Chapter II: Part 2

But I wanted to tell you what Mrs. Stuart said to her daughter Emma that evening. You must know that Miss Emma grew very cross indeed, over the fact that she could not wear the lovely new stockings, after they had been drawn on Margary's naughty little limbs, and over the horrible discovery that one of her gloves was hopelessly soiled. She wished that poor Margary was back in the cellar, from which she had been dragged, and declared that her mother was very foolish to try to make anything of the little beggar.

"The poor child thought she could cover up her soiled and worthless rags by your beautiful dress," said Mrs. Stuart, with a sigh, "and Emma, dear, mother is sometimes afraid that you are covering a sadly soiled heart with a pretty body, and thinking, like poor foolish Margery, that it is all right, because the soil is covered from human eyes."

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FLORENCE AT HOME.

IT was Sabbath morning, and she was standing before the glass, tying the ends of her lovely, new sash; and Carrie leaned on her elbows and watched her for a minute, then looked at nothing, and wished that she was a little more like Florence. She was pretty, and bright, and everybody admired her. This very morning she was going to do something so nice! In the next square was a new family, just moved in; Florence had already become acquainted with Weston, the fifteen-year-old son, and invited him to attend Sabbath-school, and he had laughed, and declared that he didn't go to Sunday-school very often; but at last had agreed to call, and be shown the way to the church by Florence.

"I don't believe they are people who go to church much," Florence had said, as she drew on her long mitts with a pleased air, "but I shouldn't be surprised if I could get him in the habit of going."

And then Carrie had sighed, and wished that she could do anything; here she had to stay poked in the house this beautiful day, because she had a sore throat; she was always getting sore throats.

"That is all I can do," she told herself drearily, "get a sore throat, and a swelled nose, and red eyes, and stay in the house."

Just then the deer-bell rang, and Master Weston's voice was heard in the hall.

Then was Florence in a flutter. "Dear me! There he is, and it is time we were off. Where is my handkerchief? Carrie, haven't you seen my handkerchief? You certainly must have taken it; I laid it right here. I 'do wish' you would let my things alone! Mamma, have you seen my Quarterly? I thought it was on the table; where 'can' it be! Oh, dear me, mamma, I 'should' think you might help me find it. I 'hate' to be late. Oh, never mind my money, I can take it next Sunday; mamma, 'please' don't keep me waiting to get it; I shan't go at all, if I have to wait much longer. Carrie Marshall, I know you tucked my handkerchief somewhere. Mamma, 'won't you please' let me go this minute? You seem to just want to make me late. I don't care if my hair is too low down; it is just the way all the girls wear it. I wouldn't have it flying around my face in the wild way that Carrie does, for 'anything.' Carrie, hand me that book, quick! I shall go distracted!"

Then I rejoice to tell you that she went out of the room, tripped down the stairs, and was off.

Her invalid mother drew a relieved sigh. "I wish Florence were not such an excitable girl," she said, as she moved about picking up many things that the young miss in her hurry had sent flying hither and thither. "If she were a little more like you, dear, in some things, I should be glad."

Meantime, Florence was tripping along beside her new friend, as bright as the morning itself. Very anxious she was to be a help to him. She was a Christian girl, and wanted to do good. It was not by any means "make believe." She told him about their nice Sunday-school, what a pleasant superintendent they had, and what a "perfectly splendid teacher;" she told him about the young people's prayer-meeting, and asked him to attend; and with great sweetness and skill brought her question around, until she fairly asked him if he were a Christian. And said, earnestly, "I am so sorry," when he told her "no."

Then she said a few sweet, earnest words, that ought to have done him good, and she wondered in her heart why it was that he was simply polite in return, showing not the slightest interest in the subject.

If she could have looked into "his" heart, she would have found just this: "I wonder what this dainty little miss in her pretty hat, and her frizzes would say if she knew I waited for her in the hall, while she left her room door open, and talked to her mother and 'Carrie'—whoever she is. The talk I heard then, and the talk I'm hearing now, don't seem to match. How am I to know which she means?"

Poor Florence! Her thoughtless, disrespectful words at home, that morning, had spoiled the influence of her work abroad! And the worst of it was, she was so used to being careless in this matter, that she didn't suspect it.

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MINNIE LEE AND HER KITTEN.

TRAVELLING from Attica to Rochester in New York, some years since, I changed cars at Avon. A moment after entering the car, a lady and little girl came in and took the seat directly in front of me. The child's face was radiant with joy, as she frequently raised the cover of a little basket on her arm and looked curiously into it. Her sweet little face had no wrinkles of care or unrest.

As I contemplated it, memories of childhood joys and days made me feel like a child again. My own curiosity was excited by her constant looking, and I leaned forward to ascertain the cause of so much happiness.

The little girl, with the quick intuition of childhood, raised the cover of her basket and exposed to view a kitten. I said, "that is a 'beautiful kitten;' what is its name?"

"Daisy," was her quick reply. "I wish you would give me Daisy," I said, gently.

"Oh! 'No, sir;' I can't give you Daisy—I love Dairy so much."

"But, Minnie, I 'want' Daisy, and I will give you a dollar for her."

"Oh! No, sir, I can't sell Daisy."

"Do you love candy, Minnie?"

"Yes, sir, I guess I do."

"Well, then, you can get your basket almost full of candy for a dollar."

"Oh, sir, I love Daisy, more than I do money or candy."

She was so simple and happy, I was confident she had been taught, in the Sunday-school and at home, to love the Saviour. I then asked her if she went to Sunday-school.

"Yes, sir; I go to Sunday-school always."

"Well, Minnie, do you love the dear Saviour?"

"Why, 'yes, sir; I guess I do. Do you love Jesus?'" was her quick retort.

"Yes, my darling, I do, and I'm so glad to know you love the dear Saviour. He is our best Friend; he will go with us if we will let him, all through life, and love us, and keep us, and save us. By-and-by we'll go where Jesus is, and then sin will not hart us any more."

Her little face grew bright with joy, and the light kindled in her eyes. Looking at me steadfastly for a little while, she lifted her basket, and with the sweetest voice said, "Sir! 'You may have Daisy; you may have Daisy.'"

For a moment I hardly knew what reply to make, but said, "No, my darling, I can't take Daisy from you."

The tear came to her eye, as she said, "Why won't you take Daisy?"

"Because you love Daisy more, and will take better care of her than I can."

I trust this beautiful lesson will not be forgotten—at least by the writer. Neither money nor candy could induce the child to give up her kitten; but because I loved her dear Saviour, she loved me more than her kitten, and was willing to give up her idol to please a friend of her Saviour. The atmosphere of heaven is love. Love is the vitalizing power which ripens the soul for heaven. Pride, and anger, and self-will, cannot live where love is found. Love is unselfish. "God is love."

ONLY A SPARK.

IT was to be a tableau party, and among other tableaux, there was to be a bridal scene. Pretty Alice Knowlton had been chosen for the bride, because every one said she had the sweetest face of any of the girls, and looked "perfectly lovely" dressed in white. She did look lovely, with her long bridal veil, and her real orange blossoms from Mr. Silover's conservatory, and all of the bridesmaids, as well as Mary Lewis, who was waiting maid in general, stood around her, and planned and admired, and made little changes here and there to add to the effect.

"We must hurry, girls," one of them had just said. "The people are getting impatient down-stairs, I hear them in the halls asking when we 'are' to have another scene."

Just then came Phebe, the little colored errand girl, to say that Mrs. Lewis said, that the bridal party must stand at the left of the stage instead of the right, because the wind blew the curtains right against the gas light when the door was opened on the right.

"Then we will have to tell the gentleman," said Mary Lewis, "that will change their position entirely; let's tell Charlie Burns, and he will arrange it with the others; run Phebe, and tell Mr. Burns that the ladies want to see him a minute in the south room."

"Botheration!" said gentlemanly Charlie when he received the message. "What do they want now? They've been planning long enough to be really and truly married nine times over. I wonder if I shall have to throw away this cigar? It is one of the best I ever tried."

"Take it along with you, Charlie, they only want to ask some question, and you can come directly back; I wouldn't sacrifice a good cigar to one of their whims."

That was the advice of one of the groomsmen, and Charlie following it, crossed the hall from the gentlemen's dressing-room, puffing a cloud of smoke into Phebe's face. He held the cigar in his hand, while he talked with the ladies, and went to puffing again, the moment the door closed after him.

"Ugh!" said the pretty bride, shuddering. "I wouldn't marry Charlie Burns in real earnest for anything; I hate cigar-smoke."

Well she might! How was it done? Whose fault was it? Is there anybody who can ever give a careful account of the very beginnings of an accident? There was a curious smell, a sudden blaze, a scream from Phebe who had stooped to shake out the train of the bridal dress, a succession of fearful screams that rang through the house, and brought crowds of guests, as well as the gentlemen performers from the dressing-room, and the only thing about it all that was painfully certain, was that the pretty bride was cruelly burned.

It was all talked over a great many times after that; what a sad thing it was that she should have put her beautiful arms into the blaze to try to crush it out, and burned them so that they were shrivelled and useless, and that her limbs were so burned that she could never walk again.

Then people would say in whispers,—"They don't 'know' of course, but it must have been a spark from Charlie Burns' cigar, it couldn't have happened any other way, for she wasn't standing near the gas light, and he was there but a minute before, with a lighted cigar in his hand; they say poor Charlie feels awfully: he has never smoked a cigar since."

Oh dear me! Small good will that do pretty Alice Knowlton. If he had "only" stopped before he smoked that one.

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ROBERT HALL.

IT was a rainy day, and the boys gathered in the hall for their recess talk; I don't know but that was why they assured Robert Hall that it was his turn.

"I spent every bit of my vacation in Cooperstown," he said, stretching himself out on the long bench that was under the west windows.

"Where's Cooperstown?" asked Horace Brooks. "Any of your ancestors own the town, Cooper?"

"Not that I know of," said Eugene; "but I know where it is; nice little town at the head of Otsego lake; there's a one-horse kind of a railroad to take you to it, that connects with the Albany and Susquehanna, or you can go by the Delaware and Lackawanna, as far as Richfield Springs, then take an old-fashioned ride, in a four-horse stage coach, to the head of the lake, and after that as pretty a ride on a lake as can be had anywhere in the United States or out of them, I guess."

"Look here," said Robert Hall, good-humoredly, "am I telling this story, or are you?"

"I was only giving those dumbheads your bearings, my boy; go ahead."

"Well, I went on the one-horse train; that's a good name for it, I declare; a stupider, slower, dustier ride I never took in my life, and I've travelled some; but as you say, the town is lovely when you get there. Queer old town, made up of hotels, mostly; great buildings, large enough, each one of them, to accommodate all the inhabitants as boarders; and full to overflowing, summers."

"What takes people there?" asked Horace Brooks. "Springs?"

"Not a spring; the springs are, as Eugene told you, nine miles away; it's the beauty, I suppose. Men who have travelled say you won't find any better scenery even up the Clyde, or on the Rhine. The lake is just like a sheet of glass, and all along it on either side, lovely landscapes. I don't know much about that sort of thing myself; but my brother paints, you know, and he just raved over it all the time; said it was the finest place for sketching he had found in this country.

"I know the echoes are fine. One night we went out, a party of us, as late as midnight, when the town was still, and rowed up the lake a couple of miles, and then we shouted at the echoes, and the old fellows took up our remarks and repeated them seven times!"

"Whew!" said George Dunlap. "That's a very large story."

"That's just as true as I live," said Robert Hall, rising on one elbow, earnestly. "I heard them; oh, as plainly as you hear me now. We shouted 'Natty Bumppo!' and back they yelled 'Natty Bumppo!'

"Then another fellow, from away up among the rocks on the other side took it up and shouted 'Natty Bumppo!' And so they kept it going, until we had seven distinct voices. I never heard anything like it."

"Where did you get such an outlandish name to call?" asked one of the boys.

"Oh, that's one of Cooper's names, you know; in some of his books; 'he' is the man who has made Cooperstown famous, I suppose. Wherever you go through the town, people are pointing out to you the spot where such a scene was laid, and telling you the incident that suggested such and such a character; and up in their cemetery,—they have a lovely cemetery, terraced up from the lake side, my brother said it was a miniature Greenwood, as fine according to its size, as that,—well there is a statue, just near the entrance, of Leather Stocking and his dog and gun; that's Natty Bumppo. It is erected in memory of Cooper, I suppose; thought 'he' isn't buried there."

"Who's Cooper?" asked Charlie Smythe.

"Well, now, my boy, a fellow as well read in history as you are, ought to know something about him. J. Fenimore Cooper, at your service; born in Burlington, New Jersey, in 1789. Brought up in the wild woods around this same Otsego lake, entered Yale college when he was thirteen, entered the United States Navy at sixteen, resigned his commission, and married when he was twenty-two or so, and went to writing books. You see a fellow who visits Cooperstown has to study up on James Fenimore Cooper."

"Was he a historian?"

"No, a novelist. Why, he wrote thirty-three novels. It is said he is the most popular writer who has ever lived; and his books have been translated into about all the languages in Europe. He used to write sea stories, splendid ones; I read some of them when I was in Cooperstown; and his Natty Bumppo is just a splendid character.

"We went to Cooper's grave in the old cemetery beside the Episcopal church. The people are very proud of Cooper; they talk about him half the time."

"Where is Cooperstown, anyhow? How far from places that everybody knows?" This was Charlie Smythe's question.

"Well, it can't be more than a hundred miles or so, from Albany, New York. I started from Albany in the morning, and reached there about noon I think. We went to the Cooper House; a great splendid hotel,—full of boarders. My brother went to sketch. He has some lovely pictures of Cooperstown; if you'll all come home with me in vacation, I'll show them to you. 'I' don't know how to describe places. It is a pretty village, with a lovely lake and very fine scenery, and that is all I can tell you about it."

"You've told us several things," chorused the boys.

"Yes, and given us an invitation besides," laughed George Dunlap. "I think you've come out ahead, Hall."

"There's one thing I want to know," said Charlie in his slow, meditative way; "does it make people better to read Cooper's novels?"

"I don't know, I am sure," said Robert Hall; "it makes them 'wiser,' I guess; but about the better, I'm not so sure."

"Well," said Charlie, "if I had written thirty-three books, and then died, and people were reading them yet, I should want them to make folks 'better,' as well as wiser."

"That boy Charlie will write books yet, 'I' believe," said Horace, as they went into the schoolroom; "and I shouldn't wonder if it would make folks better to read them."

A LETTER FROM BIRD-LAND.

DEAR RAY:—Do you want a letter all about birds? I have seen so many kinds of birds to-day, and such beautiful ones! Do you remember the fountain in the side yard? It has been made larger, and has stones put all around the edge, and mosses and ferns and pots of flowers are growing everywhere about it.

Every morning the birds come there to bathe; after their bath, they fly up on the trees, and pay their bills by singing sweetest songs. Then they fly away with the news. I think they say to all their friends, "Did you know that, down there in that grass, there is a lovely fountain with everything beautiful around it, and don't you think it is made on purpose for us to take baths in every day?" So the good news spread, and all the birds come flying to the fountain.

There has been a great time among the birds this spring. Some of them must have such large families that they can't take care of them all. The other day I was out walking in the yard, and I saw a beautiful little bird, too young to fly. I was afraid some cat would get it, so I took it in my hands and brought it home. I put it in a bird-cage, and what do you think it ate? Why, worms! I had to dig worms, and put them down its throat. It seemed never to get enough.

Grandma said, "Oh, I wouldn't keep it in a cage; it was made to be free."

I thought so too, so I opened the cage door and let it go. It hopped around on the grass and seemed very happy. All day I watched that no cat came near it.

I had help, too, in taking care of it; every little while a bird would come hopping down, and give it something to eat. Sometimes a robin would come, then a little sparrow, and now and then a chippy-bird. They all seemed to be very kind to it. At last the dark night came, and I could see my little birdie no longer; but I remembered it was said, "Not a sparrow falleth to the ground without your Heavenly Father knoweth it."

The next morning there was great commotion among the birds; they all came to see about something that troubled them. I went, too; and don't you think my poor little birdie had been taken care of all night, and hopped out in the morning to see about her breakfast, but had been so unfortunate as to go near an old hen who had a dozen little chicks.

The hen knew the birdie was no child of hers, so she began to peck her, and would soon have killed her if I had not appeared. I rescued the poor trembling little thing, put her on a soft bed, and took care of her all day; but at night she died,—the naughty old hen had broken her leg.

I was glad it was a hen who had done the mischief, instead of some little boy to whom God had given a soul, and a mind that could understand what he has said about the birds. But I have heard of little boys who would break up birds' nests, and destroy little families of birds.

Some day I am going to pick out and put together all that God has said in the Bible about birds; for God cares for them.

Your loving auntie,

"JEWEL."

HARVEY IN TROUBLE.

EMILY HARPER went through the hall singing:

"'And for bonnie Annie Laurie, I'd lay me down, and—'

"What on 'earth' is the matter?"

She did not "sing" that last, but said it in a wondering and dismayed tone, as she suddenly opened the library door, and found her brother Harvey lying flat on his face, in a perfect storm of tears.

Harvey "crying," was something new under the sun; he hardly ever stopped whistling long enough to cry.

He wasn't very gracious to Emily. "Keep away," he said, poking out his elbows as though he meant to push her off.

But she wasn't easily pushed off; she shut the library door, and went down on her knees beside the heap on the floor, and said in the most coaxing of sisterly tones, "Tell me all about it, Harvey."

And Harvey told; he couldn't help it. It was bad enough. At twenty minutes of three he had started, a merry, whistling boy, for the post-office, to mail a letter for his father,—an important letter; his father had called after him that if it failed to reach that mail, there would be more than a hundred dollars' loss.

"And he said he would trust me," sobbed poor Harvey.

Well, he knew the mail did not close until fifteen minutes after three, and he knew he could reach the office in five minutes; so he laughed at the idea of failing, and told his father it should be there "sure."

But going around the square, he met Joe Bailey, who told him that their folks had brought home a parrot with them from the city; the cutest fellow, who could whistle, and sing, and say, "Hush up!" And do ever so many funny things, and he had gone down the left side of the square instead of the right, because he knew it would make no difference in the time, and had stopped just about two minutes to look at the parrot.

"And missed the mail!" exclaimed Emily in a horrified tone.

"No, I didn't miss the mail, either," said poor Harvey, very crossly; he felt so bad, he thought he couldn't help being cross. "Keep still, can't you? 'I'm' telling this story; I didn't forget about the letter at all. I didn't stay three minutes; but there came a big wind along, and blew off my hat, and I had to climb the picket fence to get it, and then I made for the post-office as fast as I could; and when I got there, the letter was gone."

Then he told how he went back, and searched all the way, and searched the yard at Bailey's, and Joe searched, and the parrot searched, or seemed to, but no letter could be found.

"What did father say?" Emily asked, after a moment of dismayed silence.

"That is the worst of it," Harvey said, sitting up with dry eyes, feeling too miserable to shed any more tears, "I haven't told him a word about it; I don't see any use in telling; the letter is gone, and he can't find it, for I looked 'everywhere;' and the mail is gone, he can't send another, and I might just as well keep still, and not trouble him, to-night at least."

Then Emily found her usual busy tongue. "O, Harvey, that won't do at all; maybe he could write another by that very early mail in the morning, that would help some; or he might telegraph, or send somebody on the train; men know how to do ever so many things. You ought to tell father right away. He could do something, I'm sure; and you've 'got' to tell him some time; I should think you would want it over."

One word in this sentence carried weight with it. Harvey rose up, his face pale. "I forgot all about the telegraph," he said, "I must tell him right away."

Now, some people might suppose Mr. Harper was a very fierce man, since his son so dreaded to tell him of the accident; but the truth was, if there had been nothing but a whipping to dread, Harvey would not have wasted so much time nor so many tears. His father was the kindest, most patient of men, and Harvey so loved and respected him, that to bring trouble, by his carelessness, on that good father, was something that he could hardly bear to think of. Besides, they were not rich, and a hundred dollars was a good deal of money for them to lose.

Mr. Harper had come home from the office, and was in his room, a grave-faced father; he listened quietly and sadly to Harvey's eager story, but before it was half through, he put an arm tenderly around the boy, and when it was finished, leaned over and kissed him.

"Thank you, my son," he said. "I was feeling very sad over it all; I thought you were going to try to deceive your father by saying nothing to him about it."

"Why, father!" said Harvey in great astonishment. "Did you know anything about it?"

Then the father told "his" story, how one of the clerks from the office, passing down the south side of the square, a few minutes before mail time, saw a letter lying in the grass near Mr. Bailey's house, and picking it up, he recognized it as the one that was of great importance, so, without loss of time, hastened to post it.

"And I saw him coming out of the post-office, just as I was walking back there the second time, when I couldn't find the letter!" exclaimed Harvey. "If I had only told him."

Then, after a moment of silence, he added one more word that his father was glad to hear. "Father, I truly meant to tell you all about it, but I thought I would wait until morning, because it would make you feel so badly; but Emily said, tell you right away. And father, I won't stop for any old parrot after this."

TWO SINGERS.

ONE was Miss Cecilia Jamison. She sang in the opera house the evening that the Mozart Glee Club gave their closing concert for the season. She was called the best singer in the club. She wore a white silk dress with a very long train, very costly white lace around her neck, elegant new bracelets on her arms, and a necklace of pearls around her neck, with a tiny locket attached, set in diamonds.

People said she looked "perfectly lovely," and her voice was just like an angel's; though as none of them ever heard an angel, I don't know how they told. "Some" people said that; there were others who thought her hair wasn't arranged becomingly, and that she didn't manage her train gracefully, and that there were a great many people who sang as well as she did.

Besides, there was a good deal of confusion and trouble behind the curtain, just before Miss Cecilia sang; she laid down her sheet of music "exactly in that spot," just as people who lose things, are always sure they did, and when she went for it, it wasn't there.

"'You' must have moved it," said Miss Cecilia to the leading alto, and her voice couldn't have sounded quite like an angel's, then.

"I!" said the leading alto, and her face grew red. "What should you think I want of 'your' music."

"Well, 'somebody' has taken it, just to annoy me." declared Miss Cecilia, and she threw things about, and tipped over a bouquet of flowers that belonged to the leading alto, and spilled the water on the second soprano's white kid gloves, and did mischief generally.

And when at last she moved forward to the stage, those left behind looked at each other and said, "Aren't you glad she is gone at last? Did you ever see anybody act so hateful?"

Well, she sang, and these were some of the words:—

My love sits at the window, gazing, gazing, gazing,
My love sits at the window, gazing out into the night.

What there was wonderful in that, or who she thought cared, I don't know; but she repeated it again and again; she yelled it, and moaned it, and whispered it, and wailed it, and told how dear her love was to her, and what she would do for him, and the names he called her, in a way that was perfectly senseless; no "love" worth having would have done any such thing.

Then she stepped back and the audience showered bouquets on her, and clapped their hands so loud that she had to come back and sing another line of "My love sits at the window."

And that was all. No, it "wasn't" all; for the people, going home, talked about her; some said they "could not see" why such a fuss was made over her voice, that it seemed to them she just "squealed;" and others said they were afraid she was growing very vain; that so much praise was had for young people. And even that was not all; the trouble is, there is never an end to anything. The song Miss Cecilia sang that night, the words she spoke in getting ready to sing, the words she spoke afterwards, the effect that the words, and the actions, and the song, had on other people,—all these went on doing their work, and though neither you nor I know the story, it growing, "growing," and Miss Cecelia will have to meet it again some day. That is the story of one singer: next month I will tell you about the other.

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HE WENT IN.

BY REV. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

TWO young men were "going in," as I passed along. They had been standing at the door a moment before in earnest conversation, as I could readily see from a distance, every little while one trying to pull the other in. But I just caught a good look of one and knew him. He was from the country, a member of a Sunday-school. He came to the city and become a clerk in one of our large stores. One of the other clerks soon got well acquainted with him. They often walked the streets together, after tea when their work was over. This other clerk knew all the low, wicked places of the city, especially where there was drinking and gambling.

There was one particular saloon where he went every night, and spent his substance in riotous living.

The keeper of this place allowed him many privileges, provided he would bring other clerks. So the young man was a daily visitor there, and it cost him but little to drink and play billiards and cards, if he only brought one or two others with him. Out of such the bar-keeper made his gains.

Now this young man from the country, whom we will call Will, had never been in a saloon in his life, nor had he ever tasted intoxicating drink; and when he left home for the city, he had promised his mother to keep away from all such places, and be true to total abstinence.

But he liked society and music and pictures, and he was very curious. He wanted to see what was to be seen, and so he loved to walk about the city and see the sights, though he meant never to go near any bad places; certainly never to enter them.

This time of which I began to speak, Will's friend had led him about from shop window to picture gallery, and so on, till suddenly they stood before that saloon. It had a beautiful front, high, broad, and seemingly all glittering with gold. Hundreds of gas jets, within and without, made everything bright like midday. Handsome young men were going in and coming out, smiling, smoking, now and then, it is true, swearing and staggering. Sounds of sweet music ever and anon floated through the opening and closing door, and what seemed most gorgeous paintings could occasionally be seen.

Thus Will stood with his friend, almost bewildered, as one in a new world. His friend had led him there for a purpose. He rightly guessed how he would be affected by all the sights and sounds near that saloon; though up to this time he had not told Will that he ever frequented such places.

But Will, after a few minutes, began to remember his promise to his mother, and was about to turn and go away, when his companion plead for five minutes more of the music. Then he urged Will just to step in, just that once; that they needn't have anything to do with the wrong of it, but could simply see for themselves, and no doubt learn a great deal; and, what was best of all, prove to themselves that they could resist temptation, though right in the midst of it.

He urged that the city missionary and many other gentlemen went in just to find out how things were inside, and be able to speak from experience. But Will had promised, and was about tearing himself away, when the door opened, and he caught a full view of the inside. It was gorgeous, dazzling. He had never seen anything so magnificent. Then the music, how could he get away from it? Why not listen a moment longer?

So he listened, and it seemed as though angels must be playing. Was not music a good thing? Why not go in just once, and enjoy it near by, and see how they made it so sweet. Yet the promise came before him.

"Mother, you needn't fear for me. I'll keep clear of all such things. I will for your sake at least."

At that moment a fine looking gentleman came out and spoke very politely to Will's friend, and was introduced to Will. And they conversed about many things, while enrapturing music went on within, and again and again the paintings could be seen, all aglow with light.

"Come," said the gentleman, "will not your friend step in a moment, and see the paintings, and enjoy the music better than one can out here? You will find most comfortable chairs, and the latest periodicals, and ice water (I see you are weary), all at your service. The proprietor is a friend of mine, and a perfect gentleman, too, if I do say it. Very few such as he in this city. He is highly respected. Several of the ministers know him. He used to be an active member of one of the largest Sabbath-schools here, and quite a supporter of the church,—does a great deal of good yet, gives great sums to several poor families whose fathers have got to drinking to excess. Strange that a man can't control himself. I know when to stop after I've taken a little to refresh myself. I despise a young man who has to sign a pledge to keep from being a sot.

"Gentlemen who come in here are none of your low class. The proprietor won't have it. He is determined to prove that a young man may find a pleasant and profitable place to spend an evening with his friends, without falling into the beastly habit of common saloons. Come in a few minutes and rest yourselves, and then let's take a stroll somewhere else."

So saying, he opened the frail door. Again that bewildering world within was seen. Poor, weak Will! He had stopped, just stopped and listened and looked in a moment. That was all. What possible harm could there be in that? Harm enough. He "was constrained" and "went in," and came out at midnight—"intoxicated," for the first time in his life.

Three persons were once walking together one evening, and when they came near a certain house, two of them urged the third to go in with them. I do not know if there was one picture, or any kind of music, or any other such thing to attract him; but he went in. Think you they played cards or billiards together, or drank beer, or whiskey, or any strong drink, or used any low slang words, or told any disgusting stories, or took God's name in vain, or came out with red faces and blood-shot eyes, and staggered through the streets, carousing as they went?

Yet they sat and dined together, and talked most warmly till their "hearts burned," yes, and they were all "intoxicated" when they separated that night—not like Will with maddening whiskey, but with "love," intoxicated with love to God, and everybody, and each other,—a love that caused one of those three to lay down his life—to die on the cross—to wash away with his own blood the sins even of drunkards and drunkard makers; a love that caused the other two to go here and there, telling the story of redeeming love.

"He went in." Ah, yes one goes in, like Will; goes into some beautiful, fascinating—Hell, to lose his own soul; another goes in, like Jesus at Emmaus, into some plain cottage, or lost soul, to save that soul.

What if you were to just "never enter" a saloon, no matter what may tempt you, but always be in the habit of going into God's house, or wherever the Lord will go with you, and like those two disciples eat of the bread which he may break and bless, and drink the water which he will give from the fountain of life.

Well, what say you to that?

He says: "Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and sup with him, and he with me."

I wonder if it will be said of you at the last day, "He went in;" I mean, into glory.

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[JESUS, LOVER OF MY SOUL]

THOU, O Christ, art all I want;
More than all in thee I find:
Raise the fallen, cheer the faint,
Heal the sick, and lead the blind:

Just and holy is thy name,
I am all unrighteousness;
Vile and full of sin I am,
Thou art full of truth and grace.

A THANKSGIVING SHOWER.

THE boys and girls of No. 42. talked about it all one day, during recess.

"She's real sick," said one.

"Who is?" asked another.

"Why, Gertie; and she doesn't think she's ever going to be any better. She looks awful! I saw her yesterday: I peeked in at the window and talked to her. She is real lonesome in that ugly, dark room. They're awful poor!"

"I know it!" said Alice Burns. "Her mother used to work in the factory, until she got rheumatism, and couldn't; and now her father is out of work, and they 'most starve, some days."

"Where do they live?"

"Why, in Lewis's basement,—a horrid, old, dark, ugly place! I've peeked through the window now and then, and talked to Gertie, and I never saw such an ugly, black hole of a room as it is. I should think she would die, lying there."

The talk lasted for two or three days. The scholars could not forget Gertie; she had been one of the best readers in the class, and was a favorite. At last a bright idea came to one of them. I don't know which began it; they all chimed in so fast, that we could never find out which first said, "Let's give her a thanksgiving!"

It was within a week of the annual Thanksgiving Day, and I presume the remark that one of the boys made, that "he" did not see what Gertie had to be thankful for, suggested it. You never saw anything like the way in which it grew! Every boy and girl in that school had something they were ready to give, to help Gertie be thankful. At first it was only flowers; but when one girl said she couldn't eat flowers, and was often hungry, and another said she couldn't sleep on them, and had an awful hard bed, and another said she couldn't wear them, and hadn't clothes enough to keep her warm, the flowers grew into sacks of flour, and bags of potatoes, and chickens, and comfortables, and blankets, and a woollen wrapper, and ever so many other things. Of course the mothers helped; mothers are almost always willing to help sweet, bright thoughts that their children have.

Well, the next question was, how to get the gifts to her. Every boy and girl wanted to go and see her, and take his and her offering; but frail little Gertie was too weak for that; so they finally thought out the queerest plan. All the light, soft presents that could stand a bumping, and not make much noise, they resolved upon throwing down that basement window, one after another, as softly and quietly as it could be done! And the rest of the things? Oh, that is the nice part of the story! It was Celia Winters who said,—

"After all, girls, what good will the nice things do her, if she has to live in that dark old basement?"

"Yes, and if her father doesn't get some work to do?" chimed in Charlie Webster. He always agreed with Celia.

After that, the two had their heads together, talking a good deal, and no one could find out what they were going to throw down at Gertie, until at last they owned that, besides flowers from their own greenhouses, they were not going to give her anything but two pieces of paper!

But the papers! Celia's read that a cunning little house on Simmons street, with three rooms and a kitchen, had been rented for a year, and the Winters' carriage would be all ready to take her to her new home on Thanksgiving morning. (I forgot to say that it had been planned to give the shower the day before Thanksgiving, so that Gertie could have the whole of that day in which to be thankful.)

Charlie's paper was for Gertie to give to her father; it contained an invitation from his father to be foreman of a machine shop, at good wages, which were to commence on Thanksgiving morning; and pasted in a corner of the paper, folded down and bearing Gertie's name, was a gold dollar of Charlie's own.

What fun they had, those boys and girls! They talked it over afterwards, trying to decide whether they didn't have even a better time than Gertie. It was so nice to go softly to that basement window, one by one, and drop down a bundle right before Gertie's amazed eyes. At first they sent flowers, white ones, and they nearly spoiled the silence by a shout when they heard Gertie say,—

"Why, mother, it snows, right in here!" And then in the next breath, "Oh, mother, it snows 'flowers!'"

"Let it snow wool now!" said Rob Holden, and he popped down a great blanket at Gertie's feet.

It took a long time, and was the funniest frolic the young people ever had. Of course, it would have been much easier to have sent the things all to the nice new house, the rent of which Celia's mother had paid, and which the seventy other mothers had furnished; but then it wouldn't have been near so funny.

There is no use in my trying to tell you what Gertie and her mother said or did that afternoon. They were too astonished to do much besides look at one another and laugh; and as the great, soft, comfortable bundles kept dropping down, they looked at each other and cried. No, of course you can't see what there was to cry about; but if you had had such a hard time to get enough to eat and wear as this family had, you might have cried for joy.

But what could they do or say when Celia's and Charlie's papers dropped down on them, and were read and understood? Dear little Gertie! Let me tell you what she said. She clasped her two thin hands together, and looked up, not at the basement window, but above it, and murmured, "I think we must all have died, and gone to heaven!"

There ought to be a picture of that cunning little house into which they moved next day, to show you; everything that a neat little family of three could need, the seventy mothers—helped much by the seventy fathers—had put into it. Oh, I think you would like a picture of the handsome carriage and horses and coachman who came for Gertie on Thanksgiving morning, and took her to the little new house; or maybe a picture of the dray that followed her, piled high with the things that were showered down the window the night before; or maybe a picture of Gertie, in an easy-chair in front of the stove, in their bit of a dining-room, with a carpet on the floor, she with her feet on soft cushions, and soft cushions at her back, and a soft, bright shawl around her, eating a bit of Thanksgiving turkey.

Ah, I know you would like a picture of all the scholars of Room 42 who set this ball a rolling; but there were over seventy of them, and how could I show you their photographs? You must just imagine it all.

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THE OTHER SINGER.

NO bracelets, nor necklaces had she; no white silk dress had she ever seen, and a common white muslin, even, she had never worn; she was barefooted, and though the morning was warm, she had wrapped an old shawl around her to hide the holes in her dress. A neat little girl was Mandy, or at least she would have been, if she had known how; she always washed her feet in the fast-running gutter puddles, after a hard rain, just because she liked to see them look clean; but she had no needle and thread at home, nor patches; and her work among the barrels, picking for rags, was not the cleanest in the world.

Yet on this afternoon, the very afternoon in which Miss Cecilia was getting ready for the concert, and frowning over her white silk, because the trail did not hang quite as she liked, did this little girl, Mandy give a concert. Her audience was an organ-grinder who stopped to rest a bit,—an old woman who was going by with a baby, and a little boy with a load of chips. The words she sang were:

"There is a fountain filled with blood,
Drawn from Immanuel's veins."

And the chorus repeated as many times as did Miss Cecilia's. "I've been redeemed, I've been redeemed, I've been redeemed;" don't know "how" many times over; but what different words from Miss Cecilia's!

"Where did you get that?" asked the organ-grinder.

"What?" said Mandy, startled, and turning quickly.

"'That;' that you're singing."

"Oh, I got it to Sunday-school." And she rolled out the wonderful news, "I've been redeemed, I've been redeemed; been washed in the blood of the Lamb."

"I don't s'pose you understand what you're singing about?" said the organ-grinder.

"Don't I, though," said Mandy, with an emphatic little nod of her head. "I know all about it, and it's all true. I belong to Him; he is going to make me clean inside, and dress me in white some day, to stay with him forever and ever. 'I've been redeemed, I've been redeemed,—been washed in the blood of the Lamb.'"

Away down the street, as far as the organ-grinder could hear, as he trudged on, there came back to him the faint sound of that chorus, "I've been redeemed."

Nobody threw bouquets to Mandy; nobody said she had a sweet voice.

But the organ-grinder kept saying the words over and over to himself; they were not new words to him. Years ago, his old mother used to sing those first ones, "There is a fountain." He had never heard the chorus before, but he knew it fitted; he knew all about it; his mother had taught him; and away back, when he was a little boy, a minister had said to him once, "My boy, you must be sure to find the fountain and get washed."

He never had. He was almost an old man; and it was years since he had thought about it; but Mandy's song brought it all back. Was that the end of it? Oh, no. The organ-grinder kept thinking, and thinking, and "thinking," until by-and-by, he resolved to do. He sought the fountain, and found it, and now, if he knew the tune, could sing, "I've been redeemed." Many a time he says the words over and over.

Is "that" the end? Oh dear, no. It will never end.

When Mandy and the organ-grinder stand up yonder, and she hears all about the song that she sung as she picked over rags, it will not, even then, be the end. Nothing ever ends.

NAILS.

BY REV. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

THEY drove nails through his hands, those very hands that had been so tenderly laid upon the heads of little children and left them a blessing; those dear hands that broke the bread which he had made for the thousand hungry people; those gentle hands that touched and opened the blind man's eyes; hands that were always spread in blessing upon some one.

Just think how much hard work those loving hands had done, and all for others. They never had been idle. They never had stolen one penny from any one; never had hurled a stone at any one, though bad people were often catching up stones to throw at him. They never had struck any one, though he was so tormented and insulted; and once shamefully struck in the face. Blessed, patient hands, yet there were people wicked enough to drive iron spikes through them.

What if they had been your own mother's hands, after she had carried you about so long, and fed you when you could not feed yourself; had done for you what a mother only can do for a helpless child; and her hands were "so" weary, and she was trying to get a little rest; then, what if a band of rough soldiers had come and seized her and put hand-cuffs upon her, and led her away to prison, and condemned her to die, and driven nails through the same hands that had given them bread to eat when they came to her door almost starved to death! But they nailed Jesus to a tree, and let him hang there till he suffered, and groaned, and died. No one pitied him, and took him down, and bound up the wounds.

They drove nails through his feet also. And what had those feet done to deserve such treatment? Had they carried him into a house to rob and kill? "The feet of the wicked are swift to shed innocent blood."