad boy has to do with the boy’s body. The Holy<span class="pagenum" id="Page193">[193]</span>
Bible tells us that our bodies are
the temples—the dwelling places—of
the Holy Ghost, and every boy,
and every teacher of every boy, in
the home or day school or Sunday
school, should give more time and
attention to the body in
order to make it a fit place
for such a holy being. It
is as true now as of old
that plenty of soap and
water will exert a wholesome
influence in making
bad boys good. Some one
has said that cleanliness
is next to godliness, and
somebody has added that
soap is a means of grace.
A boy who is taught to
bathe regularly and who is
taught to keep his clothing
neat and clean at all
times will in that way<span class="pagenum" id="Page194">[194]</span>
learn the great lesson of self-respect quicker than
in any other way; and, in my judgment, the shortest
way to the purification of a boy’s habits, a
boy’s morals, a boy’s character, is to teach him
first to keep his body pure. Keep it pure not only
by baths and clean clothes, but keep it pure and
sweet by keeping it free from whiskey and tobacco
in every form. Exercise, regular and systematic
exercise, whether as work or play, will go
a great way towards keeping the body clean and
healthy. Every boy is mistaken, every parent is
mistaken, who thinks that labor is unworthy, or
that any kind of honest work is degrading. The
body needs to be kept alive and vigorous by the
frequent use of all its parts, and there is no better
way to keep the body vigorous than by doing some
kind of work—work that requires the use of the
hands and legs and muscles, work that stimulates
the blood and makes it flow freely through the
body.</p>
<p>Another step in the process of making a good
man out of a bad boy has to do with the mind. The
body grows not alone by exercise, but the body
grows by what we put into it: the food we eat and
the water we drink, etc. We might say, I think,
that the body grows on what it feeds on. It is the
same way with the mind: the mind grows on what
it feeds on. If we feed our minds on obscene pictures,
on bad books, on vulgar stories, told by ourselves
or our associates, we cannot expect to have
minds that are keenly alive and active for good.<span class="pagenum" id="Page195">[195]</span>
Our thoughts control us, boys and girls, whether
we understand the process by which they control
or not. Our thoughts control us. If our thoughts
are pure and sweet and noble, we will be pure and
sweet and noble. If our thoughts are impure, vile
and ignoble, we will be impure, vile and ignoble.
Our thoughts rule us. So every boy should guard
well his thoughts; every boy should guard well
what he puts into his mind. Every boy’s mind
feeds on what he puts into it, and every boy’s
mind grows on what it feeds. It goes without
saying, then, that a boy should not read “blood
and thunder” detective stories, stories about the
“James Brothers” and other outlaws and bandits;
nor should a boy read filthy so-called “love
stories.” All such literature should be shunned,
as a boy would shun deadly poison. A boy who
desires to become a good man should read only
those things which will give him confidence in
himself that he can and may become a good man—good
for the service of God and the service of his
fellow-men. Bad company must also be left behind
if a bad boy wants to become a good boy. Those
boys who tell smutty jokes and stories should not
be allowed to associate with that boy whose eyes
have been opened and who wants to feed his mind
on good and wholesome food. Character, boys,
in its last analysis depends chiefly on three things:
Heredity, environment and will. Now you cannot
do much to change your inherited tendencies—the
tendencies you receive from mother and father<span class="pagenum" id="Page196">[196]</span>
at birth, but you can do much in offsetting, in
overcoming these tendencies. You can also do
much with the aid of a generous and enlightened
public to change your surroundings if they happen
to be bad. I confess that your mothers and
fathers, your teachers and pastors ought to do
much more in this regard than you; but if they will
not exert themselves to get you out of evil surroundings,
then, as you value your own life and
time and possibilities, by the help of God, try to
get out yourselves. The will is very largely influenced
by your surroundings. Hence you can
see the importance of having good books and good
associates.</p>
<p>But whatever you do, boys, do not forget Jesus
Christ, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin
of the world. The highest part of your nature is
your spiritual nature, and, while you are building
up the body and building up the mind, do not forget
to build up your soul. If others will not assist
you in this greater matter you can help yourselves.
The Master said: “Suffer the little children to
come unto me, and forbid them not.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page197">[197]</span></p>
<h2>THOMAS GREENE BETHUNE<br/> <span class="smcapall">(“BLIND TOM”)</span></h2>
<p>I suppose there is not a little colored girl or
boy in America who has not heard of the wonderful
“Blind Tom,” one of the greatest musicians
of the world. I wish that every boy and girl
might have seen him and heard him give one of his
remarkable performances with the piano. I had
that high favor and privilege myself. During his
life on the stage, or for more than forty years,
“Blind Tom” was seen probably by more people
in the world than any one living being. His stage
career was closed somewhere in 1900. Everywhere,
in this country and Europe, those who
observed him most closely, and attempted to
understand him, pronounced him a living miracle,
unparalleled, incomprehensible, such as had not
been seen before in the world, and probably never
would be seen again.</p>
<p>Thomas Greene Bethune, better known to the
public as “Blind Tom,” was born within a few
miles of the city of Columbus, Georgia, on the
twenty-fifth day of May, 1849. He was of pure
negro blood, and was born blind. He was little
less than four years old when a piano was brought<span class="pagenum" id="Page198">[198]</span>
to the house of his master, for he was born a slave.
As long as any one was playing he was contented
to stay in the yard and dance and caper to the
music. Sometimes he was permitted to indulge his
curiosity by being allowed to run his fingers over
the keys. One night the parlor and piano had been
left open. Before day the young ladies of the family
awoke and were astounded to hear Blind Tom
playing one of their pieces. The family gathered
around him to witness and wonder at his performance,
which they said was marvellously strange.
Notwithstanding that this was his first known
effort at a tune, he played with both hands and
used the black as well as the white keys. Pretty
soon he was allowed free access to the piano, and
began to play off-hand everything he heard. As
young as he was, he soon mastered all of that and
began composing for himself. The record of his
public life is too long for me to give, but that
Blind Tom was known and honored around the
world is known to everybody.</p>
<p>But feeling that every colored boy and girl
should be justly proud of Blind Tom’s record,
I will give some words from the book of Hon.
James M. Trotter, himself a colored man. His
book is called “Music and Some Highly Musical
People.” He says:</p>
<p>“Blind Tom is unquestionably the most wonderful
musician the world has ever known. He is
an absolute master in the comprehension and retention
of all sound. You may sit down to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page199">[199]</span>
pianoforte and strike any note or chord or discord,
or a great number of them, and he will at
once give their proper names, and, taking your
place, reproduce them. Complete master of the
pianoforte keyboard, he calls to his melodious
uses, with most consummate ease, all of its resources
that are known to skillful performers, as
well as constantly discovers and applies those that
are new. Under his magnetic touch this instrument
may become, at his will, a music box, a hand
organ, a harp, or a bagpipe, a “Scotch fiddle,” a
church organ, a guitar, or a banjo; it may imitate
the “stump speaker” as he delivers his glowing
harangue; or, being brought back to its legitimate
tones, it may be made to sing two melodies
at once, while the performer, with his voice, delivers
a third, all three in different time and keys,
all in perfect tune and time, and each one easily
distinguishable from the other! He remembers and
plays fully seven thousand pieces. Some persons,
it is true, have had the temerity to say that Blind
Tom is an idiot. Out with the idea! Who ever
heard of an idiot possessing such power of memory,
such fineness of musical sensibility, such
order, such method, as he displays? Let us call
him the embodiment of music, the soul of music,
and there let our investigations rest, for all else
is vain speculation. No one lives, or, so far as we
know, has ever lived, that can at all be compared
with him.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page200">[200]</span></p>
<h2>NOT FIT TO KNOW.</h2>
<p>Susan and Mamie and Lillian and Marjorie were
always close friends. They usually went together
and played together and it was very unusual to
see one of them without the others. At school they
always made it a rule to lunch together and play
together. One day at recess they were standing
in a little group all by themselves
when Frances joined
them.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo199.jpg" alt="" width-obs="200" height-obs="505" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">Frances.</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>“What are you talking
about, girls?” asked Frances
in cheerful tones.</p>
<p>“I’m telling them a secret,”
said Susie, “and we will let
you know, too, Frances, if
you’ll promise not to tell any
one.”</p>
<p>“I’ll promise you not to tell
anybody but my mother,” said
Frances, “for I have made it a
rule to tell my mother everything.”</p>
<p>“No; you can’t even tell
your mother,” answered Susie;
“you must not tell any one in
the world.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page201">[201]</span></p>
<p>“Well, then, I refuse to hear it,” said Frances,
as she walked away, “for what I can’t tell my
mother is not fit for me to know.”</p>
<p>Don’t you think Frances was right, girls? I
think so. As soon as little boys and girls begin
to listen to words and stories which they would
be ashamed to repeat to their mothers they are
on the road to temptation, and nobody can tell how
soon they will reach the end, which is always disgrace
and death.</p>
<p>I wish all the boys and girls who will read this
book would make the reply of Frances their motto:
“What I cannot tell my mother is not fit to
know.” Stick to this rule through thick and
thin, and you will avoid many of the snares and
pitfalls by which many of your companions and
playmates sink into shame and sin. Don’t read
a note that you would be afraid to have your
mother read. Don’t look at a picture that you
would be ashamed to have your mother see. Don’t
speak any word, and don’t allow any to be spoken
to you, that you would not like to have your mother
hear. A girl’s best friend is her mother. A
boy’s best friend is his mother. And, boys and
girls, be very sure that if a thing isn’t fit for your
mothers to know it isn’t fit for you to know.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page202">[202]</span></p>
<h2>THE RIGHT WAY.</h2>
<p>Henry Oliphant always considered himself
lucky whenever he was able to get a ride on the
street cars without paying for it, or get a glass of
soda water or be admitted to some public place,
where an admission fee was charged, without paying
the price. He was bragging one day to some
of his boy friends that he had not paid anything
to witness the school exhibition the night before.
Frank Sewall was brave enough to chide him for
having done so. Frank was a plain-spoken boy,
and Henry didn’t like what Frank had said. He
thought what he had done was all right, while
Frank had said that it was all wrong. Anyhow,
Henry decided to get his father’s opinion on the
matter.</p>
<p>“Father,” he said, when night had come, “I got
in the hall last night for nothing.”</p>
<p>“How was that?”</p>
<p>“I just walked by the doorkeeper and he didn’t
ask me for any money.”</p>
<p>“Did the doorkeeper see you?”</p>
<p>“Well, father, that was his business; he was put
there for that purpose; he ought to have seen
me.”</p>
<p>“But I asked you, Henry, whether the doorkeeper
saw you. I want you to answer that question.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page203">[203]</span></p>
<p>“I don’t know, sir.”</p>
<p>“Do you think he saw you?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know, sir.”</p>
<p>“Well, Henry, if he had seen you, don’t you
think he would have asked you for your money
or a ticket?”</p>
<div class="figcenter w500">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo202.jpg" alt="Henry and his father" width-obs="500" height-obs="491" />
<p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">Father</span>,” <span class="smcap">He Said,
When Night Had Come</span>, “<span class="smcap">I Got in the
Hall Last Night for Nothing.</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>“I guess so, father; but he didn’t ask me for
anything.”</p>
<p>“Well, now, Henry, you know that a charge of
ten cents was made at the door, and that no one<span class="pagenum" id="Page204">[204]</span>
had a right to enter who had not paid the ten
cents. You did go in without paying. Now,
whether the doorkeeper saw you or not, do you
think that that was quite honest on your part?
Was that the right way for you to act?”</p>
<p>“Well, I would have paid him if he asked me. I
wasn’t the doorkeeper.”</p>
<p>“I guess the man who stole our wood last week
would have paid me if I had seen him and asked
him; but we called that stealing.”</p>
<p>“But, father, I did not take anything from the
doorkeeper.”</p>
<p>“Who gave you the money with which to pay
your admission?”</p>
<p>“Mother.”</p>
<p>“Where is that money now?”</p>
<p>“I have it; but I didn’t take it from the doorkeeper.”</p>
<p>“But you kept it from him, Henry. It belongs
to the doorkeeper. He gave you its value. My
son, the right way is, whenever you buy anything,
whether it be a ride or a glass of soda water or
permission to see a concert, whenever you buy
anything you ought to pay for it. If you don’t
you are no better than a common robber. You must
go today and give Mr. Hall that ten cents.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page205">[205]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo205.jpg" alt="Washington children" width-obs="600" height-obs="357" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Is Everybody Happy? Sure We Are.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<div class="scr">
<div class="figleft top206">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo206a.jpg" alt="Road top" width-obs="230" height-obs="146" /></div>
<div class="figleft mid206">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo206b.jpg" alt="Road top" width-obs="600" height-obs="218" /></div>
<div class="figleft bot206">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo206c.jpg" alt="Road top" width-obs="403" height-obs="161" />
<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Two Paths.</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<!--scr-->
<h2>KEEPING FRIENDSHIP IN REPAIR.</h2>
<div class="hh">
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo206.jpg" alt="" width-obs="600" height-obs="525" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Two Paths.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter--></div>
<!--hh-->
<p>I sometimes think that boys and girls, and even
old people, are often careless in the matter of their
friendships—not careless in the matter of selecting
friends, though I am sure there is room
for improvement along that line—but careless
in trying to keep the good friendships we have
already formed. We ought to keep our friendships
in repair. Perhaps you think that our
friendships are not things which need to be
kept in repair. How foolish it is to think so!
Does a garden need to be weeded? Does an
old fence need to be kept in repair? Do we
paint our houses only once in a century? What
about the musician—does he not need to keep in
practice? Supposing that you never kept your
muscles in repair by constant use or exercise—how
long would you be strong or healthy? And
do you think that your friendships, because they
are in a way intangible—you cannot see them,
handle them or taste them—do you think that
they grow and thrive of their own accord, and,
therefore, do not need to be kept in repair?
Slights, snubs, angry words, unpleasant conduct,
long continued lack of association, long continued
lack of familiar intercourse, and coldness, even
where the meetings are periodic—these things,<span class="pagenum" id="Page206">[206-<br/>207]<SPAN name="Page207"></SPAN></span>
boys and girls, will kill the warmest friendship
and choke the tenderest love. So we ought to be
careful to keep our friendships in repair. If we
had no friends in this world, no playmates and
companions, no kindred spirits into whose keenest
sorrows and highest joys we entered with deep
and full sympathy, and who
did not enter into our sorrows
and joys in the same way—if
we had no friends in this
world, with all of its wealth
and splendor, we should not desire to live very
much longer. But to have friends and to be
friendly goes a long way towards making the
world a beautiful and blessed place to live in.</p>
<p>How, then, may we keep our friends? Easy
enough—by cultivating them; and we cannot keep<span class="pagenum" id="Page208">[208]</span>
them in any other way. We should take time to be
friendly. Little notes, little presents, little visits,
little social entertainments, little kindnesses—these
things, and things like them, go a great way
in cementing our friendships, in tying people to
us, as it were, with hooks of steel. We should not
neglect these means of keeping our friendships in
repair. Always give your friends a cordial welcome
in your homes, and at your little children’s
parties; let them feel, make them feel, that their
coming adds to your pleasure without increasing
your burdens. Don’t be selfish and narrow; be
broad-minded and liberal. Keep your friendships
in repair, and then see if you do not find your
horizon broadened, your life sweetened, and the
weary weight of this sad old world lightened.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>LITTLE ANNIE’S CHRISTMAS.</h2>
<p>Christmas morning came.</p>
<p>Daylight was just peeping into the room.</p>
<p>Poor little Annie, the cripple, awoke and turned
her eyes towards the corner where she had hung
her stocking the night before.</p>
<p>Surely, she thought, as she watched it, there
could not be very much in it, because it didn’t
seem to be any larger than it was when she had<span class="pagenum" id="Page209">[209]</span>
hung it up. After awhile she crept slowly to where
it was.</p>
<p>She did not take her crutches, for fear she would
disturb her mother, who slept in the same bed
with her. It was hard for her to move around
without her crutches, but she persevered and
finally she reached her stocking.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo208.jpg" alt="" width-obs="500" height-obs="537" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">She Put Out Her Thin Little Hand and Felt It.</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>She put out her thin little hand and felt it. Yes,
there was something in it! Then she put her hand<span class="pagenum" id="Page210">[210]</span>
inside and took out something which seemed round
and soft. She took it out and looked at it. It
was a little cake. Poor little Annie smiled, and
put her hand back into the stocking. This time
she found something which was done up in paper.
She opened the paper and found a whole dozen of
gumdrops. How brightly her little eyes flashed!
She was only six years old and she had never had
so much candy at one time in all her life.</p>
<p>By-and-by her mother awoke. She raised her
head and saw Annie’s happy face. “Poor girl,”
she thought, “how happy I would have been to
have bought something else for her, but I wasn’t
able. I hope she will be happy with what she
has.”</p>
<p>“See, mother,” cried Annie, “I have twelve
gumdrops and a cake. We will eat half of the
gumdrops today and save the other half for to-morrow.
You’ll eat three and I will eat three.”</p>
<p>“No, Annie,” said her mother, “you must eat
every one by yourself.”</p>
<p>Annie smiled, but did not say anything.</p>
<p>Little Annie’s mother was a widow, and she was
very, very poor; there were many times when they
had only a little dry bread and water for the day’s
food. For this bright Christmas season there were
many things besides food which she would like to
have bought for her poor little crippled child; but
she did not have any money to pay for playthings
or toys.</p>
<p>After breakfast on this Christmas day Johnny<span class="pagenum" id="Page211">[211]</span>
Ray came to see them. He brought with him a
good thick shawl for Annie’s mother and four
pairs of warm stockings which his mother had
sent for Annie, and, also, a large package of nice
candy.</p>
<p>Little Annie’s mother cried for joy.</p>
<p>Little Annie was too happy to speak. She had
never dreamed of having so much candy at one
time!</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>THE VELOCIPEDE RACE.</h2>
<p>One bright day Archibald mounted his velocipede
and rode out into the long green lane, where
he could ride for a long distance without interruption.
He had left his coat in the house because he
knew that riding would make him very warm.</p>
<p>When he reached the lane the velocipede moved
along so smoothly that Archibald was very happy.
By the time he had gone nearly a half mile he was
tired and stopped for a rest.</p>
<p>Pretty soon he heard a noise coming from behind,
and he wondered what rider it might be on
the same track that beautiful spring morning. He
looked up and saw John Smith coming, riding a
large velocipede and going as fast as he could.</p>
<p>Archibald quickly mounted his wheel and
started on a swift run, trying to overtake the flying<span class="pagenum" id="Page212">[212]</span>
John. Before they reached the end of the road
they saw Clara Hempton, standing by the fence
with her little velocipede. Clara watched the boys
as they flitted past. She thought that she could
keep up with John, but she was not sure that she
could ride as fast as Archibald.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo211.jpg" alt="" width-obs="600" height-obs="509" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Velocipede Race.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>While she was meditating Archibald cried out:</p>
<p>“Clara, you wait until we finish this race, and
then we three will go back together.”</p>
<p>Archibald reached the end first, but John was
not very far behind.</p>
<p>When Clara reached them Archibald said:</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page213">[213]</span></p>
<p>“Now we will all have a fair start and see who
will reach the other end first.”</p>
<p>So they all started on a line. Archibald knew
that he was the largest and could go the fastest,
but, as he had won the other race, he did not ride
this time as fast as he could. He thought this
was the right way to give the others a fair chance.</p>
<p>Clara and John reached the other end of the
lane at exactly the same time, with Archibald a
short distance behind them.</p>
<p>John and Clara were greatly delighted because
they had won the race from the big boy, Archibald.
Archibald was pleased because they were
pleased. This was not the only time that Archibald
had proved that he was a good and kind boy,
and that he was thoughtful of little children
younger than himself.</p>
<p>From this little story of the velocipede race
many other little boys and girls may learn a
good lesson, I hope, that will do them good all
through life.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="figleft w250">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo213.jpg" alt="" width-obs="250" height-obs="476" />
<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fault Finding.</span></p>
</div>
<h2>FAULT-FINDING.</h2>
<p>Faults are the easiest things to find in all this
world. A fault is something that can be found
without looking for it. And I guess no little boy
or girl in all the world knows anything that is<span class="pagenum" id="Page214">[214]</span>
easier to find than something that he or she
doesn’t have to look for. Well, faults are things
that we can find without looking for them; so
faults are the easiest things to find in all the
world. Yet, boys and girls, the habit of fault-finding,
or the habit of finding fault, is one of the
worst habits that anybody could form. It stamps
the person who is so easy to find fault with everything
and everybody as being
a mean, low, envious,
evil-hearted person. It is
better to look for something
to praise, than it is
to look for something to
blame. Yet there are
some people who are so
constituted that they do
not see any good in anything.
When it is cold, it
is too cold. When it is
hot, it is too hot. They
don’t like “vici kid”
shoes; they want patent
leathers. The singing at
church or Sunday school
last Sunday was just horrid.
Old Mary Jones ought to be taken out of
the choir. The preacher preaches too long,
or the deacon prays too loud. The school
teacher isn’t any good. So they go on from<span class="pagenum" id="Page215">[215]</span>
day to day, finding fault with everything and
everybody. Nothing pleases them; nothing delights
them. If by any chance or mischance they
should get to heaven they would, I believe, find
fault with the way the Lord has arranged things
up there. They are miserable people to have
around—these good-for-nothing, lazy and trifling
fault-finders. If you try real hard, boys and girls,
you can find something good in everything and in
everybody. That is one reason why we do not
always see the good in people or things—we
don’t look for it. We can find out what is bad—can
find out the bad things without looking for
them, but if we want to see the good things we
must be on the lookout for them. If we are on
the lookout—if we make up our minds that we
are going to see the good, and only the good, we
are always sure to find it.</p>
<p>There was an old woman once who was noted for
being able to say something good about everything
and everybody. She was never heard to
speak evil of anything or anybody. Once upon a
time a gambler died in the city where she lived. He
was a miserable sinner, and nobody liked him and
nobody had a good word to say for him, even after
he was dead. Aunt Maria, the good old lady, went
to see him after he had been put into his coffin.
The people who were present wondered what good
thing Aunt Maria could possibly say about the
dead sinner. Aunt Maria entered the room and<span class="pagenum" id="Page216">[216]</span>
walked around on tiptoe. After awhile she raised
her head and said:</p>
<p>“Friends, I tell you, he makes a mighty nice
looking corpse.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>GROSS DECEPTION.</h2>
<div class="poemcenter">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">Wistfully down the street she strolled,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">From side to side her eyes she rolled,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Till far away her eyes she cast<br/></span>
<span class="i0">On the grateful form of a man at last.<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">She smoothed her hair and she quickened her pace,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Hoping she’d meet him face to face;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">But when she reached him she felt awful sore:<br/></span>
<span class="i0">’Twas a figure of wax in front of a store!<br/></span></div>
</div>
<!--poem--></div>
<!--poemcenter-->
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>RANDOM REMARKS.</h2>
<p>In the olden times parents used to rule their
children, but in these days and times there are
many people who believe that the children rule
their parents. So many misguided parents in these
days and times believe in sparing the rod and
spoiling the child. Boys don’t get many whippings
at home nowadays, and if a boy happens to get a
good flogging at school it will cause a big row,
and sometimes cause the teacher to be threatened
with arrest. Whenever my teacher used to whip
me I was always afraid to mention it at home for
fear of getting another. I heard a man say the
other day: “Never whip a child; raise your boy<span class="pagenum" id="Page217">[217]</span>
on love and kindness and reason!” Yes; and when
that boy is twelve or thirteen years old somebody
will have to go to him and talk to him and try to
persuade him not to whip his father or mother.</p>
<div class="figcenter w400">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo216.jpg" alt="" width-obs="400" height-obs="556" />
<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">I Just Wish I Could Have My Way With Those Boys for
about Two Minutes.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>I was at church the other day and I saw two
boys about ten or eleven years old. After service
they lit their cigarettes and went marching off<span class="pagenum" id="Page218">[218]</span>
as big as Trip. A man of the old school looked at
them for awhile, and then, turning away, he said:</p>
<p>“I just wish I could have my way with those
boys for about two minutes.”</p>
<p>I didn’t say anything, but deep down in my
heart I sympathized with the old man, and felt
that both of the youngsters ought to have had
a good whipping.</p>
<p>Some girls are almost as bad as some boys.
Girls are most too fast in these days. As soon
as they get their dresses to their shoetops they are
gone. They go crazy over their clothes, for they
think that they must keep in the fashion. They
read too much trash, for they think that is the way
refined and cultured people do. Old-fashioned
modesty is at a discount. The girls don’t wait
for the boys to come now—that is, many of them
don’t; they go after them. I have seen some girls
running around in these new-fashioned night
gowns, and they call it a Mother Hubbard party.
If their mothers don’t allow them to go with the
boys they will slip around and meet them somewhere
anyhow. And where they are allowed to
go with the boys they generally go to extremes.
What business has a little girl—ten or twelve or
fourteen years old—to be locked-arms with a little
stripling of a boy, going home at night from
church or some social entertainment. It always
disgusts me whenever I see it. Worse than a
mannish boy is a womanish girl. What business
has a little girl, or a larger one, to allow<span class="pagenum" id="Page219">[219]</span>
a man to throw his arm around her waist in the
round dance? It is immodest, to say the least, and
there is not a good mother in the land who approves
it. A girl who goes to a promiscuous
ball and waltzes around with promiscuous fellows
puts herself in a promiscuous fix to be talked
about by the dudes and rakes and fast young fellows
who have encircled her waist. Slander is
very common, I know, especially slander of young
ladies; there are not many young ladies who
escape it; but the trouble about it is that it is not
all slander—some of it is the truth.</p>
<p>In the olden times when folks got married they
stayed married, but nowadays the courts are full
of divorce cases. The land is spotted with what
are called “grass widows,” and in many a household
there is hidden grief over a daughter’s shame.
Why is it? What causes it? Lack of proper training
and care of the young. Habits are great things—good
habits or bad habits. If girls are reared
to clean their teeth and keep their fingernails
clean they will keep them clean all their lives. If
boys are reared to chew tobacco and smoke they
will never quit. The same about loving and courting
and getting married. Much depends upon
training, upon habits. Young flirts make old flirts.
Young devils make old devils!</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page220">[220]</span></p>
<h2>BENJAMIN BANNEKER, THE NEGRO ASTRONOMER.</h2>
<p>The little colored boys and girls of America
should be proud to know, as I suppose the little
white boys and girls will be surprised to learn,
that the first clock of which every portion was
made in America was made by a colored man.</p>
<p>The colored children will also be glad to know,
I think, that among the earliest almanacs prepared
for general use in this country were those
which were published for several years by this
same colored man. His name was Benjamin Banneker.
I have found a good and true account of
this wonderful man in The Atlantic Monthly for
January, 1863. I am going to give a good portion
of that account in this book, because I believe
every colored person in America should be acquainted
with that man’s history. The account
says:</p>
<p>“Benjamin Banneker was born in Baltimore
County, Maryland, near the village of Ellicott’s
Mills, in the year 1732. There was not a drop of
white man’s blood in his veins. His father was
born in Africa, and his mother’s parents were
both natives of Africa. What genius he had, then,
must be credited to that race. When he was approaching
manhood he went, in the intervals of<span class="pagenum" id="Page221">[221]</span>
toil, to an obscure and remote country school.
At this school Benjamin acquired a knowledge of
reading and writing, and advanced in arithmetic
as far as ‘Double position.’ Beyond these rudiments
he was his own teacher. Young Banneker
had no books at all, but in the midst of labor for
a living he so improved upon what he had gained
in arithmetic that his intelligence became a matter
of general observation. He was such an acute
observer of the natural world and had so diligently
observed the signs of the times in society
that it is very doubtful whether at forty years of
age this African had his superior in Maryland.</p>
<p>“Perhaps the first wonder amongst his comparatively
illiterate neighbors was excited, when,
about the thirtieth year of his age, Benjamin made
a clock. It is probable that this was the first clock
of which every portion was made in America; it is
certain that it was purely his own invention as if
none had ever been made before. He had seen a
watch, but never a clock, such an article not being
within fifty miles of him. He used the watch as a
model for his clock. He was a long time at work
on the clock,—his chief difficulty, as he used often
to relate, being to make the hour, minute, and
second hands correspond in their motion. But at
last the work was completed, and raised the
admiration for Banneker to quite a high pitch
among his few neighbors.</p>
<p>“The making of the clock proved to be of great
importance in assisting the young man to fulfill<span class="pagenum" id="Page222">[222]</span>
his destiny. It attracted the attention of the Ellicott
family, who had just begun a settlement at
Ellicott’s Mills. They were well-educated men,
with much mechanical knowledge, and some of
them Quakers. They sought out the ingenious
negro, and he could not have fallen into better
hands. In 1787 Mr. George Ellicott gave him
Mayer’s “Tables,” Ferguson’s “Astronomy,”
and Leadbetter’s “Lunar Tables.” From this
time astronomy became the great object of Banneker’s
life, and in its study he almost disappeared
from the sight of his neighbors. He slept much
during the day, that he might the more devotedly
observe at night the heavenly bodies whose laws
he was slowly, but surely, mastering.</p>
<p>“Very soon after the possession of the books
already mentioned, Banneker determined to compile
an almanac, that being the most familiar use
that occurred to him of the information he had
acquired. To make an almanac then was a very
different thing from what it would be now, when
there is an abundance of accurate tables and rules.
Banneker had no aid whatever from men or rules;
and Mr. George Ellicott, who procured some tables
and took them to him, states that he had already
advanced very far in the preparation of the
logarithms necessary for the purpose.</p>
<p>“The first almanac prepared by Banneker for
publication was for the year 1792. By this time
his acquirements had become generally known,
and among those who were attracted by them was<span class="pagenum" id="Page223">[223]</span>
Mr. James McHenry. Mr. McHenry wrote to Goddard
and Angell, then the almanac-publishers of
Baltimore, and procured the publication of this
work, which contained from the pen of Mr. McHenry,
a brief notice of Banneker. When his first
almanac was published, Banneker was fifty-nine
years old, and had received tokens of respect from
all the scientific men of the country. Among
others, Thomas Jefferson, then Secretary of State
under George Washington, wrote him a most flattering
and complimentary letter. In his letter Jefferson
said, ‘Nobody wishes more than I do to see
such proofs as you exhibit, that Nature has given
to our black brethren talents equal to those of
other colors of men, and that the appearance of a
want of them is owing only to the degraded condition
of their existence both in Africa and America.’</p>
<p>“Banneker continued to calculate and publish
almanacs until 1802.</p>
<p>“Mr. Benjamin H. Ellicott, who was a true
friend of Banneker, and collected from various
sources all the facts concerning him, wrote in a letter
as follows: ‘During the whole of his long life
he lived respectably and much esteemed by all
who became acquainted with him, but more especially
by those who could fully appreciate his
genius and the extent of his acquirements.’</p>
<p>“Banneker’s head was covered with a thick
mass of white hair, which gave him a very dignified
and venerable appearance. His dress was invariably
of superfine drab broadcloth, made in<span class="pagenum" id="Page224">[224]</span>
the old style of a plain coat, with straight collar
and long waistcoat, and a broad-brimmed hat.
His color was not jet black, but decidedly negro.
In size and personal appearance, the statue of
Franklin at the library in Philadelphia, as seen
from the street, is a perfect likeness of him.</p>
<p>“Banneker died in the year 1804, beloved and
respected by all who knew him. Though no monument
marks the spot where he was born and lived
a true and high life, and was buried, yet history
must record that the most original scientific intellect
which the South has yet produced was that of
the pure African, Benjamin Banneker.”</p>
<p>The above is the story of that wonderful black
man told in splendid terms of high and well-deserved
praise by a white man. Every little black
boy in America may well be fired with inspiration
to do something beyond the ordinary by reading
the story of Banneker’s life.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>“A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM.”</h2>
<p>It is truly astonishing what a boy can do when
once he has made up his mind to do his best. Dr.
Len. G. Broughton, the famous pastor of the Tabernacle
Baptist church, Atlanta, Ga., in a little
book, which he calls “The Modern Prodigal,” has
told a very pathetic story about a little boy. It is<span class="pagenum" id="Page225">[225]</span>
so true to life, and so typical of what a black or
white boy may do under similar circumstances, if
he only decides for the true and the right, that I
have decided to reproduce the little story in this
book. It is well worth reading. Dr. Broughton
says:</p>
<p>“Not long after I entered the ministry, I went
to a certain town to hold a series of meetings. It
was one of these good old Southern towns, the inhabitants
of which banked on aristocracy and fed
their souls upon the glory of departed days. They
had never known what it was to be spiritually
warm. The first night I was there I preached to a
great audience. It was in my early ministry, when
I made many propositions. The first one I made
that night was for any one to stand who wanted
prayers offered for their friends. As soon as I
made it a little boy got up and walked out in the
aisle, where he stood looking me square in the face.
I said, ‘God bless you, little man,’ and he sat down.
I then asked any one who wanted the prayers of
God’s people to rise. That boy got out in the aisle
again and looked me in the face, and again I said,
‘God bless you.’ I asked if there was anybody
present who was willing to accept Jesus. That
boy stood up again and looked me in the face, and
again I said, ‘God bless you.’ Nobody else stood
up that night, and I began to think I had struck
about the hardest and coldest crowd I had ever
run up against.</p>
<p>“The next night I preached as hard as I knew<span class="pagenum" id="Page226">[226]</span>
how to sinners, and when I finished, I asked anybody
who wanted to be prayed for to stand up.
The same little rascal popped out into the aisle, as
he had done the night before, and stood looking at
me until I saw him and said, ‘God bless you.’ I
thought I’d vary the thing a little, so I asked if
anybody present was willing to come forward and
give me his hand as an indication that he would
accept Jesus. That same boy came shuffling out of
his seat, straight down the aisle and gave me his
hand. I saw smiles on the faces of some in the
congregation. Nobody but the boy showed any
interest, and I went off somewhat disheartened.
The third night I preached, and when I asked all
who wanted prayer to rise, that boy popped out
into the aisle. The people had begun to regard it
as a joke, and they nudged each other with their
elbows, while a broad smile flared from one side
of the house to the other. When I asked anybody
who was willing to accept Jesus to come and give
me his hand, that boy came, and the congregation
smiled broader than before. After the meeting
the deacons came to me and told me that the boy
must be stopped, as he was a half-idiot, and was
throwing a damper on the meeting. I said: ‘Stop
nothing! How are you going to throw a damper on
an ice-house?’</p>
<p>“For the whole of that week that boy was the
only person in the house who showed any interest
in the meeting. Then he wanted to join the
church. The pastor was absent, and I was to open<span class="pagenum" id="Page227">[227]</span>
the doors of the church. The deacons came to me
and said I must not receive that boy, as he didn’t
have sense enough to join the church. I said:
‘Look here, brethren, I won’t take this responsibility
on my hands. I’m going to put that boy
on you, and if you choose to reject him, his blood
be upon your hands.’ At the conclusion of the
morning service, I invited all who wanted to unite
with the church to come forward. That boy came.
I asked him if he had accepted Christ for his personal
Saviour. That’s all I ever ask. He said he
had. ‘Brethren,’ I said, ‘you hear what this boy
has to say. What will you do with him?’ An
ominous silence fell on the congregation. After a
time, from ’way back by the door, I heard a muffled
and rather surly, ‘I move he be received.’
Another painful silence followed, and then, from
the middle of the church, I heard a muffled, ‘I
second the motion.’ When I put the motion, about
a half dozen members voted ‘aye’ in a tone so low
that it seemed as if they were scared. I gave the
boy the right hand of Christian welcome awaiting
baptism, and then dismissed the congregation.</p>
<p>“The next day the boy went out to see his old
grandfather, a man whose whitened head was blossoming
for the grave, and whose feet were taking
hold upon the shifting sands of eternity. ‘Grandfather,’
said he, ‘won’t you go to church with me
to-night and hear that preacher?’ We always feel
kindly towards those who are afflicted, you know,<span class="pagenum" id="Page228">[228]</span>
and are willing to please them; so the old man
agreed to go.</p>
<p>“That night I saw the boy and the old man sitting
away back by the door. When the sermon
was finished, one of the members of the church
arose and said: ‘I have a request to make. We
have with us tonight, Mr. Blank, one of our oldest
and most respected citizens, but he is out of Christ.
I want special prayer offered for this my special
friend.’ With that he laid his hand upon the head
of the old man, down whose furrowed cheeks the
tears were streaming. The next night I saw the
old man sitting about half-way down the aisle.
When all who wanted to accept Jesus were invited
to come forward and give me their hands, I saw
the half-idiot boy coming down the aisle leading
the old man by the hand.</p>
<p>“That little boy’s father kept a saloon. The
following day the child went there, and climbing
up over the high counter, he peeped down upon his
father and said: ‘Papa, won’t you go to church
with me to-night to hear that preacher?’ ‘You
get out of here, child,’ said the father; ‘go out of
here; don’t you know you mustn’t come in here?’
Strange, strange, how fathers will keep places
where their children cannot go! ‘But, papa,’ continued
the boy, ‘won’t you go to church with me
to-night?’ ‘Yes; I’ll go, but you get out of here.’</p>
<p>“That night the man came with the half-idiot
boy, and sat about where the old man had sat the
night before. When I asked all who would accept<span class="pagenum" id="Page229">[229]</span>
Jesus to come forward, he walked down the aisle
and gave me his hand. He asked if he could make
a statement, and when I said ‘Yes,’ he faced the
congregation and said: ‘My friends, you all
know me, and I want to say that so long as I live
I will never sell another drop of whiskey, for I
have given my heart to God to-night, and from
this day forward I propose to serve him.’</p>
<p>“The meeting warmed up at last, the town was
set on fire for God. Every saloon keeper was converted
and every saloon was closed. The feeling
spread and a saloon seven miles in the country was
closed and the keeper was converted to God.</p>
<p>“At the close of the meeting I sat on the front
seat and saw the pastor lead three generations
into the baptismal waters, the old man in front,
his son behind him, and last in line the little half-idiot
boy. The only mistake that was made, to my
mind, was that the boy who had led the others to
Christ should not have been first in line. Where
is the little half-idiot boy now? He has grown
much brighter within the last few years, and is
now going to school. He says he wants to be and
will be a missionary.</p>
<p>“What a lesson for the young to-day. Persistent
self-surrender, ever doing the best we can,
is a never failing way that leads to victory.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page230">[230]</span></p>
<h2>DIRECTIONS FOR LITTLE LADIES.</h2>
<p>1. A little lady always says, “I thank you”
whenever anybody assists her in any way, and
always says, “If you please,” whenever she makes
any kind of request.</p>
<p>2. A little lady is never loud and boisterous on
the streets, in public places, or at home. Sometimes
girls are so rough that they are called
“Tom-Boys.” No Tom-Boy ever was a true little
lady.</p>
<p>3. A true little lady will always see that her
linen is clean and spotless—collars and cuffs,
aprons and dresses, handkerchiefs, and all articles
of clothing. Every true little lady hates dirt.</p>
<p>4. A little lady will not be guilty of idle gossip.
She will not tattle; will not go around hunting all
the evil things that are said or known about other
little ladies. She closes her ears tight against the
slanderers of the town.</p>
<p>5. A little lady will love the Sunday-school and
the church. She will love the society of good
people and the society of good books. She will
have higher notions of life than that life is something
to be spent in a merry round of pleasure.</p>
<p>6. A true little lady loves her mother, and she
will show that she loves her mother in various
ways. She will help her about the housework.<span class="pagenum" id="Page231">[231]</span>
She will be fond of going out in company with her
mother often. She will not think that anybody
else’s mother is or can be better than her own
mother.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo230.jpg" alt="" width-obs="450" height-obs="530" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Directions for Little Girls.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>7. Every true little lady will be a Christian.
She will early give herself to Jesus. She will delight<span class="pagenum" id="Page232">[232]</span>
to help the poor; to visit the sick, carrying
the cheer and comfort and something good to eat
and flowers and many other things. She will love
everybody. Do you?</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>THREE WORDS TO YOUNG PEOPLE.</h2>
<p>The first word is, Be true. The second word is,
Be trustworthy. The third word is, Dare to do
right.</p>
<p>First: Be true! Be what you seem to be or
what you pretend to be; do not be a hypocrite;
be firm and steady in adhering to friends,
promises or principles. Be a true boy; be a true
girl.</p>
<p>Secondly: Be trustworthy! Be worthy of trust;
be reliable; make your word your bond. Conduct
yourself in such a way that people can depend on
you.</p>
<p>Thirdly: Dare to do right! Whatever comes
or doesn’t come, stand by what you believe to be
right, even if you have to stand alone. Be honest,
upright, faithful, sincere, abhor that which is evil,
cleave to that which is good.</p>
<p>True boys and girls are scarce; they are not
easily found; they do not grow on trees. But, to
tell you the truth, we need good boys and girls,
true boys and girls, much more than we do educated<span class="pagenum" id="Page233">[233]</span>
boys and girls. All education without character
is a dead weight!</p>
<p>Let me give you one or two reasons why you
should be true, trustworthy, and brave for the
right. In the first place, for the sake of your influence.
Every boy and girl in this world has some
influence. Every boy in this world, white or
black, rich or poor, high or low, is helping his
friends and playmates to grow better or worse,
higher or lower in the scale of being. Every girl
in this world is likewise helping or hindering
others. If we are harsh and unkind, cruel and
unjust—in every wrong, every baseness, meanness,
selfishness, we are harming not ourselves
alone but the whole great family of man. On the
other hand, when we speak fearlessly a brave, true
word, when we perform cheerfully a hard and trying
task, whenever we are faithful, honest, earnest,
patient, pure, trustworthy, whether we know
it or not, we are strengthening the unseen impulses
which make for nobility and higher manhood
and womanhood throughout the world. In
the economy of God, by his infinite wisdom, the
humblest life reaches forward to the highest and
the highest life reaches backward to the lowest.</p>
<p>But perhaps you are saying that I am taking
too much for granted. Perhaps you think that it
is not true that there is not one of the very least of
the great human family who is not every day exercising
some personal influence for good or evil
upon the world. If you think so, boys and girls,<span class="pagenum" id="Page234">[234]</span>
or older people, you are mistaken. No human
being can escape from the world’s atmosphere.
Though you fly to the uttermost parts of the sea
or hide in the depths of the dense city, some life is
affected by your life. Not only some life is
affected by your life, but many lives are affected
by your life. It is a thought of this kind that
Charles Dickens beautifully expresses in his story
called “David Copperfield.” He says:</p>
<p>“There is nothing—no, nothing—beautiful and
good that dies and is forgotten. An infant, a
prattling child, dying in his cradle, will live again
in the better thoughts of those who loved it, and
plays its part, though its body be burned to ashes
or drowned in the deepest sea. There is not an
angel added to the hosts of heaven but does its
blessed work on earth in those who loved it here.
Dead! Oh, if the good deeds of human creatures
could be traced to their source, how beautiful
would even death appear. For how much charity,
mercy, and purified affection would be seen to
have their growth in dusty graves!”</p>
<p>No, children, it is no idle dream, no fancy story
that I tell when I say that the humblest member
of the human family, as well as the highest, is
exercising daily, whether he is conscious of it or
not, some influence for good or evil upon the
world. Viewed in this light who can measure the
possibilities—the divine possibilities—that are
wrapped up in little boys and girls? Viewed in
this light, how the slightest action, the smallest of<span class="pagenum" id="Page235">[235]</span>
our little duties, takes on new importance! It was
with this thought in mind that James A. Garfield
said: “I feel a profounder reverence for a boy
than a man. I never meet a ragged boy on the
street without feeling that I owe him a salute, for
I know not what possibilities may be buttoned up
under his shabby coat.” Yes, boys and girls, by
every brave and cheerful effort that we put forth
we are reforming, uplifting, renewing, inspiring,
hearts and souls we never heard of, never
knew, the whole world becoming stronger for
every bit of moral courage we create, sweeter for
every kindly look we give, and holier for every
good deed we do. And, of course, the contrary is
true. When we fail, when we come short, when
we sin, the consequences are not ours alone—they
extend to all humanity. We are all, white and
black, rich and poor, old and young, male and
female, children of one family. Just as the quivering
circles from a pebble thrown into a lake
stretch on and on from shore to shore, so the silent
impulse of a single life thrills from heart to heart
until the very edges of humanity are touched.</p>
<p>There is another reason still why we should be
true, trustworthy, brave. That reason is that
somebody else takes us as his ideal—his standard.
Poor as we are, weak as we are, as unworthy as
we are, somebody else is looking up to us—especially
those of us who have been favored with
educational advantages and opportunities. And
you know that the failure of one who is invested<span class="pagenum" id="Page236">[236]</span>
in another’s mind with ideal qualities is a failure
beyond the actual. That is one reason why people
say that, as a rule, a preacher’s children are the
worst children in the world. As a matter of fact,
they are not the worst children in the world; but,
being the children of preachers, everybody expects
more of them than of others,—they are taken as
ideals, as standards—that’s all. And what might
be excused in others will not be excused in one who
is taken as an ideal. Nathaniel Hawthorne, one of
America’s greatest writers, in speaking of this
truth says in his story called “The Marble Faun:”</p>
<p>“The character of an individual beloved one
having invested itself with all the attributes of
right—that one friend being to us the symbol and
representative of whatever is good and true,—when
he falls, the effect is almost as if the sky fell
with him, bringing down in chaotic ruin the
columns that upheld our faith. We struggle forth
again, no doubt bruised and bewildered. We stare
wildly about us, and discover—or it may be we
never make the discovery—that it was not actually
the sky that has tumbled down but merely a
frail structure of our own rearing, which never
rose higher than the housetops, and has fallen
because we founded it on nothing. But the crash,
and the affright and trouble are as overwhelming,
for the time, as if the catastrophe involved the
whole moral world. Remembering these things,
let them suggest one generous motive for walking
heedfully amid the defilement of earthly ways. Let<span class="pagenum" id="Page237">[237]</span>
us reflect that the highest path is pointed out by
the pure ideal of those who look up to us, and who,
if we tread less loftily, may never look so high
again.”</p>
<p>Now, I have said my three words. You see they
have stretched themselves out to a great length,
but I hope the boys and girls who read this book
may profit by them. Strive to be true, strive to be
trustworthy, strive to be brave. In the long run
the prizes of this world, and of that which is to
come, are won by boys and girls of strong moral
character, not by those who are merely learned or
rich. But, of course, I believe in education and I
believe in money. I think you ought to strive to
obtain both—both are useful, and both are necessary;
but, with all your getting, boys and girls, be
sure to get those things which will reach beyond
this world and which will count for more than
money or good looks or education or any such
thing when the world is on fire, when the moon
shall be turned into blood, when the trumpet
sounds, and all must go to stand before the Great
King to give an account of the deeds done in the
body.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page238">[238]</span></p>
<h2>“A LAMP UNTO MY FEET.”</h2>
<p>Once upon a time, so it is said, a little ragged
boy was carefully printing these words with a
stick upon the ground, “Thy word is a lamp unto
my feet.”</p>
<p>On looking up from his work, the little fellow
was surprised to find a kind-looking old man
watching him.</p>
<p>“Where did you learn that, my boy?” asked
the man.</p>
<p>“At Sunday-school, sir.”</p>
<p>“What’s your name?”</p>
<p>“Crawford.”</p>
<p>“So, Crawford, you learned that text at Sunday-school.
Do you know what it means?”</p>
<p>“No, sir.”</p>
<p>“What is a lamp?”</p>
<p>“A lamp? Why, sir, a lamp is a thing that
gives light!”</p>
<p>“That’s correct. Well, what is the word that
the text speaks of?”</p>
<p>“The Bible, sir.”</p>
<p>“That’s right. Now, how can the Bible be a
lamp and give light?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” said the boy, “unless you light
it and set it on fire.”</p>
<p>“There’s a better way than that, my lad. Suppose<span class="pagenum" id="Page239">[239]</span>
you were going down some lonely lane on a
dark night with an unlighted lantern in your
hand, and a box of matches in your pocket, what
would you do?”</p>
<p>“Why, I’d light the lantern.”</p>
<p>“Why would you light
it?”</p>
<p>“To show me the road,
sir.”</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo238.jpg" alt="" width-obs="500" height-obs="477" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">A Lamp Unto My Feet.</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>“Very well. Now,
suppose you were
walking behind me some day, and saw me drop a
quarter; what would you do?”</p>
<p>“Pick it up and give it to you, sir.”</p>
<p>“Wouldn’t you want to keep it yourself?”</p>
<p>Crawford hesitated; but he saw a smile on the<span class="pagenum" id="Page240">[240]</span>
old gentleman’s face, and, smiling himself, he
finally said:</p>
<p>“I should want to, sir; but I shouldn’t do it.”</p>
<p>“Why not?”</p>
<p>“Because it would be stealing.”</p>
<p>“How do you know?”</p>
<p>“It would be taking what wasn’t my own, and
the Bible says we are not to steal.”</p>
<p>“Ah!” said the old man, “so it’s the Bible that
makes you honest, is it?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“If you had not heard of the Bible you would
steal, I suppose?”</p>
<p>“Lots of boys do,” said Crawford, hanging his
head.</p>
<p>“The Bible, then,” continued the old man,
“shows you the right and safe path—the path of
honesty, does it?”</p>
<p>“Like the lamp!” exclaimed Crawford, seeing
now what all the old man’s questions meant. “Is
that what the text means?”</p>
<p>“Yes, my boy,” the man answered, “there is
always light in the Bible to show us where to go
and what to do. Don’t you think it would be a
good thing to take the Bible, the good old lamp,
and let it light you right through life?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“Do you think you will be safer with it?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page241">[241]</span></p>
<p>“Because if I’m honest I will never go to
prison.”</p>
<p>“And what else?” asked the man.</p>
<p>Crawford thought awhile. By-and-by he <span class="dontwrap">said,—</span></p>
<p>“If I mind the Bible I shall go to heaven when
I die.”</p>
<p>“Yes, and that’s the best reason for taking the
lamp. It will light you right into heaven.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>THREE BRIGADES.</h2>
<p>There are three brigades, or three little companies,
which I think ought to be organized
among the boys and girls in every Sunday-school
in America. Can’t you form them in your Sunday-school?
It is a very simple matter. It will
not cost any money: only a little time and forethought,
and a will to do. One brigade is called
the Rainy-Weather Brigade, and all the little boys
and girls who join this company pledge themselves
to go to Sunday-school every Sunday, when
they are not sick, even if it is raining. The second
brigade is called the Front Seat Brigade, and all
the members of this company pledge themselves to
occupy front seats in the Sunday school during
the opening exercises before they pass to their
classes. The third brigade is called the On-Timers’
Brigade, and the children in this brigade pledge<span class="pagenum" id="Page242">[242]</span>
themselves to be present on time at the opening
hour.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo241.jpg" alt="" width-obs="500" height-obs="461" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Members of the Rainy-Weather Brigade.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>You can see at once how helpful these little
brigades are in every Sunday school (where they
exist) to the officers and teachers. Some children
will not go to Sunday school when it is raining or
when it threatens to rain; some will not go forward
and occupy front seats when they do go; and
there are others who are always tardy. What a
blessing it would be if all the little children would
organize these brigades at once in their schools,
and try to get every scholar to join each one of
them.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page243">[243]</span></p>
<h2>“HOME, SWEET HOME.”</h2>
<p>Go with me, boys and girls, to the gay streets
and gilded saloons of the great city of Paris far
across the sea. Here is said to be the centre of
all the world’s follies and pleasures. It is at night.</p>
<p>An American, who has left his home and native
land to view the splendors of the wicked city, is
passing along the street. He has beheld with delight
its paintings, its sculpture, and the grand
and graceful proportions of its buildings. In the
midst of his keenest happiness, when he was rejoicing
most over the privileges which he possessed,
temptation assailed him. Sin was presented
to him in one of its most bewitching garbs, and
he yielded to the voice of the siren. He drank
wildly and deeply of the intoxicating cup, and his
draught brought madness. Reason was overthrown
and he rushed out, all his scruples overcome, careless
of what he did or how deeply he became immersed
in the hitherto unknown sea of guilt.</p>
<p>The cool night air settled damp and heavy upon
his heated brow. Walking on and on, not knowing
or caring where he went, by-and-by strains of
music from a distance met his ear. Pretty soon,
following in the direction from which the sounds
came, he was able to distinguish the words and air
of the piece. The song was well remembered. It<span class="pagenum" id="Page244">[244]</span>
was “Home, Sweet Home.” Clear and sweet the
voice of some singer, using his native tongue, rose
and fell on the air; and the poor wild man stopped
and listened to the soft cadences of that beloved
melody.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo243.jpg" alt="" width-obs="500" height-obs="516" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Home, Sweet Home.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>Motionless he stood until the last note floated
away, and he could hear nothing but the ceaseless
murmur of the great city. Then he turned away
slowly, with no feeling that his manhood was<span class="pagenum" id="Page245">[245]</span>
shamed by the tear which fell as a bright evidence
of the power of song, and also as an evidence that
he, the guilty sinner, was not yet absolutely lost
beyond recall.</p>
<p>The demon of the wine cup had fled, and reason
once more asserted her right to control. As the
soft strains of “Home, Sweet Home” had floated
to his ear, memory brought up before him the picture
of his own “sweet home.” He saw his gentle
mother and heard her speak, while honest pride
beamed from her eye; she seemed to speak again
of her son, in whose nobleness and honor she could
always trust. His heart smote him as he thought
how little he deserved such confidence. He remembered
her last words of love and counsel, and the
tearful farewell of all those dear ones who gladdened
that far-away home with their presence.
The tide of remorse swept over his soul as he
thought of what the sorrow of those at home would
have been could they have seen him but an hour
before. Subdued and penitent he retraced his
steps, and with his vow never to taste of the terrible
stuff that could so excite him to madness there
was mingled a deep sense of thankfulness for his
escape from further degradation. The influence
of home had protected and shielded him, although
the sea rolled between.</p>
<p>How strong such memories are to prevent the
commission of crime! How powerful is the spell
of home! How important, then, is it to make home
pleasant and lovable! Many a time a cheerful<span class="pagenum" id="Page246">[246]</span>
home and smiling face will do more to make good
men and good women than all the learning and eloquence
that can be used. It has been said that
the sweetest words in our language are “Mother,
Home and Heaven”; and one might almost say
that the word “Home” included the others. Who
can think of home without remembering the gentle
mother who sanctified it by her presence? And
is not “Home” the dearest name for heaven? Oh,
then, may our homes on earth be as green spots in
the desert, to which we can retire when weary of
the cares of life and drink the clear waters of a
love which we know to be sincere and always unfailing.</p>
<div class="poemcenter">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Mid pleasures and palaces<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Though far we may roam,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Be it ever so humble<br/></span>
<span class="i0">There’s no place like Home.”<br/></span></div>
</div>
<!--poem--></div>
<!--poemcenter-->
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page247">[247]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <hr class="chap" /> <ANTIMG src="images/illo246.jpg" alt="" width-obs="600" height-obs="266" />
<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Little Soldier Boys.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<h2>EACH ONE OF US OF IMPORTANCE</h2>
<p>Never think yourself, whoever you are, of small
importance. Never think that it is of little account
whether you are good or bad, or what your example
is to others. Each mere particle of dust, every
tiny grain of sand, the minutest atom, is an active
agent in the whole universe. So each one of us is
of importance in our sphere, however isolated and
insignificant that sphere may appear to be.</p>
<p>A few particles of dust in a watch will stop its
motion; small barnacles on a ship’s bottom will
hinder its journey; and a little shifting sand in the
great river will change its current. So, little boys
and girls exercise their influence for weal or woe
upon the world. Don’t you believe for once that
the world is moved only by the great forces, the
great men and the great enterprises. Little folks
and little things likewise help to move the world
along. Great generals are necessary; but what
would they be without the soldiers behind them?</p>
<p>Every boy has his part to do in the great work<span class="pagenum" id="Page248">[248]</span>
of the world, and every girl has her part to do.
Every boy and girl is of importance; how important
nobody knows, and perhaps never shall know
until eternity reveals it. There ought to be in
this truth great encouragement and great comfort
to all who think that they are insignificant and
have no work to do in this busy world. Perhaps
in the distant future many a man who estimated
himself great shall be found to have been insignificant,
because of unfaithfulness to his trust; and
many another man who perhaps thought himself
of little worth will find himself glorified because
he did what he could.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2 class="noshow"><span class="smcap">The Poetry of Life</span></h2>
<div class="hh">
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo247.jpg" alt="Sunrise" width-obs="600" height-obs="380" /></div>
</div>
<!--hh-->
<div class="scr">
<div class="figleft top247">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo247a.jpg" alt="Sunrise top" width-obs="600" height-obs="189" /></div>
<div class="figleft bot247">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo247b.jpg" alt="Sunrise bottom" width-obs="293" height-obs="191" /></div>
</div>
<!--scr-->
<p class="poetrylife">Poetry is more than
verse-making, more
than the jingle of words,
more than the sing-song
of meter.</p>
<p>Sunshine and flowers,
brightness and joyousness, the harmonies of the
passions and the inspiration of love-these are
the poetry of life.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page249">[249]</span></p>
<p>Without poetry, life is a tread-mill; a veil of
tears; a dreary waste. Even religion is only a crucifixion—a
death to sin—if we have not the resurrection
into the new life of joy.</p>
<p>Many of us make hard work of life by bending
our backs too much. We get dirt in our eyes by
keeping them too near the dust, and we get narrow-minded
and selfish by our narrow radius of
vision.</p>
<p>To become truly rich we must stand in the dignity
of our manhood; walk in the integrity of our
calling; and run in the rhythm of a poetic nature.
Out of harmony is out of sphere. The dignity, integrity
and poetry of life are all lost by inharmony;
only the ashes of disappointment are left;
but with these we can dance at our work, and turn
irksome duties into joyous privileges. Instead of
moping in the valley of the shadow of death, we
may live in the sunshine, where beautiful flowers
and luscious fruits and delicious sweets grow.</p>
<p>Yes; yes; we might as well live in light as in
darkness; make life a joyful song as a funeral
dirge; live amid glory as shame. With a radiant
countenance, a beaming eye, and a loving hand, we
can do more work and have more to do; we can
get more out of life and have more life to enjoy;
we can scatter more sunshine and have more left
for ourselves.</p>
<p>Christ came to bring to every toiler, heaven.
Let us get into it quickly. It is here—and here
only—that we find the poetry of life.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page250">[250]</span></p>
<div class="hh">
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo250.jpg" alt="" width-obs="400" height-obs="593" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Being in
Earnest.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter--></div>
<!--hh-->
<div class="scr">
<div class="figleft top1st250">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo250a.jpg" alt="Catcher top" width-obs="400" height-obs="57" /></div>
<div class="figleft top2nd250">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo250b.jpg" alt="Catcher bottom of top" width-obs="213" height-obs="168" /></div>
<div class="figleft bot1st250">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo250c.jpg" alt="Catcher top of bottom" width-obs="285" height-obs="44" /></div>
<div class="figleft bot2nd250">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo250d.jpg" alt="Catcher bottom" width-obs="181" height-obs="324" />
<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Being in
Earnest.</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<!--scr-->
<h2>ON BEING IN EARNEST.</h2>
<p>Of ten men who fail in life, nine men fail for
want of zeal, earnestness, courage, where one man
fails for want of ability. This half-heartedness,
this lack of zeal, this timidity, this shrinking from
duty and hard tasks is seen on all sides and among
all classes. But I tell you, boys and girls, that
the least enviable people in all the world are those
who think that nothing is particularly worth
while, that it does not matter much how a thing
is done if it is only done with; who dwaddle along
in a shabby sort of a way, considering only their
own ease, with little sense of responsibility, and
with no shame in being shirks. Every boy should
make up his mind to live a round, full, earnest, intense
life. Every girl should do the same. Don’t
be satisfied, boys and girls, to be jellyfishes, with
only a capacity for drawing in nourishment and
lingering on until your time comes to die. Be
vertebrates, people of backbone, purpose, aim, enthusiasm,
earnestness.</p>
<p>At a public dinner President Roosevelt asked
Governor Odell of New York if he knew anything
worth doing that was not hard in the doing, and
the governor could think of nothing. As a rule
perhaps there is nothing, and yet things once hard
in the doing become easy as skill is gained by repetition.<span class="pagenum" id="Page251">[251]</span>
Be in earnest, be faithful and resolute,
and it will act like a tonic, giving light to the eyes,
springiness to the step, and buoyancy to the heart.</p>
<p>Don’t be overcome by your circumstances. No
matter how distracting a
man’s surroundings may be,
he may yet be able to focus
his powers completely and to
marshal them with certainty
if he makes up his
mind to do it. If
things go hard with
the self-mastered man or boy,
he will be able to trample upon
difficulties and to use his stumbling-blocks
as stepping-stones.
If a great misfortune overtake
him he will simply use it as a starting
point for a new departure, a turning
point for more determined effort. He
may be weighed down with sorrow
and suffering, but he always starts
anew with redoubled determination
to do the thing he has set his heart
upon doing. He will not be discouraged;
he will not give up; he will fight it out to
the end. Put him in prison, and he will write the
“Pilgrim’s Progress.” Deprive him of his eyesight
and he will write the “Paradise Lost.”</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page252">[252]</span></p>
<p>It was the spirit of earnestness which fired the
soul of Martin Luther at the Diet of Worms, who,
after being urged to recant, said: “Here I stand;
I can do no other; God help me!” It was this
spirit which characterized William Lloyd Garrison,
the champion of the abolition of slavery, who,
when he was urged to stop fighting slavery, exclaimed:
“I will not equivocate, I will not retract,
I will not be moved one inch, and I will be
heard.” So be in earnest, boys and girls, at home,
at school, at work and at play. It will help you
a thousand-fold.</p>
<hr class="chap allclear" />
<h2>YOUNG PEOPLE AND LIFE INSURANCE.</h2>
<p>Every little boy and girl, and, of course, every
man and woman, of the colored race in America
should carry a life insurance policy of some kind
in some reliable company. In this matter the old
people, as in some other things, ought to set the
example for the young, but there are some reasons,
growing chiefly out of their previous condition of
slavery, why our mothers and fathers have not, as
a rule, taken very largely to the business of having
their lives insured. But because our parents have
been negligent in this matter there is no reason
why the younger generation should be. Life insurance
is a good thing, boys and girls—one of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page253">[253]</span>
best things in the world. American life insurance
companies alone pay to policy-holders or estates of
policy-holders over one hundred million dollars
annually. Only a very small and almost insignificant
portion of this vast sum goes into the hands
of colored people, and for the reason that very few
colored people carry life insurance policies.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo252.jpg" alt="" width-obs="450" height-obs="542" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Taking Out a Policy.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>Now use a little common sense about this matter.
Whatever is good in life insurance for other
races is good for our race; whatever in life insurance
benefits other races will benefit our race. In<span class="pagenum" id="Page254">[254]</span>
business as in education, whatever is good for a
white man is good for a black man. I would,
therefore, urge every boy and girl to join a life insurance
company, and where your mothers and
fathers are not insured I would urge you to do
your utmost to persuade them to join at once.</p>
<p>For one reason, a life insurance policy is not expensive.
You might as well talk of the expense of
buying bank stock, or the expense of putting your
money into a savings bank or any other safe place
as to speak of the expense of keeping up a life
insurance policy. It is accumulation and not expense.
Every dollar put into life insurance is a
dollar saved to yourself or your estate.</p>
<p>For another reason life insurance is a good business
investment. Carefully collected statistics on
file in Washington City prove that investments
in life insurance are much safer and yield much
larger returns than money placed in a savings
bank. When you are older you will perhaps be
able to make these comparisons for yourself. For
the present you can take my word for it.</p>
<p>A third reason, life insurance is cheap. You can
in an instant create a capital of $1,000, though you
may be ever so poor, by laying aside only a few
cents a week. Young people chew up and drink
up and smoke up and frolic up more money every
week than would be sufficient to protect them
against the rainy days that must come to everybody.</p>
<p>And, then, life insurance has a character value.<span class="pagenum" id="Page255">[255]</span>
It makes a young man a better man; it makes a
young woman a better woman; that is to say, it
makes them more economical, more business-like,
happier, and, I believe, it will make them live
longer.</p>
<p>It is high time that black boys and girls were
learning these things and acting upon them. When
God commanded us not to serve money as a false
god He did not say that money could not serve us,
and I beseech the boys and girls, and the old people
too, to exercise the same foresight and the
same good sense about life insurance that other
races exercise.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>THE LITTLE SAILOR CAT.</h2>
<p>In September, 1893, grouped on the Fall River
Line pier at the foot of Warren Street, New York,
there stood a party of twenty-three sailors waiting
for the Puritan to take them on to Boston. The
central figure in the group—a short, thickset man,
with bronzed and grizzled moustache—stood erect
with arms folded over his chest. Upon the solid
foundation thus made nestled a little white kitten.
The man and the kitten were the Boston contingent
of the crew of the steamship City of Savannah,
which had been wrecked the week before on Hunting
Island, off the South Carolina coast.</p>
<div class="figright w300">
<ANTIMG src="images/illo255.jpg" alt="" width-obs="300" height-obs="163" />
<p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Little Sailor Cat.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>The story of the beaching of the steamship and<span class="pagenum" id="Page256">[256]</span>
of the taking off of her crew by the City of Birmingham
had been told in all the newspapers, but
nothing had been said about the cat, so the Boston
Herald said. Before the shipwreck the cat was
nothing more than an ordinary ship’s cat, and the
captain had named him Mascot; but that was the
end of his distinction. After the disaster, nevertheless,
all the sailors swore that the kitten was as
good a sailor as any of them.</p>
<p>“He’s a wonder,” said the short, thickset man,
surveying the cat proudly; “nobody thought of
him in the rush, but he got there just the same.
He climbed the rigging
in that gale like an old
tar and held on for
hours. He wasn’t a bit
frightened either. Only
he would ‘caterwaul’
when he got hungry.
We were on board of the boat fifty hours after
she struck before the sea was such that we could
be taken off in boats. At night the captain
ordered all the crew into the rigging and made us
stay there. We each took a piece of rope and
lashed ourselves on, so as to keep from falling
off when asleep. That’s what the captain said the
string was for, but I never slept at all. I don’t
think many others did. The cat got along without
any rope, and she was there in the morning all
right. When we got away at last, nearly crazy
with thirst and so faint that we could hardly<span class="pagenum" id="Page257">[257]</span>
climb down the ‘Jacob’s ladder’ into the Birmingham’s
boats, that little fellow climbed out of
his nest in the rigging and wanted to go too. We
were glad to take him.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2 class="noshow">Advice to Little Christians</h2>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo256.jpg" alt="Church" width-obs="600" height-obs="505" /></div>
<p>1. Be punctual and regular at all the services
of your church.</p>
<p>2. Give close attention to the pastor in the public
service. Good hearers make good preachers.</p>
<p>3. Whenever you are aided by a sermon tell
the pastor about it. In this way you will help him
more than you think possible.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page258">[258]</span></p>
<p>4. Do not neglect morning and evening prayer
at home. Pray daily for God’s blessing upon the
preaching and other labors of the pastor.</p>
<p>5. In the world let your light so shine before
others that they may be led to glorify your Father
which is in heaven. Let your light shine.</p>
<p>6. Invite your friends to attend divine services.
A drawing congregation is as good as a
drawing preacher. Call for your friends often.</p>
<p>7. Remember day by day that you are not your
own, but have been “bought with a price,” and
that you are Christ’s servant. Watch and pray.</p>
<p>8. If any service is required of you in the
church or in the Sunday school, do not shirk it;
always say: “I will try for Jesus’ sake.”</p>
<p>9. In the prayer meeting speak briefly and to
the point. If you pray, ask only for what you
want. Be short and direct. “Ask and ye shall
receive.”</p>
<p>10. Never subscribe more than you are able to
pay, and be sure to pay whatever you promise.
Whether much or little, give it cheerfully. “God
loveth a cheerful giver.”</p>
<p>11. Having found eternal life, use all appropriate
means to develop Christian character. Prayer,
reading the Bible, attending church and Sunday
school, reading good books and Christian newspapers,
keeping the best company—all these will
help you.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page259">[259]</span></p>
<h2>A WORD TO PARENTS.</h2>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo258.jpg" alt="" width-obs="400" height-obs="530" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">The Drummer Boy and His
Dog.</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>Children are a gift from God. Children are a
heritage from the Lord. It depends largely on
parents whether they become a heritage of honor
and delight or of sorrow
and shame. It is not
simply incumbent upon
parents that their children
be well cared for,
fed and clothed, properly
educated and so
forth; but more than
this, they are to be
brought up “in the nurture
and admonition of
the Lord.” This being
true, then, the highest
aim of rearing children
is not simply that they
may win success and
command respect in the
world. Respect and success
are greatly to be desired and sought, but beyond
them and beyond everything else is the highest
and chiefest aim of parental love and care;
that their children may honor and command the
righteousness of God in the life that now is and
magnify the glory of God in the life that is to be.
This is the mark and prize of their high calling.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page260">[260]</span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo259.jpg" alt="Children en parents" width-obs="389" height-obs="600" /></div>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page261">[261]</span></p>
<p>Admitting this, then, the early conversion of
children is all-important. But if they are to be
early converted, is it not wise—nay, absolutely essential—that
mothers and fathers prepare the way
by restricting their natural impulses by which
they are led to desire indulgence in the gay vanities
of life? Is it not positively wrong for parents
to indulge that pernicious and destructive delusion,
which some allow, of permitting their children
to have their own evil way in the hope that
in due time they will in some way see their error
and turn to the right path of their own accord?
Father, you are a Christian. Mother, you are a
Christian. Now, in your home, in the management
of your children, are you doing the best you can
to show what a Christian family should be? How
is it, my friends? I leave that question with you.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page262">[262]</span></p>
<h2>THE UNSEEN CHARMER.</h2>
<p>Carl Brickermann, a collection clerk in an uptown
bank, in his accustomed daily routine found
it necessary, among other things, to call by telephone
the downtown brokerage firm of Hopegood
& Co. One day he missed the familiar feminine
voice which had usually responded to his calls.
But the new voice seemed sweeter and much more
passionately penetrating. For two or three days
Brickermann was puzzled, not only because of the
change at the other end of the ’phone, but also
because of the strange and unaccountable fascination
which the new voice possessed for him. At
length one day, almost in desperation, he turned
aside from his regular business inquiries to ask:</p>
<p>“Where’s the other girl?”</p>
<p>“Which other girl?” asked the mellifluous voice
over the articulate wire.</p>
<p>“The one who used to answer the ’phone for the
Hopegoods,” explained Brickermann.</p>
<p>“Promoted,” came the response, with a merry
little laugh.</p>
<p>“And you have her old place?” asked Brickermann,
somewhat encouraged.</p>
<p>“Yes; for awhile,” said the same still, small
voice at the other end, and it sounded more and
more sweetly to the would-be masher.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page263">[263]</span></p>
<p>“Well,” said Brickermann, laughing the while,
“I used to know her quite well, and I should like
to meet you face to face, if you don’t mind, I am
so charmed with the music of your voice I am sure
I should be perfectly entranced with the magic of
your face.”</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo262.jpg" alt="" width-obs="500" height-obs="512" /> <p class="caption">“<span class="smcap">Is Er-Er-Mr. Hopegood In?</span>”</p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>A merry peal of laughter from the other end
greeted this sally. The young man continued:</p>
<p>“I used to come down some days about four<span class="pagenum" id="Page264">[264]</span>
o’clock to see Margie. Will you, my Unseen
Charmer, grant me the same high favor?”</p>
<p>“Why, certainly! Come any day,” answered
the sweet voice which had so strangely bewitched
the young man. In ecstasy Brickermann shouted
back:</p>
<p>“I’ll be down this afternoon.”</p>
<p>Brickermann hung up the receiver, and, chuckling
with delight, he turned to his other duties
with the alacrity that a young spring chicken displays
when it suddenly discovers a big fat worm.</p>
<p>By three-thirty o’clock he had arranged his
toilet, and stood before the mirror giving the finishing
twirl to his budding moustache. He brushed
his clothing the second time, brushed his hat, and,
figuratively speaking, arrayed in purple and fine
linen, he sallied forth. He boarded an elevated
train bound for the downtown district. On his
way down he tried to picture to himself the kind
of a girl he should meet at the Hopegoods. Would
she be tall or short of stature? Blonde or brunette?
Above twenty-one years of age or only sweet sixteen?
The quick arrival of the train at Park Place
put a period to Brickermann’s reverie. He went
tripping across a few blocks to the place where all
of his hopes had been centered during the past few
hours—in fact, days. Arrived there, he stepped
into the front office where “Margie” had formerly
presided. It was the same snug and cosy room,
but he failed to behold there the eagerly expected
young lady. Instead he ran amuck a chubby little<span class="pagenum" id="Page265">[265]</span>
boy, with a ruddy face and curly hair, and perhaps
not more than fourteen or fifteen years old,
sitting in “Margie’s” place.</p>
<p>Brickermann was visibly embarrassed. He did
not know where to begin or what to say. He
twitched nervously at the glove which he carried
in his hand, and finally he stammered:</p>
<p>“Is—er—Mr. Hopegood in?”</p>
<p>“No, sir,” said the boy. “Can I be of any service
to you?”</p>
<p>Brickermann’s face turned blood red, and great
drops of perspiration stood out upon his forehead.
The accents of the little boy startled him, for they
were the same that had been wafted to him almost
daily along the wire and with which he thought
he had been enamored. In the midst of his confusion
he managed to say, hoping almost against
hope that his identity had not been discovered:</p>
<p>“Well, er—er—I’ll call again.”</p>
<p>And, without waiting to hear the Unseen Charmer
speak again, he hastily retired with as good
grace as was possible under the circumstances.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>OUR COUNTRY.</h2>
<p>Boys and girls, we are all American citizens,
the last one of us. This is our country, as much
as it is the country of any other race, and we<span class="pagenum" id="Page266">[266]</span>
should love it and fight for it as our fathers have
loved, fought and died for it on many a battlefield.
We may be the descendants of Africans, but
we are citizens of the United States. This is our
home—our country. Let us believe it, in spite of
what some foolish people say. Therefore I am going
to give you one or two sentiments which you
should learn early in life in order to stimulate
your patriotism.</p>
<p>1. May the honor of our country be without
stain.</p>
<p>2. May the glory of America never cease to
shine.</p>
<p>3. May every American manfully withstand
corruption.</p>
<p>4. May reverence for the laws ever predominate
in the hearts of the American people.</p>
<p>5. The sons and daughters of America, may
their union be cemented by love and affection, and
their offspring adorn the stations they are destined
to fill.</p>
<p>6. May the growth of the American union
never be prevented by party spirit.</p>
<p>7. The boys of America, may they be strong
and virtuous, manly and brave.</p>
<p>8. The girls of America, may they prove to be
such in heart and life as will make them worthy
mothers of a strong and noble race.</p>
<p>9. Health to our president, prosperity to our<span class="pagenum" id="Page267">[267]</span>
people, and may Congress direct its endeavors to
the public good.</p>
<p><span class="dontwrap">10.—</span></p>
<div class="poemcenter">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">May Peace o’er America spread her wing,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And Commerce fill her ports with gold;<br/></span>
<span class="i0">May Arts and Science comfort bring,<br/></span>
<span class="i2">And Liberty her sons enfold.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<!--poem--></div>
<!--poemcenter-->
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>THE “DON’T-CARE” GIRL.</h2>
<p>About the worst girl in all this world is the girl
who doesn’t care what people think or say about
her conduct; the girl who goes to every “hop,” to
every party, who stays out late at night with the
boys, who hangs over the gate and talks to them,
and who cuts a number of foolish capers, and then
when any one speaks to her, shoots her head ’way
up in the air, and turns up her nose, if she can, and
says boldly: “Oh, I don’t care; nobody has anything
to do with me!” She is the worst girl in
the world, and she will never come to any good
end. Every girl who is a law unto herself in regard
to all that she says or does is certain not
only to bring upon herself the condemnation of
those whose good opinion it is worth while to
have, but she will most certainly incur the punishment
of a just God. And sometimes, I am sorry
to say, I think that when a girl proudly declares
that she doesn’t care for the good opinion of others<span class="pagenum" id="Page268">[268]</span>
she does so because she knows that she has
already lost all right to that good opinion.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo268.jpg" alt="" width-obs="500" height-obs="536" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">The “Don’t-Care” Girl.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>It is wrong, boys and girls, to undertake to run
roughshod over the so-called prejudices of the public.
It is a foolish thing to take delight in trying
to shock people by your boisterous and unladylike
and unbecoming conduct. Every really wise and
nice girl does care a good deal for the good opinion<span class="pagenum" id="Page269">[269]</span>
of others, and particularly for the good opinion
of persons older than she is. She recognizes
the fact that the laws of conventionality and of
good society are based upon what is right and
what is proper, and that no girl can with propriety
set them at naught.</p>
<p>Some girls go so far as to say that they “don’t
care” what their own fathers and mothers think.
The wild girl who says this is setting at defiance
not only the human parental law, but also the law
of God, which plainly commands children to obey
their parents.</p>
<p>Haven’t you ever seen a “don’t-care” girl? She
is nearly always reckless in manner and speech;
she is bold and defiant; she is impudent beyond
mention; and she is very fond of ridiculing girls
who do care a great deal what others think about
them.</p>
<p>No matter whose children they are—no matter
what schools they have attended—these “don’t-care”
girls are no good, and good girls ought not
to associate with them. Every day such flippant
girls are treading on dangerous ground, and some
day, unless a merciful God prevents it, she will
come to open disgrace and die and go to torment.
I am hoping to see the day when all the “don’t-care”
girls will have passed out of existence, and
then all our girls will be of the refined and womanly
kind who do care a great deal about their conduct,
their manners and their morals. I don’t
want my daughter to associate with any other
kind.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page270">[270]</span></p>
<h2>A PRAYER.</h2>
<div class="poemcenter">
<div class="poem">
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">As the potter moulds the clay,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Slowly, gently, day by day,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Till at length he brings to pass<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Beauty from a shapeless mass;<br/></span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">So, dear Lord, with patient art,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Take Thou, now, my forward heart,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">And, O Lord, in love divine,<br/></span>
<span class="i0">Mould and make me wholly thine.<br/></span></div>
</div>
<!--poem--></div>
<!--poemcenter-->
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>FREDERICK DOUGLASS TO YOUNG PEOPLE.</h2>
<p>Shortly before he died Frederick Douglass made
a tour through the South. Among other places he
visited Atlanta University. At that place he made
an address to the young people. It is so full of
hope and help that I wanted to place it where
every ambitious black boy and girl in America
can see it. It has never been published before,
except in the Bulletin of Atlanta University. Mr.
Douglass said:</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/illo270.jpg" alt="" width-obs="500" height-obs="589" /> <p class="caption"><span class="smcap">Frederick Douglass.</span></p>
</div>
<!--figcenter-->
<p>“My young friends: I see before me an assemblage
of young people, full of the blood of youth,
just entering upon the voyage of life. It is an interesting
spectacle to me, as to us all, to meet such
an assembly as I see before me this morning in
an institution of learning, of knowledge, and of
ethics and of Christian graces. I experience great<span class="pagenum" id="Page271">[271]</span>
pleasure in what I see to-day. There is no language
to describe my feelings. It was no mere image
that John saw and described in the apocalypse.
It was a new heaven and a new earth indeed. When
I look back upon the time when I was a fugitive
slave I recollect the evils and cruelty of slave-hunting.<span class="pagenum" id="Page272">[272]</span>
No mountain was so high, no valley was
so deep, no glen so secluded, no place so sacred to
liberty that I could put my foot upon it and say
I was free! But now I am free! Contrasting my
condition then and now the change exceeds what
John saw upon the isle of Patmos. A change vast
and wonderful, that came by the fulfilling of laws.
We got freed by laws, marvellous in our eyes. Men,
brave men, good men, who had the courage of
their convictions, were arrested and subjected to
persecutions, mobs, lawlessness, violence. They
had the conviction of truth. Simple truth lasts
forever!</p>
<p>“Be not discouraged. There is a future for you
and a future for me. The resistance encountered
now predicates hope. The negro degraded, indolent,
lazy, indifferent to progress, is not objectionable
to the average public mind. Only as we
rise in the scale of proficiency do we encounter
opposition. When we see a ship that lies rotting
in the harbor, its seams yawning, its sides broken
in, taking water and sinking, it meets with no opposition;
but when its sails are spread to the
breeze, its top-sails and its royals flying, then there
is resistance. The resistance is in proportion to
its speed. In Memphis three negro men were
lynched, not because they were low and degraded,
but because they knew their business and other
men wanted their business.</p>
<p>“I am delighted to see you all. Don’t be despondent.
Don’t measure yourselves from the white<span class="pagenum" id="Page273">[273]</span>
man’s standpoint; but measure yourselves by the
depths from which you have come. I measure
from these depths, and I see what Providence has
done. Daniel Webster said in his speech at the
dedication of Bunker Hill monument: ‘Bunker Hill
monument is completed. There it stands, a memorial
of the past, a monitor of the present, a
hope of the future. It looks, speaks, acts!’ So
this assembly is a monitor of the present, a memorial
of the past, a hope of the future. I see boys
and girls around me. Boys, you will be men some
day. Girls, you will be women some day. May
you become good men and women, intelligent men
and women, a credit to yourselves and your country.</p>
<p>“I thank you for what I have experienced to-day
and I leave you reluctantly, and shall always
carry with me the pleasantest impressions of this
occasion.”</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page274">[274]</span></p>
<h2>A GOOD FELLOW.</h2>
<p>He was a good fellow.</p>
<p>He spent his money like a Prince.</p>
<p>There was nothing too good for him to do for
those with whom he kept company.</p>
<p>He lived rapidly, and had no thought of to-morrow.
He burned the candle of life at both ends.</p>
<p>To-day he is dead,—and those vampires who
sucked his life’s blood and helped him to spend his
money have no time to give him one thought.</p>
<p>Ah, how insincere and empty is the title of
“good fellow” when it is applied to the man whose
money is always on tap for those who are desirous
of having a good time! And how corrupt and undesirable
are the so-called friendships which
spring from a lavish expenditure of money! Boys,
the roof over your heads covers the best friends
you could possibly have on earth. Those who slap
you on the shoulder and say hilariously, “Good
boy!” are seldom ever worth their salt. They like
you for what they can get out of you—that’s all!</p>
<p>Real happiness in this world comes, if at all,
from living right and doing right. If you are a
good fellow in the sense of giving everybody a
“good time” with your hard-earned means, I
warn you that, when your money gives out, all
your friends will desert you, and when you die<span class="pagenum" id="Page275">[275]</span>
they will be the last ones to come near you, and
may even laugh at what a fool you made of yourself!</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<h2>THE FUTURE OF THE NEGRO.</h2>
<p>My dear boys and girls, I have written nearly
one hundred stories for this book and I have not
said one word about the so-called Race Problem.
I have done this on purpose. I believe that the less
you think about the troubles of the race and the
less you talk about them and the more time you
spend in hard and honest work, believing in God
and trusting him for the future, the better it will
be for all concerned. I know, of course, that the
sufferings which are inflicted upon the colored
people in this country are many and grievous. I
know that we are discriminated against in many
ways—on common carriers, in public resorts and
even in private life. The right to vote is being
taken away from us in nearly all the Southern
states. Lynchings are on the increase. Not only
our men but our women also are being burned at
the stake. What shall we do? There are those
who say that we must strike back—use fire and
torch and sword and shotgun ourselves. But I tell
you plainly that we cannot afford to do that. The
white people have all the courts, all the railroads,<span class="pagenum" id="Page276">[276]</span>
all the newspapers, all the telegraph wires, all the
arms and ammunition and double the men that we
have. In every race riot the negro would get the
worst of it finally. But there is a higher reason
than that. We cannot afford to do wrong. We
cannot afford to lose our decency, our self-respect,
our character. No man will ever be the superior
of the man he robs; no man will ever be the
superior of the man he steals from. I would rather
be a victim than a victimizer. I would rather be
wronged than to do wrong. And no race is
superior to the race it tramples upon, robs, maltreats
and murders. In spite of prejudice; in spite
of proscription; in spite of nameless insults and
injuries, we cannot as a race, afford to do wrong.
But we can afford to be patient. God is
not dead. His chariots are not unwheeled.
It is ordained of God that races, as well
as individuals, shall rise through tribulations.
And during this period of stress and strain
through which we are passing in this country I
believe that there are unseen forces marshalled in
the defense of our long-suffering and much-oppressed
people. “They that be with us are more
than they that be with them.” What should we
care, then, though all the lowlands be filled with
threats, if the mountains of our hope and courage
and patience are filled with horses and
chariots of Divine rescue?</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page277">[277]</span></p>
<h2>THE TRAINING OF CHILDREN.</h2>
<p>My last words shall be to parents. Many parents
neglect the training of their children until
the boys and girls have grown to be almost men
and women, and then they expect all at once to
develop them into well-rounded characters, as if
by magic. Others fix upon a definite time in life—say,
ten or twelve years old—before which time
they say it is unnecessary to seek to make lasting
impressions upon the minds of children, all unconscious
of the fact that the character may have
been long before that period biased for good or
evil.</p>
<p>I say it deliberately—it is a deep and abiding
conviction with me, that the time to begin to
shape the character of children is as soon as they
begin to know their own mothers from other
mothers, or as soon as they, become awake to the
events which are taking place around them. The
farmer who has the notion that his child can wait,
does not dare to let his corn and cotton wait. He
has observed that there are noxious weeds which
spring up side by side with the seed he has
planted, and, marvelous to say, the weeds outgrow
the plants. They must, therefore, be cut
down and kept down, or else they will ruin the
crop.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page278">[278]</span></p>
<p>Side by side with your tender babe in arms
there are growing now, dear mothers, the poisonous
tares. They are rooted already in the child’s
heart, and, unless they are stricken down pretty
soon, they will dominate the child’s life. And, of
course, there is only one way to destroy evil—that
is, to plant good in its stead. If there is one untenanted
chamber in your child’s heart, inhabit
it, I pray you, with nobler and purer thoughts
which before long shall bring forth fruit unto
God. Satan does not wait, I assure you; he never
allows a vacancy to remain unoccupied in anybody’s
heart, old or young. He rushes into empty
hearts and idle lives and sows tares thicker than
the strewn leaves of autumn. It is an old and
senseless and barbarian custom which has taught
us that the child can wait or must wait. If anybody
must wait at table to be served, it is usually
the little child, who may be the hungriest of all;
if some one must remain away from church or
Sunday-school, it is often the youngest child, who
perhaps needs most to go; if some one must be
kept out of the day-school, it is the smallest child,
of course; and during the year that he remains
idle he may receive impressions and learn lessons
that will mar his whole future life. Let us have
done with this barbaric practice. Make room for
the children; give them not only the first place but
the best place.</p>
<p>In almost any city in the South any Sunday in
the year you will find more children—more boys<span class="pagenum" id="Page279">[279]</span>
and girls—outside of the Sunday-schools than you
will find inside. There is a loud and crying call
sounding from the past and from the future and
bidding mothers and fathers to be more diligent
in the matter of having their children embrace
opportunities of growth and spiritual culture
which are almost within a stone’s throw. If
mothers and fathers will not hear and obey this
clarion call I believe that they will be brought to
account for it in the day of judgment. Not only
so, but in the years to come they will be compelled
to wail out their sorrow over prodigal sons and
daughters who might have proven to be ornaments
to society and to the church if their parents
had devoted half the care upon them that they
expended upon colts and calves, kittens and puppies
that grew up with them!</p>
<p>In all earnestness I implore those to whom God
has given winsome little children to begin early,
as early as thy find it possible, to train their
young lives for God and heaven. Let their little
voices learn early to lisp the precious name of
Jesus and be attuned to sing His praise. If you
leave them this legacy—than which there is none
greater—there will come peace and joy to your
old age, and the light of heaven, like the golden
glow of a radiant sunset, will rest on your dying
bed.</p>
<p>And now, as I close these stories, there comes to
me across the intervening space of silence and of
tears fond memories of a sweet and patient<span class="pagenum" id="Page280">[280]</span>
mother. I cannot remember when she began to
talk to me of Jesus nor read to me the word of
God. I remember well when she taught me how to
read, and the old-fashioned blue back spelling
book is as plainly before me now as in those long
past days. But, long before that, I had heard her
read the Bible and raise her voice in prayer for all
whom she loved. And to-day those memories live
when a thousand busy scenes of after life lie dead.
And when old age comes on—if God should spare
me to be old—the memory of my mother’s words
and her reverential prayers will be the brightest
of all the joys that shall light up the evening of
my life.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p class="center highline4">THE END.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="tnbot" id="TN">
<h2>Transcriber’s Notes</h2>
<p>The language of the original publication has been retained, including unusual and inconsistent spelling, except as listed below.</p>
<p>The cover image (the dust jacket of the source publication) and possibly some of the illustrations are for a
combined edition of two different books; this e-text only contains the Short Stories for Colored People Both Old and Young.</p>
<p>Depending on the hard- and software used not all elements may display as intended.</p>
<p>Title page, The Gospel of Serv’ce and other Sermons: as printed in the source document.</p>
<p>Page 31, ... that there were something ...: as printed in the source document.</p>
<p>Page 65, Uncle Ned and the Insurance Solicitor: the source document has a footnote marker on this page, but no footnote.
Possibly the footnote refers to an earlier, slightly different, publication of this story in Lippincott’s Magazine. </p>
<p>Page 133, Henry Holt and David Oliver appear to be the same person.</p>
<p class="blankbefore1">Changes made</p>
<p>Footnotes have been moved to directly under the story in which they occur; illustrations have been moved out of text paragraphs.</p>
<p>Some obvious minor typographical errors have been corrected silently.</p>
<p>Page 216, the verse Gross Deception has been treated as a separate chapter.</p>
<p>Page 263: illustration caption changed to small capitals as other captions.</p>
</div>
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