Small Means and Great Ends by Edited by Mrs. M. H. Adams
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Edited by Mrs. M. H. Adams >> Small Means and Great Ends
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FORTUNE-TELLING.
A DIALOGUE FOR EXHIBITIONS.
BY JULIA A. FLETCHER.
_Sophronia_. Come, girls, let us go and have our fortunes told.
_Eveline_. Oh! I should like it of all things; where shall we go?
_Sarah_. Let us go to old Kate Merrill's. They say she can read the
future as we do the past, by hand, tea-cups, or cards. Come, Mary Ann.
_Mary Ann_. Excuse me, girls, if I do not go with you. I do not think it
is right to have our fortunes told.
_Sophronia_. Not right? why not?
_Mary Ann_. Because, if it had been best for us to know the future, I
think God would have revealed it to us.
_Sarah_. Oh, but you know this is only for amusement.
_Eveline_. Of course, we shall not believe a word she says.
_Mary Ann_. If it is only for amusement, I think we can find others far
more rational and innocent. But depend upon it, girls, you would not
wish to go, if there were not in your minds a little of credulous
feeling?
_Sophronia_. Well, I am sure I am not credulous.
_Mary Ann_. Do not be offended, Sophronia; I only meant that we are all
of us more inclined to believe these things than we at first imagine.
_Sarah_. I think that Mary Ann is right in this respect. I am sure I
would not go if I did not think her predictions would come to pass.
_Mary Ann_. Certainly; I could not suppose you would spend your time and
money to hear an old woman tell you things you did not believe.
_Eveline_. Well, I am sure I do not see any harm in having a little fun
once in a while.
_Sophronia_. No; and I think it is very unkind in Mary Ann to spoil all
our pleasures with her whims. She is always preaching to us about giving
up our own way for the comfort of others, and I think she ought to give
up now, and go with us.
_Sarah_. Now, really, Sophronia, I think you are the one that is unkind.
If Mary Ann is wrong, it is better to convince her of it kindly, and I
am sure she will acknowledge it.
_Mary Ann_. I hope I should be willing to give up a mere whim for the
pleasure of those I love so well. But this is not a whim; it is a
serious conviction of duty.
_Sophronia_. Well, I thought you always pretended to be very obliging.
_Mary Ann_. I have no right to be obliging at the expense of what I deem
duty. Our own inclinations we should often sacrifice, our prejudices
always, but our sense of duty never.
_Eveline_. I think, girls, we have done wrong to urge Mary Ann to go,
after she had told us her reasons.
_Sophronia_. Well, then, don't spend any more time in urging her to go,
against her will. You know the old proverb "The least said is soonest
mended."
_Eveline_. Well, do not let us go away angry or ill-natured. You asked
Mary Ann to say why she thought it was wrong, and we should receive her
reasons kindly.
_Sarah_. So I think; but I wish she would tell us what harm she thinks
it would do to go.
_Mary Ann_. Well, girls, I think, by trying to look into the future, we
are apt to grow discontented and restless, and to forget that we have
duties to perform in the present. Then, if we do not believe in it, it
is a waste of time and money, which might be better employed in
relieving the suffering of the poor around us. But the greatest evil of
all is, that we should believe even a part; she would of course tell us
many little circumstances which would be true of any one; thus we might
be led to believe all she said; the prediction would probably work out
its own fulfilment, and perhaps render us miserable for life.
_Sophronia_. Oh, fudge! Mary Ann. This is altogether too bad and
ungenerous in you. In the first place, the few cents we give, bestowed
as they are on a poor old widow woman, are not wasted, in my opinion,
but well spent;--and if I spend an evening, granted to me by my father
and mother for recreation, in listening to Old Kate, it is no more
wasted than if I spend it with the girls in any other social way. And
when you connect fortune-telling and our duties in the present, you make
it too serious an affair. _Remember, this is all for sport_.
_Mary Ann_. It may be so with you, Sophronia; but there are those who
seriously believe every word of a fortune-teller, and actually live more
in the unseen but expected events of the future, than in faithfully
performing their duties in the present. This is true, Sophronia. The
contentment and peace of many young minds have been utterly lost, _sold_
for the absurd jabbering of old, ignorant, low-bred women, who pretend
to read the future. [_In a livelier tone of voice_.] But just say,
girls, do you believe there is any connection between tea-leaves and
your future lives?
_Eveline, Sarah, Sophronia_. Why, no!
_Mary Ann_. Do you believe God has marked the fortunes of thousands of
his creatures on the face of cards?
_Eveline, Sarah, Sophronia_. Certainly not.
_Mary Ann_. Well, do you believe, if God should intrust the secret
events of the future with any of our race, in this age, it would be with
those who have neither intellectual, moral, nor religious education--who
can be bribed by dollars and cents to say anything?
_Sarah, Eveline_. No, indeed!
_Mary Ann. (Turns to Sophronia,)_ You do not answer, Sophronia. Let me
ask you one or two more questions. Do you suppose Kate Merrill believes
that she has a revelation from God?
_Sophronia_. No, Mary Ann.
_Mary Ann_. Do you suppose she thinks you believe so?
_Sophronia_. Why, yes, I do.
_Mary Ann_. Then, is it benevolent to bestow money to encourage an old
woman in telling for truth what she knows to be false?
_Sophronia_. I doubt whether it is really benevolent.
_Mary Ann_. And if Old Kate speaks falsely and knows she does so, and
you know it, yet spend your time in listening to what she has to say,
what good can come of it to head or heart?
_Sophronia_. None at all, Mary Ann. It is time wasted, and I am
convinced that I have been doubly wrong in wishing to go, and in being
angry with you. Will you forgive me?
_Mary Ann_. Certainly, Sophronia. And now, if you wish for amusement, I
will be a witch myself, and tell your fortunes for you.
_Sophronia_. Oh, do tell mine; and be sure you tell it truly. What lines
of fate do you see in my hand?
_Mary Ann. (Takes her hand and looks at it intently.)
(To Sophronia_.)
Passions strong my art doth see.
Thou must rule them, or they rule thee.
If the first, you peace will know;
If the last, woe followeth woe.
_Sarah_. Now tell mine next.
_(To Sarah_.)
Too believing, too believing,
Thou hast learned not of deceiving.
Closely scan what seemeth fair,
And of flattering words beware.
_Eveline_. Now tell me a pleasant fortune, Mary Ann.
_(To Eveline_.)
Lively and loving, I would not chide thee,
Do thou thy duty, and joy shall betide thee.
_Sophronia_. Thank you, Mary Ann, for the lessons you have given us. We
can now, in turn, tell your fortune, and that is, Always be amiable and
sensible as now, and you will always be loved.
[Illustration.]
THE BOY WHO STOLE THE NAILS.
BY REV. MOSES BALLOU.
I remember well, that, when I was quite a little boy, a circumstance
occurred which I shall probably never forget, and which, no doubt, has
had some little influence on my life at many different periods since. I
will relate it; and I wish all my young readers would remember the
story.
My father was somewhat poor. He had no salary for preaching, except for
a few months, perhaps not five hundred dollars for forty years of pulpit
labor. He maintained his family chiefly from a small farm, and, there
being several children, we were deprived of many little things that
wealthier parents are accustomed to furnish for theirs. We had few
presents, and those chiefly of necessary articles,--school-books, or
something of the kind; while toys, playthings, and instruments of
amusement, we were left to go without, or take up with such rude and
simple ones as we could manufacture for ourselves.
I wanted a small box very much. A handsome little trunk, such as most of
my young readers probably have, was too much to hope for, and a plain
wooden box, even, I had no means to purchase.
I went without for a long time, and at last determined that I would try
to make one. But the materials,--where was I to obtain them? True, my
father had pieces of thin boards that would answer, but there were
nails, and hinges, and a lock wanting. Where were these to come from?
After trying a variety of methods, I invented a plan for fastening it
without a lock, and leather made a very good substitute for hinges, as
it was to be out of sight. Still, I wanted nails. There were some old
ones about the house, but they were crooked, and broken, and rusty.
These would not answer if anything better could be obtained.
My uncle, who at this time lived but a short distance from us, was
engaged in building, and I watched the barrel of bright new nails his
workmen were using, with a longing eye. O, how I coveted them!
The temptation was too great. I sought the opportunity while the hands
were at dinner, and, after cautiously looking about to see that no one
was near to observe me, with trembling hands seized upon them, _and
stole enough to make my box_. O! how my heart beat as I hurried away
across the fields home. I almost expected to see some one start up from
every stump and bush on the way, to accuse me of the theft. I hardly
dared to look behind me. It seemed as though my old uncle, with frowning
brow, was at my very heels. And then, too, the workmen;--were they not
suspicious from my hanging about them, and had not some of them watched
me? So horrid images began to dance about my brain. Dim visions of
court-rooms, and lawyers, and judges, and prisons, and sorrowing
parents, and frightened brothers and sisters, rose in awful terror
before me. I began to grow dizzy and faint. I had laid up, for a long
time, all the pennies I could obtain, which, at that time, amounted to
the vast sum of twenty cents, contained in an old-fashioned pistareen;
and the hope sprung up in my heart, that, possibly, by paying this to
the officers, they would not carry me to jail.
Thought was busy in laying plans for escape, and I reached home in the
greatest excitement imaginable.
Well, the deed was now done, and I could not undo it. I was really a
thief; and now, as I had got the nails, I thought I might as well use
them. I was too anxious about the crime, however, to do this at once.
So I hid them away for a week or more, before I ventured to make my box.
Taking such leisure hours as I had,--for I was obliged to work most of
the time on the farm,--I crept away in the loft of an old building, and
finally succeeded in finishing my task. But, now that the box was done,
my troubles were by no means ended. It would be seen. I could not always
keep it out of sight. My brothers, and sisters, and playmates, would
examine it, and possibly my father would get his eye upon it! Suppose he
should, and ask me where those nails came from?
O, how my poor brain was racked to invent some false story by which I
could escape detection! I thought of saying that they were old ones
which I had polished up so as to appear new, and I even filed down the
rust on the head of an old nail to see if they would look sufficiently
alike. But nothing of this kind would answer. The cheat, I thought,
would be detected; and so I was obliged, after all my trouble and
suffering, to keep my box hidden away when it was done. Every time I
went to look at it, those bright new nail-heads were staring out at me,
ready to reveal my crime to any one who saw them.
For a long time, I did not dare to go to my uncles again. True, he knew
nothing of my wrong; but I felt guilty, and did not care to see him.
Finally, after some time had passed away, though I had by no means
forgotten the theft, and still suffered much every time it was thought
of, I ventured to call and see him. I could hardly avoid the impression
that he must know what I had done, and would accuse me of it; and when
he met me in the yard at his door; patted my cheek with a half-laughing,
half-reproving look; asked why I had stayed away from him so long; and
said, that, to punish me, he should go and get me some very nice apples
from the garden;--I could bear it no longer. It seemed as though my
heart would break. What I said, I have now forgotten. I remember that I
cried very heartily, and, as soon as my tears would allow it, told him
the whole story!
I can still see, fresh in my memory, the sad look that came over him as
I confessed my crime; but not a single harsh or unkind word did he
utter. He told me that it was very wrong; that I had acted nobly in
confessing it; and that, if I had only asked him in the first place, he
would gladly have given me all I wanted.
Thinking I had suffered enough already, he promised not to tell my
parents, in case I continued a good boy, and advised me to destroy the
box and bring him back the nails, as no one could then suspect what had
been done but ourselves.
His kindness, I confess, pained me very much. I think nothing could have
tempted me to do him any wrong again.
I loved him better than ever before. He never alluded to the subject
afterwards, but I always thought of it when I saw him. He died in a
short time; and, twenty years after, as I stood by his grave, the
circumstance came up, clear and distinct, to my recollection. I have
not, indeed, from that to the present hour, felt the least temptation to
commit any wrong of the kind without recalling it; and, if all my young
readers will think seriously how much suffering that one act cost me,
and how much happier I should otherwise have been, I am confident that
they will never commit a similar offence so long as they remember the
story of _the boy who stole the nails_.
THE CHILDLESS MOTHER.
BY MRS. M.H. ADAMS.
There are many childless mothers in our land. In some homes there never
lived a little child to make them happy; but in others the spirits of
the little ones have departed. They dwell in another home--the "dear
heavenly home." Their mothers, those childless mothers, weep day and
night in their loneliness and sadness. This sketch is of a mother who
had buried all her little babes--four precious children--all her little
family. The mother's name was Ellen Moore.
For many months after the birth of her first child, Ellen was free from
sorrow as a bird in the morning. She never thought affliction might come
to her blessed home. It was not surprising, for she had never known what
bereavement and bitter disappointment were. She was educated to be a
child of sunshine. She had always lived amid smiles and tenderness, and
when the fearful cloud of sorrow broke, in an unexpected moment, upon
her head, she seemed bowed down, never to rise again in health and
beauty.
It was a sad day in our neighborhood when Ellen's first little babe
died; we all wept. Not so much because he was dead, for we all felt that
_he_ was at rest; but his dear mother was so sorely troubled, her heart
ached so grievously, it seemed as if she too would die. Days and nights
Ellen wept, and moaned, and walked her house. The tears seemed to burn
their way down her cheeks. She spoke but seldom, yet that pitiful moan
she so often breathed out pierced our souls and made us all very sad.
After a few weeks, the consolation we offered her quieted her feelings,
and she became calm. She went to church, called on her friends, and
attended to her duties at home. But there was ever a sadness in her
voice and manners. Her home was so lonely, so strangely still and
vacant, and Ellen so silent, that the voice of gladness was not heard in
it again until a second beautiful boy was born under its roof.
We were all happy then. Even Ellen smiled as she kissed her dear
babe--but a tear followed the smile and the kiss so soon, we knew her
wounded heart was not _then_ healed. She was very sad, and felt that
this babe, too, might only be loaned her for a short time. It was not
long before we all felt so. That little face, so pale, so sad, so
beautiful, evidently bore the seal of death upon it. He refused all
nourishment, and pined slowly away. Ellen knew he must die, but could
not say so. She could not shed one tear to relieve her sorrowful heart.
She neither spoke nor wept, until her infant was laid in its coffin.
A friend had woven a wreath of beautiful flowers, and laid it on the
satin pillow of the coffin, and placed a delicate rose-bud in the little
hand of the babe. Ellen went alone to take her last kiss, when, seeing
her babe so beautiful in death, she seated herself on the floor and wept
freely.
"Who loved my babe so fondly?" said she, when she came from the room.
"Who has been so kind and thoughtful of me? It has unsealed my tears;
now let me weep alone." We left her. She came out of that room a changed
woman. She assisted us in our preparations for the burial of the dead,
spoke cheerfully to her husband, conversed freely about her children in
heaven, and remarked that henceforth her life should be worthy of a
Christian. We buried the sweet babe by the side of his brother, and
planted a rose-tree over his grave. Then our thoughts turned to Ellen,
whose whole manner indicated resignation and peace.
We were not surprised at the effect of grief upon Ellen, for I have told
you she was not educated to bear human misery with much composure. Yet
what her parents had left undone seemed to be effected by those severe
dispensations of God. Our Father in heaven often educates us by his
chastisements, giving us wisdom, patience, hope, trustfulness and
resignation, according to the severity with which he afflicts us.
Ellen maintained the same cheerful manner from the time of the burial of
her second babe to the birth of her third child. Her friends hoped many
blessings for Ellen in the life of this child. It was a daughter,
apparently healthy; and as its mother had endured so severe a trial we
hoped the Lord would deal mercifully with her in sparing this one to
her. For one short year we had reason to hope for the life of the child.
But it was too frail a creature for this world, and, like its little
brothers, died in early infancy. And its mother--we found her to be a
practical Christian indeed.
Instead of moaning and violent grief, she held her babe as it breathed
its latest breath, and was first to break the awful silence in the room
that succeeded the final struggle, with these words: "She is with her
little brothers now, and I have reason to bless the Lord." She could say
no more then; and a few large tears fell on the cheek of her babe as it
still lay on her lap. Once only did she freely yield to tears. It was
when her husband first heard of the death of his babe. His anguish
overcame her composure. Soon recovered however, she maintained a truly
Christian deportment. The third little grave was opened in the burial
lot of Mr. Moore, and the body of this babe laid by its little brothers.
A fourth babe was born in the lonely home of Ellen, and fresh hopes
cherished for the long life of her child. The burden of every prayer
offered at that family altar was, "Lord, if it be thy will, suffer us to
rear this tender child!"
"Yet though I pray thus," said Ellen, "my heart is strong to meet its
early death; and if it dies, I shall not mourn as for my first-born. God
has afflicted me, but I am profited thereby."
"Very true, Ellen, but if this fourth dear babe is taken from us, we
shall almost doubt the mercy of God. How can you, in your present
delicate health, endure to lay this last dear babe by the side of the
departed ones, and again find your home desolate and silent?"
"My body is weak, Mary, but my spirit is well instructed in resignation,
and can calmly bear whatever new affliction God pleases to send. You
have called me changed since Alfred died, and sometimes too silent and
sad. I am changed and often silent, but not sad. _My_ treasures are in
heaven, and my communings are more with the spirits of my children in
heaven than with the friends who are with me here. And if this child
dies, Mary,----if he dies--his death will prepare me for the duties of
all the rest of my life."
* * * * *
The beautiful boy passed away just as his little lips had learned to
pronounce his mother's name--suddenly, unexpectedly to us all, and all
yielded to our grief but Ellen. We greatly feared his father would
become insane.
But Ellen--believe me, she was transformed from a child of sunshine to
an angel and minister of light in darkness. She sat by her husband as
serene and collected as if her babe only slept; not a tear swept her
cheek, not a tremulous word fell from her lips, as she soothed her
stricken companion; her pale face wore no look of despair, and she
directed every funeral preparation with as much composure as if _her_
heart had not felt the awful wound. The world called her heartless,--but
Christ must have owned her as one of his brightest jewels, almost a
perfect disciple. When she spoke, we felt as if some mysterious power
from heaven was in our midst. We thought as much of the saint-like
fortitude and resignation of our feeble Ellen, and wept as much to
witness her calmness and spiritual strength, as for the loss of our
interesting little friend.
Our pastor called to offer gospel consolations to the sorrowing mother,
but he wept as Ellen greeted him, saying, "God hath much love for us,
Brother Ellis, for he chasteneth much. Now, my only prayer is, that
Henry may be led to perceive it and be at peace. If you have words of
comfort, go to him and still his troubled spirit."
The aged came to console her, but went back to their dwellings feeling
that she was as well instructed in the wisdom of heaven as the oldest
servant among them. The young and happy came to mingle tears of sympathy
with her, but returned to dwell upon her words as upon communications
from the spirit-land, rather than from a creature like themselves. Her
words found a way to the soul of the most thoughtless, fixing their
minds upon heaven, and revealing the unseen glories of a better home,
and the beauty of Christian faith in an earthly one.
She was a Christian mother. When she put on Christ, she was "_a new
creature_" She believed her first grief was almost a murmuring against
heaven. Surely we know she bore an equal love for all her children, but
when her last one died, she loved God and her Saviour more, believing
fully that God would not do her wrong,--that he only sought the good of
his creatures in his dispensations,--that although they seemed grievous
and inscrutable to them, he saw the end from the beginning, and
chastized whom he loved.
THE MOTHERLESS CHILD.
BY MRS. M.H. ADAMS.
To become a childless mother is indeed one of the most severe
afflictions which woman can be called to endure; yet it may be, it is
often met with noble, Christian fortitude, with Christian humility and
resignation, that soothe the acute pains of the mother's heart, and
carry her thoughts away from earth and above its sorrows; so that we
feel that she can and has found a balm, and has still left her
consolation and happiness. But when we see a little child, whose mother
God has taken, as fully realizing its bereavement, its loneliness, its
absolute misfortune, as a child can do, we feel that to be a motherless
child in this unchristian world, is indeed an affliction for which there
seldom appears a balm; though we doubt not our Father hath the balm for
this as for every other wound.
A young man sat by the corpse of his faithful wife, the mother of all
his little babes. One child was gazing silently and inquiringly at her
father, as he held his head weeping and groaning in anguish of spirit.
A tender infant of a few weeks lay asleep in the cradle at his side. The
young man's mother entered the room, and with tenderness of tone and
manner, endeavored to calm his grief; with words of gospel love and
faith to comfort him.
"Abby has been to you a kind, faithful and devoted wife, David; an
agreeable companion and constant friend. Before God she was a humble
child, and before the world a worthy disciple of Christ. You doubtless
feel all this, and more. Few can speak evil of her, and very many will
sincerely mourn her early death, and sympathize with you in this
dreadful hour. But remember, David, you have, before this, professed
trust and belief in the promises and love of God. Now is the time to
make manifest your Christian faith, your hope in God, your belief in the
gospel. Try not to be utterly disconsolate in your loneliness. God is
very near to us, although this heavy cloud of sorrow lies between him
and us."
They were interrupted by the entrance of the oldest child of the
departed one, a sensitive, intelligent boy of six or seven years. Tears
were in his eyes as he opened the door, and fell fast into the lap of
his father as he tried to speak to him.
"Father," said he, "I have been down in the sitting-room, trying to read
my little books; but I think so much of my dear dead mother, I can't
read; and the tears come into my eyes so fast, that I can't see the
pictures. I went to rock in my little chair, but I saw my mother's empty
chair, and my little heart aches very much. It will be very lonesome and
sad here, if I don't see mother anywhere. And who will take care of this
little baby brother?"
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