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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"I wonder why she don't come," said she. "Perhaps the young thing has
forgotten me. Sure 'twould be a sorrow to me if I thought she had."
"No indeed," said a pleasant voice. A light form sprang from a clump of
bushes close by, and she felt a warm kiss upon her cheek. "No, I have
not forgotten you, but I have come to tell you how happy I am. Oh, I
have seen trouble and sorrow _enough_, since I saw you; but for all
that, I am much happier than I was then. You told me that I must learn
to love everybody, and so I did; and now it seems as if everybody and
everything loved me, even our old cat and dog. Strange, isn't it?"
"Heart's dearest!" said the old woman, as soon as she could speak,
wiping away the tears from her eyes with the corner of her apron;
"there's a philosophy in all things, even in baking bread and washing
dishes; but the true philosophy of life consists in loving and doing;
and, blessed be God! that is so plain, that the least of his children
can understand it."
[Illustration]
THE STARVING POOR OF IRELAND.
BY REV. J.G. ADAMS.
A wail comes o'er the ocean,
Though faint, yet deep with woe!
A nation's poor are falling
Before the direst foe!
Grim Famine there hath seized them,
And over Erin's land
The multitudes are perishing
Beneath his blasting hand!
The father gives his morsel
To his imploring child,
Himself imploring mercy, too,
With voice and visage wild.
The ever-faithful mother
Her portion, too, will share
With those who lean upon her,
And plead her dying care.
Then father, mother, children,
Must listen, one and all,
To Famine's surer, sterner voice--
To Death's relentless call.
For means are all exhausted;
Bread! bread! There is no more!
And in that once glad cabin
The conflict now is o'er.
Fond, faithful hearts there perished;
Affections deep and true
As other homes and loved ones
Now know, or ever knew.
And why this visitation
So sweeping and so sore?
Why? why? Repeat the question
The wide world o'er and o'er!
In that same land is plenty,
Profusion, wealth, and power,
Enough to stay the famine-plague
This very day and hour.
Yes, while the poor are starving
By scores and hundreds even,
Riches and luxury send up
Their impious laugh to heaven!
Wrong! wrong! this destitution,
While there are means to save
A nation of strong-hearted men
From famine and the grave.
Thanks, thanks for riches! but a woe
To this our earth they bring,
So long as they shall fail to save
God's poor from suffering!
THE SABBATH SCHOOL FESTIVAL.
BY REV. HENRY BACON.
In these days of "exhibitions" and "excursions" which give such rich
pleasure to our Sabbath school children, it may be well to turn back
something over twenty years, and see what used to be "great things" to
the pupils of the Sunday schools. The only festival I ever knew while in
a Sabbath school, in my youth, was at Dr. Baldwin's church, Boston. As I
was cradled in a different faith, I ought to tell how I came to be a
scholar in a Baptist school; and I will do so, as it may give a good
hint to some teachers to be impartial.
At the school I attended a decision was made to give a silver medal to
the best scholar. A good many of us worked hard for it, especially the
boys in the round pews near the pulpit, who had reason to think that the
prize would fall to one of their number. A right good feeling prevailed
amongst them; all were willing to acquiesce in whatever should be the
decision of the superintendent or committee. When the time for decision
came, a lad, the son of a deacon, and who had left school and had not
been at school for six months, was sent for, and _to him_ the silver
medal was given! We all felt outraged, but did not dare to say much. I
begged my parents, with good reasoning, to let me go to another school,
where I had many friends; and I went to Dr. Winchell's, in Salem street,
where Mr. John Gear was superintendent.
What lessons I did get! Whole chapters were recited from the New
Testament, because so many verses brought me a reward, so many rewards a
mark, and so many marks _a book_! We had no libraries then. Well, the
annual meeting came round, and one evening the school met and marched
down to Dr. Baldwin's church. I remember the children did the singing,
and while they were singing, of course, I sung; and I have not forgotten
how crest-fallen I felt when Mr. Gear came along, and whispered to me,
"Don't sing _so loud_;" but he might just as well have said, "Don't
sing," because I knew he did not want me to sing, for I could not keep
time. But it was festival-night, and he was extremely good-natured, and
did not wish to cut short the privileges of any. A prayer was offered,
and then we sung again. A big man, in a large black silk gown, got up,
and delivered a sermon; but we did not heed it as we ought to have done,
because some _tea-chests_ were ranged along at the base of the pulpit.
It was not the _tea-chests_ that attracted our attention, but the sweets
that we knew were _in_ them.
After the sermon was over, and the scholars were ranged in order, in
single file, they marched up to the table near the chests, and each one
received _a quarter of a sheet of gingerbread!_ How rich we were! How
sweet the cake tasted! We were in perfect ecstasies at the "great piece"
given to each of us! Such rows of happy children are seldom seen, and
all because two cents worth of gingerbread was given to them all alike!
We had thought of it for weeks, and it was delightful to anticipate the
occasion. We felt paid for all the trouble we had met in learning
lessons, in getting to school on rainy days, and keeping still and
orderly when we got there. And why all this happiness from so slight a
cause? Because we all felt loving and happy; we loved our teachers and
our school; and it seemed _so odd_ to get gingerbread in the church and
from the Sabbath school superintendent.
But how is it now? A long ride or sail; swings, music, cakes, pies,
fruit, lemonade, and a vast variety of "good things," must be had, or
else the Sabbath school children do not have "a good time!" After all
this is had and enjoyed, I do not believe it is any better than our
simple quarter of a sheet of gingerbread, unless the scholars love each
other more, and their schools better, than we did. Do _you_, reader?
[Illustration]
NELLY GREY.
"Nelly! Nelly! Where can the child be? Nelly! Nelly!" But Nelly Grey was
away off in dreamland, and the cheerful tones of her mother's voice fell
all unheeded upon her ear, as did the impatient touch of her little dog
Frisk's cold nose upon her hand. She was sitting on the last step of the
vine-covered portico in front of the cottage,--the warm June sun smiling
down lovingly upon her, and the soft wind kissing the little rings of
chestnut-colored hair that clustered about her temples.
What could make the child so quiet? It must be some weighty matter that
would still _her_ joyous laugh. Why, she was the merriest little body
that ever hunted for violets. There was a laugh lodged in every dimple
of her sunny face, and her busy little tongue was all the day long
carolling some happy ditty.
"Nelly, what are you dreaming about? I've been calling you this long
time, and here you are in this warm sun, almost asleep."
"No, no! mother dear, I've only been thinking, and haven't heard you
call once. Only to think that you couldn't find me mother! how funny!"
"And what has my little girl been thinking of?" said Mrs. Grey, as she
lifted Nelly into her lap, and smoothed hack the silky curls from her
brow. Nelly laid her rosy cheek close to her mother's, and wound her
small arms about her neck, and told her simple thoughts in a low, sweet
voice.
"You know it's strawberry time, mother, don't you?"
"Yes, darling."
"Well, I was thinking, if you would let me, I could pick a big basket
full, they are so thick over in our meadow; and maybe Mrs. Preston would
buy them of me, for she gives Mr. Jones a heap of money every year for
them."
"And what does Nelly want of a heap of money?"
"Why, mother, little Frisk wants a brass collar,--don't you, Frisk?"
Frisk barked and played all sorts of antics to show his young mistress
he was very much in need of one. "Think how pretty it would be, mother,
round Frisk's glossy neck. Oh, say that I may--do, do, mother!"
Nelly's pleading proved irresistible, and her mother tied her little
sunbonnet under her chin, gave the "big basket" into her hands, and the
little girl trudged merrily off, with Frisk jumping and barking by her
side to see his young mistress so happy.
Shall I tell how the long summer afternoon wore away, dear little
reader, and how the big basket was filled to the tip-top and covered
with wild flowers and oak leaves? Shall I tell, or shall I leave you to
guess, my little bright eyes? You say, yes? Well, I will tell you about
her walk to Mrs. Preston's after the sun had gone down and the azure
blue sky had become changed to a soft, golden hue.
It was a pleasant walk under the drooping trees, and Nelly Grey,
swinging her basket carefully on her arm, tripped lightly on her way.
Oh, how her blue eyes danced with joy as she looked down upon the little
merry Frisk trotting by her side; her bright lips parted as she
murmured, "Yes, yes, Frisk shall have a nice new collar, with 'Nelly
Grey's dog, Frisk,' written upon it;" then Frisk played all sorts of
funny antics again, probably by way of thanks.
Ah! but what calls that sudden blush and smile to Nelly's face?--and she
had well nigh stumbled, too, and spilt all her strawberries. No wonder
she started, for, emerging from under the shadow of the trees, was a
handsome lad some half a head taller than Nelly. He was gazing, too,
with a witching smile into her face, waiting till it should be the
little maiden's pleasure to notice him. She nodded her pretty little
head as demurely as a city belle, laid her small hand lovingly upon
Frisk's curly coat, and walked with a slower and less bounding step than
before. But Phil Morton was not to be abashed at this; so he stepped
lightly up to Nelly, saying,
"Let me carry your basket; it is too heavy for you."
The little girl, with many injunctions to be careful and not tip it
over, delivered the basket to him; she then told him her project of
buying Frisk a collar with the money got by the selling of the
strawberries, which young Phil approved of very much, and offered to go
with her to buy it, for he knew somebody, he said, that kept them for
sale. Nelly joyfully assented to his offer, and thanked him heartily,
too, for his kindness.
"There, Phil, we are almost there. I can see the long study window; we
have only to pass the widow Mason's cottage, up the green lane, and we
shall be there."
On they walked, laughing merrily for very lightness of heart, till they
were close beside the poor widow's low cottage window. Suddenly Nelly
stopped, and the laugh was hushed upon her bright lips. "Did you hear
it, Phil?" she said softly. "Hear what, Nell?" and Phil turned his black
eyes slowly round, as if he expected to see some fairy issue from the
grove of trees near by. "Why, Lucy Mason's cough. Mother says she will
not live to see the little snow-birds come again. Poor, dear Lucy!" The
great tear-drops rolled fast over Nelly's red cheeks, and fell like rain
upon her little hand. "Oh, Phil, I'll tell you what;--I'll give these
strawberries to Lucy. She used to love them dearly."
"Poh! poh! Nelly; what a silly girl! to give them away when Mrs. Preston
will give you such a deal of money for them!"
"But, Phil, Lucy's mother is poor; she can't buy them for her, and you
can't think how well Lucy loves them."
"Well, what if she does, and what if she is poor? can't her mother pick
them over in the fields, if she wants them so bad? I wouldn't give them
away."
"For shame, Phil Morton! To think of poor old Mrs. Mason's going over in
the fields to pick strawberries, leaving Lucy all alone, and so sick! I
shouldn't have thought it of you, Phil. No, indeed I shouldn't. Give me
the basket," said Nelly sorrowfully; "I shall give them to Lucy." Phil
silently handed the basket to her, and, without speaking, he followed
Nelly as she went round to the cottage door.
The tears ran silently down the poor widow's cheek as she led the
children to her sick child's room, for it touched her heart to see young
and thoughtless children so attentive to her poor Lucy. "And did you
come all this way, you and Phil, Nelly, to bring me these nice
strawberries?" without waiting for her to reply, she turned to a little
choice tea-rose that stood beside her, and, breaking off two half-blown
buds, she gave them to Phil and Nelly, saying as she did so, "It's all I
have to give you, darlings, for your kindness to me, but I know that you
will like them as coming from your sick friend."
The bright blood flashed over Phil's dark brow and crimsoned even his
ears. Poor Phil! The shame and remorse of those few minutes washed away
his unthinking sin, and Nelly forgave him, and tried with all her power
to make him forget it. But the kind though thoughtless boy was not
satisfied until he had sent Lucy a pretty little basket filled with rare
and beautiful flowers, gathered from his father's large garden. Then,
and not till then, did he look with pleasure upon the rose Lucy had
given him.
Some time after the above occurrence, perhaps a week, Nelly was sitting
in her low rocking-chair, under the shadow of the portico, sewing as
busily as her nimble little fingers would let her, when a shadow
darkened the sunlit walk leading to the house. Nelly saw it, and knew
well enough who it was; but there she sat, her pretty little mouth
pursed up, and her merry blue eyes almost closed, working faster than
ever.
"Oh! is it you, Phil?" she exclaimed, as Phil Morton bounded lightly
over the railing beside her, (for he disdained the sober process of
walking up the steps;) "how you frightened me!" _He_ frighten _her!_
Though he was naughty sometimes, and scared the little birds, he would
not think of frightening Nelly Grey. No, not he.
"Oh! Phil, I have something to show you," said the little girl, after a
while, and then she raised her voice and called, "Frisk! Frisk!" Frisk
was not far away from Nelly, and presently he came lazily along, shaking
his silky coat as if he did not quite relish being waked from his nap so
abruptly.
"But what is that shining so brightly around his neck--can it be a
collar? Well, it is, sure enough. But where _did_ you get it, Nell?"
said Phil, turning to her in amazement.
"Mrs. Preston, the minister's wife, gave it to me; how she came to know
I wanted it, I can't think."
"But I can, Nell. She heard us when we were talking, I'll bet; for you
know she came in just after we did, and she gave it to you for being so
good."
"Oh no, Phil! I only did what anybody else would have done."
"_Anybody_? You know _I_ didn't want to Nelly," said Phil sadly.
"Oh, never mind _that_, Phil; you did afterward, you know."
"Well, but, Nell, I _know_ she gave it to you for being so good. Isn't
there something on the collar?"
"No, only Frisk's name;" and she turned to examine it with Phil.
"There, Nell! what do you call this?" and Phil triumphantly held up the
edge of the collar, on which was written, "_Nelly's reward for
self-denial."_
"Why, Phil, I never saw it before; isn't it queer?"
"Queer, that you didn't _see_ it before? Yes; but it isn't queer that
she gave it to you No, not at all; I should have thought she would."
"Oh, Phil, how you praise me! you mustn't," said Nelly, her pink cheeks
deepening into scarlet.
She deserved praise, did not she? for she was a very good little girl.
But I will not tire you with any more about her now. So good-by, my
sweet little reader.
NORA.
[Illustration]
THE FOUR EVANGELISTS.
BY REV. H.R. NYE.
My Young Friends:
I love to hear and to tell stories nearly as well as when I was a child;
but I cannot write them for others to read. Even _small_ children are
sometimes _great_ critics. At any rate, I shall not venture at
story-telling here.
You have all read some portions of the book we call the Bible. But do
you know who wrote the Bible? at what time it was written? or anything
of the men by whom it was composed? It was not written by any one man,
at one time, and by him sent out to all men in every part of the world;
but by various persons, in different ages, and first addressed to
particular churches or people. I will not attempt, in this article, to
furnish you with an account of all the individuals, Moses, David,
Isaiah, Paul, John, and others, who wrote portions of the sacred volume;
but I will try to give you some sketches of _the four Evangelists,_
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, who wrote the four _gospels_, or Lives of
Jesus, to which their names are now attached. And,
1st, of MATTHEW, by whom the _first_ gospel was composed. He was
called, also, Levi. He was a Jew, born in the province of Galilee. We
suppose that from his youth he was familiar with the worship of the
synagogue and temple, and educated strictly in the religion of Moses. He
filled the office of a publican, was a collector of taxes from the Jews,
to which place he was appointed by the Romans, who, in his day, ruled
over Judea. While engaged in these duties, he became acquainted with the
preaching, miracles, and character of Jesus, the despised Nazarene, and
left all,--his business, friends, home,--to follow him. He journeyed
with Jesus in his ministry, and, after his Master went up to heaven, he
left his own land to preach the gospel among the Gentiles. Some people
suppose that he was a martyr, but this is not well established. Matthew
wrote his gospel either in Hebrew or Greek, (some say both,) about 1800
years since,--very soon after his Master had finished the labors of his
mission, and returned unto his Father. I said, I think, that this man
left all; made many sacrifices to become Jesus' disciple. But we do not
find this in _his_ book. With other virtues, he was an _humble_ man,
quite too modest to praise himself. Luke, in his narrative, mentions
this fact concerning Matthew. Modesty is a rare virtue; an ornament to
the aged, and very beautiful in the young. But I will tell you,
2d, of Mark, sometimes called John, and once, John Mark, in the New
Testament. Very little is known concerning this man. He was probably
born in Judea, and, it is supposed, was converted to Christianity by the
preaching of the ardent, zealous Peter. At one time, he was the
companion of Paul and Barnabas; but, when a quarrel sprang up between
these men, each went his way. Christians quarrelled then sometimes as
well, or as bad, as in our days. Chiefly, Mark travelled with Peter, as
he went forth among Jews and Gentiles, and aided him in his arduous
toils. He went, at last, to Egypt, where he planted churches, and where,
also, he died. Mark was not an apostle; neither did he attend on the
ministry of Jesus. Do you ask, how, then, could he write a correct
account of our Saviour's life? Here is one fact worth remembering. Mark
was the companion of Peter, who was an apostle, who saw the miracles and
heard the discourses of Christ. He examined the account which Mark had
written, and gave it his approval, as being correct,--true. Very few men
who write histories have vouchers like his. So, did we not regard the
Bible-writers as inspired men, we should place the utmost confidence in
the truth of Mark's gospel. He composed it about A.D. 65. We come now,
3d, to LUKE. He was a Gentile,--all people not born in Judea were called
Gentiles,--born in Antioch, the capital of Syria, where the disciples of
Jesus first were called Christians. Luke was a learned man, we are told,
having studied in the famous schools of his own land, also of Greece and
Egypt. He was a physician by profession; and physicians assure us, that,
in his gospel, he has given a more accurate account of the diseases
which Jesus cured than any other New Testament writer: that he often
uses medical terms in his description of the miracles which were
wrought. He was a good and careful thinker, not at all credulous, but
disposed to prove all things, holding fast only to the good and true. He
wrote his gospel (perhaps you know that he was the author of the book of
Acts, also) in Greece, about 35 years after the ascension of Jesus. He
was associated with Paul in his travels, went with him to Rome, and
continued there during the imprisonment of the apostle. Historians are
not agreed in regard to the time or manner of his death. Some affirm
that he suffered as a martyr; others, simply, that, in due time, he
"fell asleep," or died a natural death. We are sure that his talents,
learning, and time were given to the diffusion of the Christian faith.
Lastly, and
4th, of JOHN, the beloved disciple, so termed because of his mild and
gentle spirit, and because he most resembled his and our Master. He was
born in Judea, near the sea, or lake, of Galilee. Zebedee, his father,
was a fisherman; and John, probably, engaged in his father's business
until he became a preacher of glad tidings. You must not, from this
fact, conclude that they were certainly poor men, for then, at least,
men of wealth were engaged in the business, and I suppose many now are.
John was the youngest apostle, and "the disciple whom Jesus loved;" you
may recollect that he leaned on the bosom of Christ at the "Last
Supper." He, only, was present, of all the apostles, when Jesus was
crucified,--and Jesus commended his mother to this disciple's care.
After the resurrection of Jesus, John preached "the gospel" in various
parts of Asia.
He wrote his gospel at Ephesus, and, by his labors, the truths of
Christianity spread everywhere among men. The story sometimes told, that
he was put into a caldron of burning oil, by a Roman emperor, and came
out unharmed, is not true. He lived to a very advanced age, and died
when not far from 100 years old. Late in life, when too feeble to
preach, he was often carried into the meetings of the disciples, at his
own request, and, stretching out his hands, as he sat in his chair, was
wont to say, "Little children, _love_ one another." And, when asked why
he so often gave this precept, he would say, "If this be obeyed, it is
the Lord's command, and it sufficeth."
Children, will you think of that precept?
Conversing with two lads once, I asked one, Who wrote the Bible, good
men, or bad men? "Good men, of course," was the response. "But how do
you know they were _good_ men?" I rejoined. And he said, "Because,"--a
very common and very foolish answer,--and was silent. "I think," said
the other lad, the younger of the two, "that good men wrote the Bible,
because _good_ men _love_ the Bible, and _wicked_ men don't."
Can you give another reason as good?
Now I have told you, briefly, of the four evangelists. They were good
men, honest-minded and sincere. Wicked men, all men, act from motives.
But _they_ could have had no motive to deceive. They lost friends, and
wealth, and honor, and ease, and gained contempt, persecution, and
suffering, by preaching the gospel. Their conduct is full evidence that
they were pure and good men. And, if they were good men, they wrote
_the truth_; and, by their labors we have a correct and faithful account
of the life of Jesus. Study these books, and by them be made wise. Above
all, remember the precept of John, "Little children, love one another."
[Illustration]
MAY-DAY.
BY MRS. NANCY T. MUNROE.
It is spring,--a backward spring, it is true, for now it is the first
week in May, and not a flower to be seen except the yellow dandelion,
not a blossom even on a cherry tree; nothing is green but the grass, and
that--yes, that is very green, especially this piece before my window;
it seems a relief to look upon it.
Poor May-day revellers! May-day this year was pleasant; that is, the sun
shone, the sky was blue, and the grass was green, in spots at least; but
the cold north wind was blowing, and one needed to be told it was the
first of May.
The sun was higher than usual on such occasions, when the children came
upon our hill;--yet they did come with wreaths and May-poles, but, ah!
the flowers were artificial. Some of the children had on sun-bonnets and
thin shawls; they should have worn hoods and cloaks, and then they might
have been comfortable. But it takes a great deal to discourage children
from going "Maying."
Our hill is a famous place for children on May-day, for it is green and
pleasant; it is glorious to run down its sides, and pleasant to sit on
its banks, which once were forts, and behind which, in less peaceful
days, lurked soldiers with weapons of war. Ah, those children were a
pleasant sight, and as I heard their glad laughter, and saw them chase
each other down those green banks, I said, Peace is better than war.
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