THE
PANSY

EDITED
BY "PANSY"
MRS. G. R. ALDEN.

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Volume 13, Number 31. Copyright, 1886, by D. Lothrop & Co. June 5, 1886.

THE PANSY.

"THE LITTLE GIRL MOVING THE DASHER."

SIX O'CLOCK IN THE EVENING.

Lord, evermore give us this bread.

Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.

Your father Abraham rejoiced to see my day: and he saw it and was glad.

"WHY, you've found another verse about bread!" said Grandma, then her eyes grew thoughtful.

"Association is a queer thing, children; association of ideas, I mean." (Some people might think that Grandma Burton used large words in talking to her grandchildren; but the fact was, she did not try very hard to make her words little. Not that she selected long ones; her language was always simple; but words which they would be likely to hear among cultured people, or to see in their books, she aimed to use in talking with them. If they did not understand a word, they were always at liberty to ask its meaning. The consequence was, they were quite intelligent children, and the phrase, "association of ideas," did not trouble the older ones in the least. As for little Sarah she did not bother her brains about it, yet awhile.)

"Now you wouldn't suppose," continued Grandma, "that there was anything in that verse to make me think of a large, old-fashioned farm-house kitchen, with a wooden bowl on the table, and a wooden spoon hanging over it, and old-fashioned dishes arranged on the shelf above it, and a woman in a straight dress, and neck handkerchief, bending over the bread-bowl, and a little girl with a high-necked apron on, standing before an old-fashioned churn, moving the dasher up and down, yet I see all those things as plainly as though it was yesterday morning, instead of sixty odd years ago."

"What makes it, Grandma? What happened?" And Marion settled little Sarah more comfortably on the hassock, and straightened herself, ready to listen.

"Why, it is this association of ideas I was speaking of; my memory of that verse about bread is mixed in with all those scenes. I was the little girl moving the dasher. You see it was this way:

"Mother was very sick that spring, and father had to take her to the city to be under the care of a great doctor, and he had to stay with her; so we children were scattered. I went to spend a week with aunt Pat Worcester."

"What a horrid name for a woman!" said Rollo.

"Oh! it was a nice name. Patriot, the whole name was, but almost everybody called her aunt Pat. She was a splendid woman. People all respected her. She was my father's aunt and he had lived with her a good deal when he was a boy and loved her very much; he liked to have me stay with her. That winter, or spring, it was, she had a nephew living with her; a great red-headed boy named Jeremiah, only we always said Jerry. I didn't like him very well. He was a smart, bright boy, and might have been pleasant, only he was always teasing children younger than himself, telling them things which were not true, threatening to drown them, you know, or bury them alive, or something of that sort; things that he had no more notion of doing than he had of flying; but they were too young to know it, poor things, and he had that kind of evil nature which seemed to be pleased with making others uncomfortable. He didn't trouble me much, because I kept close to aunt Pat; but once in awhile he would wink his great eyes at me, and tell me he was going to swallow me, some day, when aunt Pat wasn't looking."

Grandma's children all laughed at this, and Marion questioned: "Why, Grandma, you surely didn't believe that, did you?"

"No, child; not exactly, of course; and yet I couldn't help feeling kind of creepy all over, when I was in danger of being left alone with him, and I thought of his great mouth. It is my opinion that little folks suffer from these things more than older ones have any idea. I should despise a boy who would descend to so mean a trick as trying to tease one younger than himself."

Harold looked out of the window, steadily, his cheeks a trifle red. The question was, did Grandma know, or did she not know, that he told little Bobby White the other day he was going to tie him to the top of the great big flag staff at the corner, and leave him swinging there for a flag, because his dress was red, and his collar was white, and his eyes were blue. But Grandma didn't look at Harold.

"Aunt Pat was moulding bread in the great wooden bowl, and I was moving the dasher up and down very slowly, and watching her all the while. I wanted to learn how to make bread, and I asked a great many questions; but, after all, the thought most in my mind, and which I said nothing about, after a fashion which children often have, was this very story about Jesus feeding the five thousand people with five loaves of bread. Only the day before, which had been Sunday, aunt Pat had read this whole story to Jerry and me, and talked it over. She was an excellent hand to tell Bible stories, she made them seem so real. She explained the size of the loaves, and all about it. When I saw the great big ones she was moulding, I thought they would have fed a great many more than the little lad's; and from that I went on, thinking out the story, and the way those people followed Jesus the next day, and asked for the bread which would keep them from getting hungry again, without understanding at all what they were asking for. Aunt Pat said they prayed just as plenty of people did nowadays; asked great big things without thinking of them, or wanting them very much. Just then Jerry came in, blowing his fingers, and pretending to be very cold; it was a rather sharp spring morning, and he had been out at the woodpile. He said he wasn't so cold, though, as he was hungry. Aunt Pat laughed, and said she wondered if there was ever a boy made wasn't hungry all the time; then she looked at the clock, and found it was about the time when she always gave Jerry a lunch; for he had been up and at work since five in the morning. Oh! he had his breakfast, of course, a little after five, but aunt Pat always gave him a piece in the middle of the forenoon. By this time she had her loaves all nicely moulded, and she went to the closet and cut him a thick slice of the most excellent bread, and spread it with butter that smelled like June roses. Jerry took great bites of it with a satisfied air, smacking his lips to show how good it was; it must have brought some thought of the very story I was thinking about, for suddenly he spoke out: 'Evermore give us this bread! I say so too!' Then aunt Pat's eyes flashed. 'Jeremiah,' she said, and her voice was very stern, 'you are named after too good a man to be guilty of making fun of Scripture in any such way. Repeating a prayer, too, and not meaning it any more than the heathen do, when they mumble words to their little stone gods. I'm ashamed of you!'

"Jerry looked a little abashed, and muttered that he didn't mean any harm; but I remember to this day, just how wrought up aunt Patriot was about it; she told Jerry that boys who commenced by turning sacred words to fit their own notions, often ended by being profane, wicked men. And that's just the way Jeremiah Carter ended. I haven't thought of him for many a day. But he grew up to be a bad man."

"After all," said Rollo, after a few moments of silence, "you don't think, Grandma, that quoting that Bible verse made a bad man of him?"

"N-o," said Grandma, speaking slowly, giving her head a little doubtful shake the while, "I wouldn't like to say that. Boys do trifle with serious words, sometimes, and get over it, and make good men. I should be sorry enough if I thought they didn't. But then, Jeremiah Carter was exactly that kind of a boy. He had no reverence for the Bible, nor for words of prayer; he was tempted to make fun of everything; and he got so used to it, that after awhile, nothing of that kind shocked him; he became one of these men who pretend not to believe the Bible; and sometimes I have thought that if he had not learned to make light of it when he was a boy, it would not have come so handy when he grew up. Anyhow it always makes me think of Jeremiah Carter when I hear anybody doing it; and he isn't a pleasant body to think of, I can tell you. He died a good many years ago, and they said his last word was a profane one."

The grandchildren made no other comments, and Rollo presently began to whistle. He knew one thing; and that was, it was a great temptation to him to quote a Bible verse now and then, for his own use. Not anything so wicked as Jeremiah did, but in a way that his grandmother, he knew, would call "light and trifling." He wasn't sure whether anybody else had noticed this habit and he made up his mind while he whistled, that they should never again have a chance to notice it in him.

Pansy.

THOMAS AND CLARA.

THAT boy and girl in the picture were real persons. They were Thomas and Clara; were born in a certain town in Steuben County, N. Y., ten years apart—though they seem to be almost of the same age—and always knew each other.

THOMAS AND CLARA.

Clara was a very thoughtful girl, and anxious to know all about everything—often trying to do things beyond her power. She was also fond of her needle, and at an early age could use it with remarkable skill and rapidity.

You need not be surprised to learn that her father used tobacco. Most men do. They begin in boyhood. Many boys think it fine to be men, and that one of the quickest ways to be men is to smoke or chew. So they become deathly sick learning to use tobacco. It is strange. It costs a great sum of money in one's life—enough to buy a home. It makes the breath offensive. It is a very filthy habit and selfish as it is filthy, for though the tobacco user is a great nuisance to many people, especially to ladies, yet he does not seem to care how much others dislike his smoke or breath. He goes right on puffing his cigar or nasty old pipe-fumes into the nostrils and eyes of all who come near.

Now Clara's father was no exception. Sometimes he would come into the kitchen or dining-room—the parlor even—and fill the air with tobacco odor.

Clara's mother would get out of patience at times and say it was a nasty habit and that men had no more right to smoke and chew than women.

And she was right!

Clara loved her father. In her eyes no man was quite as grand as he except the minister. But on this tobacco question she took strong grounds with her mother, her pastor and Sabbath-school teacher, who all thought the same way.

Hearing her mother express her mind so often against this "filthy weed" she learned the many arguments against its use and resolved that she would do everything in her power to prevent her friends from raising or having anything to do with it.

One thing she knew—she never, no, never would marry a man who used tobacco.

Thomas was so much older than herself she was afraid to speak to him as her heart often moved her, about certain habits she feared he was learning.

So the years went by. The great war of the Rebellion came on. Young boys were joining the army. Word came that Thomas had enlisted and with many other young persons was on his way to the front where men of the North and South were shooting each other down by the thousand.

Those were awful days. Not so much because many died on the battlefield and suffered in loathsome prisons, but because of the bad habits many of the young soldiers acquired by being among wicked associates.

Thomas passed through some dreadful experiences. He does not like to speak of them now, telling them only when he is urged.

He was in battle after battle and saw many of his comrades shot down by his side. He was also in prison.

But the war came to an end. He returned and brought with him many things, among them a great love for tobacco.

You need not wonder. Nearly all the soldiers loved tobacco; the majority, I fear, played cards and drank whiskey, and took God's name in vain.

Thomas escaped everything except tobacco, although he had seen so much of the other things.

As the soldiers were brave for their country, so many at home became bold for Jesus. Clara came out on the Lord's side, though many of her mates laughed at her for it.

But she stood firm and when she had a good chance she spoke true words for her Master.

Between her home and another near by was a telephone. Her cousin and Thomas would converse over it. Sometimes Clara would "try her hand" at talking over the wire. This, however, Thomas did not know. He supposed Clara's cousin, Halsey, was always at the other end of the telephone, answering or asking questions.

One day as the conversation was going on, Thomas said:

"Well, I must stop now and take a smoke."

"Don't do it," came a quick response. It was from Clara, but Thomas did not know it.

"Why not?" inquired Thomas.

"It is nasty," flashed back the quick answer.

"When may I smoke?" came another question.

"Not till I give you permission," Clara replied.

These were her last words through the telephone to Thomas. She never gave him permission, as she died soon after.

Thomas never used tobacco after that. I heard him tell the story in the meeting Clara used to attend.

L.

POEM FOR RECITATION.

ONLY A HEART'S-EASE.

Sought the king his garden
When the air was ringing
With the joyous music
That the birds were singing.
When the sun threw westward
Long bright beams of gold,
And the dew was sparkling
On the wold.
Found his plants all drooping
Sullenly and sadly;
Buds and blossoms hung their heads,
Born to bloom so gladly.
When the king demanded
Why in sorrow bent,
There was but one answer—
Discontent.
For the graceful willow
By the fountain weeping,
And the lovely jasmine,
All her perfume keeping,
Answered when he questioned—
Each with envy spoke—
"Ah, because I cannot
Be an oak."
E'en the elm-tree answered,
Sadly and complaining,
"Ah, because I am not
Bloom and fruitage gaining."
And the vine, down drooping,
Lamentation made
Just because it could not
Cast a shade.
Rose would be a dahlia,
Ferns the flowers would copy,
Daisy grow a sunflower,
Heliotrope, a poppy.
Only little Heart's-ease
Looked all glad and bright,
And the king said, wond'ring
At the sight,
"Wherefore, little Heart's-ease,
Art thou not repining?"
And the Heart's-ease answered,
All her gold heart shining,
"Why, when me you planted
'Mong your garden store,
You wanted just a heart's-ease,
Nothing more."
Do you know the lesson
That the fable's giving?
'Tis the very secret
Of all happy living.
In whatever station
God for you deems best,
Yours to grow and brighten,
His the rest.
M. R. P.

"ONLY A CHILD'S PRATTLE."

IT was one of those summer mornings when the earth seems all aglow with sunshine. The Granger House faced the east, and the doors and windows were opened to let in the light and brightness of the morning. It was a handsome house, somewhat old-fashioned, but handsome still and elegantly furnished. It should have been a happy home, but there was a shadow resting upon it; as yet it was not a deep, dark shadow, indeed it was scarcely perceptible to any save to one troubled heart. Mr. Granger did not see it, he did not know that a horrible fear was sometimes clutching at the heart of his almost idolized wife. He did not suspect his own peril and did not see as she did, the demon lurking in those bottles and decanters on the sideboard.

That morning, little Alice, the one petted darling of the house, was playing upon the lawn, with no other companion than her favorite doll, almost as large as Alice herself.

She had wandered about the grounds, the mother watching the golden head and thinking that sunshine itself was not brighter, until suddenly the child's attention was attracted by what was to her an altogether new sight. A young man was passing. Just in front of the house he staggered and would have fallen had it not been for the assistance of a companion a little less helpless than himself. I need not describe the scene. Unfortunately, to the most of us it is not an unusual sight. We have seen too often the unsteady and uncertain step of a drunkard, we have too often heard the silly laughter and listened to the imbecile chatter of those who have drowned their manhood in a glass of liquor.

But to Alice Granger, a child of five years, it was a new and strange sight and one which she could not comprehend. Her doll lay unheeded upon the ground while with an earnest, curious expression upon her face she watched the two travellers out of sight. Then she ran to the house.

"Mamma," she said, "there were two funny-acting men went past just now. They went on both sides of the street and did not act as if they knew how to walk. They were just as silly as could be."

"Yes, dear; I saw them."

"Mamma, what made them act so?" inquired the child.

Mrs. Granger was inclined to evade the question. She was sorry that her darling had witnessed the disgusting spectacle. She would have spared her the knowledge of this form of sin awhile longer, but it could not now be helped, and as Alice persisted she said at length,

"My dear child, those young men had been drinking too much wine."

"Too much wine! But, mamma, wine does not make folks act like that!"

"Yes, it does."

"But papa drinks wine," and the little round face wore a look of perplexity.

As Mrs. Granger did not reply, Alice said again,

"Say, mamma, papa drinks wine. Does it make him walk like that and talk so that nobody can understand him? Say, mamma!"

What could the mother say? How should she teach her darling to hate the wine cup and at the same time preserve the child's respect and love for her father?

"My darling," she said at length, "wine is a dangerous thing. I will teach you all about it. And papa thinks that a little does not hurt anybody; but perhaps when you know more about it, you and I can coax him not to drink any."

That day at dinner Alice astonished her father by exclaiming suddenly,

"Papa, I wish you wouldn't drink any more wine!"

Mr. Granger looked up in surprise, but he laughed and asked,

"Why not?"

The little face was very sober and the voice very earnest as Alice replied, "Because it makes men act so dis-gust-ing-ly!" The last word was brought out slowly, as if it were too large for her.

"What do you know about it?" The question was addressed to Alice his daughter, but Mr. Granger looked at his wife.

"Alice had her first temperance lesson to-day," replied Mrs. Granger, "and it has made an impression."

"Seems to me you are beginning early to teach her your peculiar views," said the gentleman, half-laughing, half-sneering. At least, it was as near a sneer as the gentleman in Mr. Granger would allow.

"It so happens that I was not the teacher," responded his wife; "it was an object lesson. She saw young Morgan and his friend pass."

"And, papa, they acted just awful! I wouldn't have you act that way for anything."

"Don't be afraid. Fred Morgan drinks a great deal and I only drink a little. That's the difference."

Alice was still quite a time. Then, as her father drained his glass, she asked suddenly,

"Papa, how much is a great deal of wine?"

"How much? O, I don't know," replied Mr. Granger carelessly.

"I wish you did know." And now the voice was very anxious.

"Why do you wish that?"

"Why, don't you see you might make a mistake and drink too much. But if I can find out I'll keep watch and tell you, so you need not be afraid of being like Fred Morgan."

Mr. Granger rose from the table laughing, and betook himself to the library; but the last words of his little golden-haired daughter had struck home to his heart. He, Thomas Granger, like Fred Morgan! Why, Fred was a reeling drunkard. He, Thomas Granger, needing to be watched by his little daughter, lest he make a mistake and take too much wine! Could there be truth in the suggestion? Was he in danger? Of course not. It was a child's foolish prattle. But foolish or not, the thought staid with him, and, sneer as he might, it would not be put down.

Was this the wise Heavenly Father's way of answering that sad-hearted wife's prayer that her husband might be brought to see his danger?

There was no wine served at dinner the next day. The glittering decanters, and the bottles with the age mark of which Mr. Granger had been so proud, and the cutglass wine glasses had all disappeared. No need now for Alice to watch!

Her father had left forever the dangerous path, and had resolved never again to lift the wineglass to his lips.

Faye Huntington.

LITTLE ALICE AND HER FAVORITE DOLL.

Volume 13, Number 32. Copyright, 1886, by D. Lothrop & Co. June 12, 1886.

THE PANSY.

LITTLE SATE IN THE CHOIR.

REACHING OUT.

(A further Account of Nettie Decker and her Friends.)
By Pansy.

CHAPTER VIII.

IT was a beautiful Sabbath afternoon; just warm enough to make people feel still and pleasant. The soft summer sunshine lay smiling on all the world, and the soft summer breeze rustled the leaves of the trees, and stole gently in at open windows. In the front room of the Deckers, the family was gathered, all save Mr. Decker. He could be heard in his bedroom stepping about occasionally, and great was his wife's fear lest he was preparing to go down town and put himself in the place of temptation at his old lounging place. Sunday could not be said to be a day of rest to Mrs. Decker. It had been the day of her greatest trials, so far. Norm was in his clean shirt and collar, which had been done up again by Nettie's careful hands and which shone beautifully. He was also in his shirt sleeves; that the mother was glad to see; he was not going out just yet, anyway. Mrs. Decker had honored the day with a clean calico dress, and had shyly and with an almost shamefaced air, pinned into it a little cambric ruffle which Nettie had presented her, with the remark that it was just like the one Mrs. Burt wore, and that Jerry said she looked like Mrs. Burt a little, only he thought she was the best-looking of the two. Mrs. Decker had laughed, and then sighed; and said it made dreadful little difference to her how she looked. But the sigh meant that the days were not so very far distant when Mr. Decker used to tell her she was a handsome woman; and she used to smile over it, and call him a foolish man without any taste; but nevertheless used to like it very much, and make herself look as well as she could for his sake.

She hadn't done it lately, but whose fault was that, she should like to know? However, she pinned the ruffle in, and whether Mr. Decker noticed it or not, she certainly looked wonderfully better. Norm noticed it, but of course he would not have said so for the world. Nettie in her blue and white gingham which had been washed and ironed since the flower party, and which had faded a little and shrunken a little, still looked neat and trim, and had the little girls one on either side of her, telling them a story in low tones; not so low but that the words floated over to the window where Norm was pretending not to listen: "And so," said the voice, "Daniel let himself be put into a den of dreadful fierce lions, rather than give up praying."

"Did they frow him in?" this question from little Sate, horror in every letter of the words.

"Yes, they did; and shut the door tight."

"I wouldn't have been," said fierce Susie; "I would have bitten, and scratched and kicked just awful!"

"Why didn't Daniel shut up the window just as tight, and not let anybody know it when he said his prayers?"

Oh little Sate! how many older and wiser ones than you have tried to slip around conscience corners in some such way.

"I don't know all the reasons," said Nettie, after a thoughtful pause, "but I suppose one was, because he wouldn't act in a way to make people believe he had given up praying. He wanted to show them that he meant to pray, whether they forbade it or not."

"Go on," said Susie, sharply, "I want to know how he felt when the lions bit him."

"They didn't bite him; God wouldn't let them touch him. They crouched down and kept as still, all night; and in the morning when the king came to look, there was Daniel, safe!"

"Oh my!" said Sate, drawing a long, quivering sigh of relief; "wasn't that just splendid!"

"How do you know it is true?" said skeptical Susie, looking as though she was prepared not to believe anything.

"I know it because God said it, Susie; he put it in the Bible."

"I didn't ever hear Him say it," said Susie with a frown. A laugh from Norm at that moment gave Nettie her first knowledge of him as a listener. Her cheeks grew red, and she would have liked to slip away into a more quiet corner but Sate was in haste to hear just what the king said, and what Daniel said, and all about it, and the story went on steadily, Daniel's character for true bravery shining out all the more strongly, perhaps, because Nettie suspected herself of being a coward, and not liking Norm to laugh at her Bible stories. As for Norm, he knew he was a coward; he knew he had done in his life dozens of things to make his mother cry; not because he was so anxious to do them, nor because he feared a den of lions if he refused, but simply because some of the fellows would laugh at him if he did.

That Sabbath day had been a memorable one to the Decker family in some respects; at least to part of it. Nettie had taken the little girls with her to Sabbath-school, and then to church. Mrs. Smith had given her a cordial invitation to sit in their seat, but it was not a very large seat, and when Job and his wife, and Sarah Ann and Jerry were all there, as they were apt to be, there was just room for Nettie without the little girls; so she went with them to the seat directly under the choir gallery where very few sat. It was comfortable enough; she could see the minister distinctly, and though she had to stretch out her neck to see the choir, she could hear their sweet voices; and surely that was enough. All went smoothly until the sermon was concluded. Sate sat quite still, and if she did not listen to the sermon, listened to her own thoughts and troubled no one.

But when the anthem began, Sate roused herself. That wonderful voice which seemed to fill every corner of the church! She knew the voice; it belonged to her dear teacher. She stretched out her little neck, and could catch a glimpse of her, standing alone, the rest of the choir sitting back, out of sight. And what was that she was saying, over and over? "Come unto Me, unto Me, unto Me"—the words were repeated in the softest of cadences—"all ye who are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest." Sate did not understand those words, certainly her little feet were not weary, but there was a sweetness about the word "rest" as it floated out on the still air, which made her seem to want to go, she knew not whither. Then came the refrain: "Come unto Me, unto Me," swelling and rolling until it filled all the aisles, and dying away at last in the tenderest of pleading sounds. Sate's heart beat fast, and the color came and went on her baby face in a way which would have startled Nettie had she not been too intent on her own exquisite delight in the music, to remember the motionless little girl at her left.

"Take my yoke upon you, and learn of Me, learn of Me," called the sweet voice, and Sate, understanding the last of it felt that she wanted to learn, and of that One above all others. "For I am meek and lowly of heart"—she did not know what the words meant, but she was drawn, drawn. Then, listening, breathless, half resolved, came again that wondrous pleading, "Come unto Me, unto Me, unto Me." Softly the little feet slid down to the carpeted floor, softly they stepped on the green and gray mosses which gave back no sound; softly they moved down the aisle as though they carried a spirit with them, and when Nettie, hearing no sound, yet turned suddenly as people will, to look after her charge, little Sate was gone! Where? Nettie did not know, could not conjecture. No sight of her in the aisle, not under the seat, not in the great church anywhere. The door was open into the hall, and poor little tired Sate must have slipped away into the sunshine outside. Well, no harm could come to her there; she would surely wait for them, or, failing in that, the road home was direct enough, and nothing to trouble her; but how strange in little Sate to do it! If it had been Susie, resolute, independent Susie always sufficient to herself and a little more ready to do as she pleased than any other way! But Susie sat up prim and dignified on Nettie's right; not very conscious of the music, and willing enough to have the service over, but conscious that she had on her new shoes, and a white dress, and a white bonnet, and looked very well indeed. Meantime, little Sate was not out in the sunshine. She had not thought of sunshine; she had been called; it was not possible for her sweet little heart to get away from the feeling that Some one was calling her, and that she wanted to go. What better was there to do than follow the voice? So she followed it, out into the hall, up the gallery stairs, still softly—the new shoes made no sound on the carpet—through the door which stood ajar, quite to the singer's side, there slipped this quiet little woman who had left her white bonnet by Nettie, and stood with her golden head rippling with the sunlight which fell upon it. There was a rustle in the choir gallery, a soft stir over the church, the sort of sound which people make when they are moved by some deep feeling which they hardly understand; there was a smile on some faces, but it was the kind of smile which might be given to a baby angel if it had strayed away from heaven to look at something bright down here. The tenor singer would have drawn away the small form from the soloist, but she put forth a protecting hand and circled the child, and sang on, her voice taking sweeter tone, if possible, and dying away in such tenderness as made the smiles on some faces turn to tears, and made the echo linger with them of that last tremulous "Come unto Me."

But little Sate, when she reached the choir gallery, saw something which startled her out of her sweet resolute calm. Away on the side, up there, where few people were, sat her own father; and rolling down his cheeks were tears. Sate had never seen her father cry before. What was the matter? Had she been naughty, and was it making him feel bad? She stole a startled glance at the face of her teacher, whose arm was still around her and had drawn her toward the seat into which she dropped, when the song was over. No, her face was quiet and sweet; not grieved, as Sate was sure it would be, if she had been naughty. Neither did the people look cross at her; many of them had bowed their heads in prayer, but some were sitting erect, looking at her and smiling; surely she had made no noise. Why should her father cry? She looked at him; he had shaded his face with his hand. Was he crying still? Little Sate thought it over, all in a moment of time, then suddenly she slipped away from the encircling arm, moved softly across the intervening space, into the side gallery, and was at her father's side, with her small hand on his sleeve. He stooped and took her in his arms, and the tears were still in his eyes; but he kissed her, and kissed her, as little Sate had never been kissed before; she nestled in his arms and felt safe and comforted.

The prayer was over, the benediction given, and the worshipers moved down the aisles. Sate rode comfortably in her father's arms, down stairs, out into the hall, outside, in the sunshine, waiting for Nettie and for her white sunbonnet. Presently Nettie came, hurried, flushed, despite her judgment, anxious as to where the bonnet-less little girl could have vanished. "Why, Sate," she began, but the rest of the sentence died in astonished silence on her lips, for Sate held her father's hand and looked content.

They walked home together, the father and his youngest baby, saying nothing, for Sate was one of those wise-eyed little children who have spells of sweet silence come over them, and Nettie, with Susie, walked behind, the elder sister speculating: "Where did little Sate find father? Did he pick her up on the street somewhere, and would he be angry, and not let Nettie take her to church any more? Or did he, passing, spy her in the churchyard and come in for her?"

Nettie did not know, and Sate did not tell; principally because she did not understand that there was anything to tell. So while the people in their homes talked and laughed about the small white waif who had slipped into the choir, the people in this home were entirely silent about it, and the mother did not know that anything strange had happened. It is true, Susie began to inquire reprovingly, but was hushed by Nettie's warning whisper; certainly Nettie was gaining a wonderful control over the self-sufficient Susie. The child respected her almost enough to follow her lead unquestioningly, which was a great deal for Susie to do.

So they sat together that sweet Sabbath afternoon, Nettie telling her Bible stories, and wondering how she should plan. What did Norm intend to do a little later in the day? What was there she could do to keep him from lounging down street? Why was her father staying so long in the choked-up bedroom? What was the matter with her father these days, and how long was anything going to last? Why did she feel, someway, as though she stood on the very edge of something which startled and almost frightened her? Was it because she was afraid her father would not let her take Sate and Susie to church any more?

With all these thoughts floating through her mind, it was rather hard to keep herself closely confined to Daniel and his experiences. Suddenly the bedroom door opened and her father came out. Everybody glanced up, though perhaps nobody could have told why. There was a peculiar look on his face. Mrs. Decker noticed it and did not understand it, and felt her heart beat in great thuds against the back of her chair. Little Sate noticed it, and went over to him and slipped her hand inside his. He sat down in the state chair which Nettie and her mother had both contrived to have left vacant, and took Sate in his arms. This, of itself, was unusual, but after that, there was silence, Sate nestling safely in the protective arms and seeming satisfied with all the world. Nettie felt her face flush, and her bosom heave as if the tears were coming, but she could not have told why she wanted to cry. Norm seemed oppressed with the stillness, and broke it by whistling softly; also he had a small stick and was whittling; it was the only thing lie could think of to do just now. It was too early to go out; the boys would not be through with their boarding-house dinners yet. Suddenly Mr. Decker broke in on the almost silence. "Hannah," he said, then he cleared his voice, and was still again, "and you children," he added, after a moment, "I've got something to tell you if I knew how. Something that I guess you will be glad to hear. I've turned over a new leaf at last. I've turned it, off and on, in my mind a good many times lately, though I don't know as any of you knew it. I've been thinking about this thing, well, as soon as Nannie there came home, at least; but I haven't understood it very well, and I s'pose I don't now; but I understand it enough to have made up my mind; and that's more than half the battle. The long and short of it is, I have given myself to the Lord, or he has got hold of me, somehow; it isn't much of a gift, that's a fact, but the queer thing about it is, he seems to think it worth taking. I told him last night that if he would show a poor stick like me how to do it, why, I'd do my part without fail; and this morning he not only showed the way plain enough, but he sent my little girl to help me along."

The father's voice broke then, and a tear trembled in his eye. Sate had held her little head erect and looked steadily at him as soon as he began to talk, wonder and interest, and some sort of still excitement in her face as she listened. At his first pause she broke forth:

"Did He mean you, papa, when He said 'Come unto Me'? Was He calling you, all the time? and did you tell Him you would?"

"Yes," he said, bending and kissing the earnest face, "He meant me, and He's been calling me loud, this good while; but I never got started till to-day. Now I'm going along with Him the rest of the way."

"I'm so glad," said little Sate, nestling contentedly back, "I'm so glad, papa; I'm going too."

"BUT" AND "WILL."

FARMER SMITH was fond of birds. When he was young, married and settled in his new house, he planted trees about his home for the birds to live in. He made several pretty cages for the martins. Here and there he put small boxes among the tree-tops to draw certain birds that love to occupy houses that other folks have built.

When boxes failed he would take old oyster cans instead. One day he picked up a leaky glue-pot and tied that on a young elm-tree.

THE HOME OF THE WREN FAMILY.

The next day it was "rented" by a wren. There she continued year after year, taking a vacation in the winter in Florida for her health's sake. She had a way of paying her rent that quite satisfied Farmer Smith, as he never ejected or annoyed her. He probably got his rent in music.

As the years went by, the young elm grew and grew till its top branches seemed almost to touch the sky. It spread, some said, over a half acre nearly.

The glue-pot, or wren's nest, had gone up too, beyond the reach of bad boys that are not happy in seeing birds happy.

One summer, when Mother Wren and Father Wren had gone away on a short visit, the children looked down from the door of their cottage and saw some strangers approaching. Among them was Farmer Smith. He was showing them over the grounds and pointing out this thing and that.

They came under the elm and talked, and the young Wrens listened. And when the old people returned they related the conversation of Farmer Smith and the strangers.

They were greatly excited, as something was said about cutting the "old elm" down.

But the parents quieted their troubled wrenlets with a good supper and, putting them to sleep, they talked the matter over in a whisper with their heads close together.

The next day, charging the children to listen carefully, they flew away, returning soon with a good dinner.

As they sat eating, Miss Kittie Wren spoke up:

"They came again, and I heard Farmer Smith say that this tree was indeed in the way. He could not raise anything about it, it shaded everything so. 'But I can't bear,' he said—I couldn't hear the rest. But I guess it was something awful, and we'll have to get right out of our pretty house or be cut down. O dear, dear!"

And they all set up a cry, and were quieted only when told there was no danger, because Farmer Smith said "But."

The next day, on their return, Master Fred related the talk.

"Farmer Smith said: 'I can't get through winter, as I see, without cutting up "old elm" for wood. But, dear me, how can I? I set it out, and have enjoyed its shade so long. Yet I suppose some day it must come down for firewood.'"

"No danger yet," said Mr. Wren. "So long as that 'But' stands there he can't strike 'old elm' one blow."

The next day Deb told how he came and measured it and figured up how many cords of wood it might make, and then he guessed he might cut it next week.

"Needn't be disturbed, darling, so long as Farmer Smith guesses he'll do it next week. That does not mean anything."

At supper on the following evening, Fred said: "Farmer Smith said to-day, 'Boys, I want you to cut down the elm.' It's all up with us now."

"Never fear a man who only wants a thing done. Thousands of people want this and that, but don't do it. You may rest another day, children. Eat, drink and be merry till we get back."

Mother Wren had barely entered the door with a delicious dinner when Kittie, Fred and Deb all put in at once:

"You had scarcely gone, when Farmer Smith came out alone and walked around 'old elm' muttering something. Then he said, 'I will go now and get my axe and cut it down this very day.' He is grinding his axe now; don't you hear the grindstone?"

"He said, 'I will?' Are you sure it was not guess or think I will?"

"We are positive," all said.

"Then pack up this very minute. We must move before he strikes the first blow."

And away they went.

Did you ever hear of folks who say they ought to sign the Temperance Pledge; who guess they will seek religion; who think they will begin to pray some day, but not now? A few will, like the Prodigal Son, and they are—saved!

Do you but or guess or think or will?

Rev. C. M. Livingston.

Do thy little; God has made
Million leaves for forest shade;
Smallest stars their glory bring,
God employeth everything.

WHY SOME ROSES ARE RED.

A Flower Legend.

ALL roses were white, in the long ago,
According to flower lore;
But one day an angel passed by that way
As a message of love he bore
To a sorrowful soul bowed down by woe,
And weary with ceaseless pain,
And as he noticed the fragrant white flowers,
He poised on the wing amain,
And quickly approaching those roses sweet,
A beautiful bud to pick,
He whispered, "I'll take it with word of love
I bear to the lonely sick."
But as he plucked the beauteous flower,
Whose soft cheek was pale as death,
He said, "As my errand this time brings life—
I will warm it with my breath."
So he kissed the cheek of the fair white rose,
Which 'neath his thrilling touch blushed,
And with message of love, and pink rose of hope,
The sighs of the sick one he hushed.
And ever since then, when a rose is red,
Or blushes with delicate tint,
A kiss, from some angel of love and life,
On its cheek has left its imprint.
Lydia Hoyt Farmer.

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

IN December, 1821, a man with his wife and child were riding in a sleigh over the mountains of Vermont. At last the horse refused to proceed. The man set off to look for help, but soon he perished in the cold. The mother set off to look for him, with her baby in her arms, but she was found dead near the sleigh, next morning. The babe, however, was living, for that mother had wrapped it in her shawl. There is a sweet poem written about it. This proves to you the deep love that wells up in the mother's heart. Any mother would have done the same for her child.

How earnestly should every child strive to love and please his dear parents.

Ringwood.

WANTED—THE MOON.

THE Moon rose early, and Baby Ned
Was rather late in going to bed.
Not two years old, this dear little fellow,
With head so round, and bright, and yellow,
With his eyes so brown, and mouth so sweet,
His fair little hands, and dainty feet—
Wee feet, that have barely learned to walk—
And his wise, quaint, broken, baby talk.
He was perched that night on grandma's knee,
The place where the small king loved to be.
Where the wise brown eyes saw something new
Through the window, up there in the blue.
Over the top of the tallest hill,
Round and silvery, fair, and still,
God's grand old moon! that for ages past
Has held its way in the night-sky vast.
And Neddie wanted that shining ball
To hold in his hands so soft and small,
And nobody went and took it down.
He wrinkled his face to a little frown;
Red lips quivered—he wanted it soon;
Then—one more baby cried for the moon!
But mamma brought him his milk and bread,
And patted his dear little curly head.
Then quickly he smiled and forgot the moon,
And laughed at his face in his silver spoon.
O happy Neddie! so easy to smile;
Your life will be glad, if all the while
As the years go on you can turn away
From all that you want when God says "Nay,"
And laugh, and thank Him for what He may give—
That is the way for His child to live.
O manly boys, and sweet little girls!
With all your colors of eyes and curls,
If you would have life like a summer day,
Be content with the things that are in your way.
Seek ever the things that are pure and high,
As planets that move in the evening sky,
But if you can't have the shining moon,
Be glad when God offers the silver spoon.
Emily Baker Smalle.

PHYSICIANS IN COUNSEL.

Volume 13, Number 33. Copyright, 1886, by D. Lothrop & Co. June 19, 1886.

THE PANSY.

MAMMA HAS RETURNED.

WHERE I WENT, AND WHAT I SAW.

IN the first place, I took a walk. It was a March day, but I wore a sun hat and carried a sun umbrella. Crossing the road in front of my cottage, I went through a little gate, ran down a hill under great spreading pines, and walked along the shore of a lovely lake, stopping now and then to pick white violets, and whortleberry blossoms with which to adorn my hat. Then I sat me down in a rustic seat, and read a letter from some friends in Ohio, telling about a snow storm, and a wind storm, and a frost frolic, and I know not what not of sulky, boisterous weather. Over my head, meanwhile, the mocking birds sang merrily, now pretending that they were robins, now bobolinks, and now nothing but common chirping birds!

Yes, I was in a different country; and you are guessing rightly, that it was in sunny Florida.

But it was time to go on; the great tabernacle bell was ringing, and I wanted to be in at the opening, for we were promised some curious sights that day. After all, I was late; some friends who had been in the woods stopped to show me some pitcher plants, and to divide great sprays of sweet-scented Southern jessamine with me, and when I tiptoed into the tabernacle, work had commenced.

Certainly the sight was curious enough. Men and women, some of them gray-headed and spectacled, each of them with a bit of paper in hand about four inches square; red, or yellow, or blue, or golden, as the case might be; all the colors of the rainbow seemed to be there. Each of these grave men and women were bent over their papers, carefully folding, and creasing, and re-folding, according to the direction of the leader, until they had each made what a small woman of six, sitting near me, called "a little birdie with wings!" but what her gray-haired aunt sitting beside her, pronounced to be a "strictly correct geometrical figure." "Geometry," was that the subject? Well, that is for grown people, surely. No, playing at boat and bird building. Was that the subject? But that is for children.

Well, you are both right; it was Geometry, and it was play. And the name of it is Kindergarten.

Call it what you will, not a Blossom of you but would have liked to be there, and help fold that paper; and your mothers would have enjoyed it, at least, almost as well. Why? Well, principally because of the little dots at home, which they saw they could delightfully entertain, as well as teach, in this way; and because of the tall boy, who yet is a trifle puzzled over fractions. It would be so easy with those nice sticks, which followed the papers, to show him how to do it. Then the blocks, cunning little squares, and triangles, and all sorts of shapes; and what delightful things they would build, to be sure! Do you know, I fancied I saw every Blossom of mine, who has a sister or brother, four, five, six years old, who must be entertained very often by your puzzled selves, sitting in that tabernacle, eager listeners and workers, getting new and bright thoughts every minute as to how you could combine pleasure with instruction; and while little sister thought she was having a "perfectly splendid time" in your care, she would really be learning lessons which would help her all her life.

Didn't I wish you were there! But since you were not, and I couldn't reach to call you, why, I will tell you about it now, and fill your hearts with vain regrets.

Listen, my Blossoms. Kindergarten; that is the name, remember. Is there one in the city where you go, sometimes, to visit? By all means take a morning or two, and visit it, and run away with some pretty ideas to help you amuse the little sisters. Or perhaps it is in the very city where you live, but too far away for the little sister or brother to attend; still, by all means, go you, as a guest occasionally; and my word for it, you will be richly repaid. Such wonders can be done with bright paper, and blocks, and a strong needle with bright-colored silks.

Miss Ross was our teacher, in Florida, last winter; and much did we enjoy the privilege of hearing her. She is going to hold Normal Kindergarten Conventions through the States, next fall; look out for her name, and hear her if you can.

Miss Matilda K. Ross of Chicago.

Pansy.

A LETTER FROM FATHER.

"I WONDER if we will get a letter from father to-night."

It was Essie Carter who spoke. Her mother sat by the window sewing, while Gracie played with her dolls upon the doorstep. Essie was just starting for the post-office.

"I think," she continued, "that I will go across the pasture lot, it is more shady that way and it is very warm this afternoon."

At mention of the pasture lot Gracie sprang up and said in her lisping tones, "Gracie go too!"

"Gracie may go as far as the fence and wait for Essie there," said her mother. And clinging to her sister's hand, carrying her favorite doll, the little one went down the lawn, across the meadow and there cheerfully relinquished her hold and set about hunting violets while Essie went on to the country post-office, where she secured the coveted letter. On her return she found Gracie hanging upon the fence.

"Did you get a letter?" she asked.

"Yes; and now we will hurry home and mamma will read it to us."

"Did my papa write it?" asked the child.

"Yes, dear; papa wrote it to us, maybe there will be a little letter in it for Gracie."

"With what did he write it?"

"With a pen, of course."

"What is a pen?" asked the little questioner.

"O Gracie Carter! you can ask the most questions of any child that ever was born, I do believe!" exclaimed Essie.

"But what is a pen?" persisted Gracie.

"A pen is a thing to write with," replied Essie despairing of evading the questions.

"Who made a pen?"

"I don't know," was Essie's frank reply.

And then she fell to thinking unheeding Grade's questions. After the letter had been read and talked over Essie said:

"Mamma, Gracie wanted to know who made pens, and I couldn't tell her; a thing we use so constantly too! I would like to know something about them myself."

"Well, dear, can't you find out?"

"If we were at home I could study it up in the library, but we haven't any books here excepting poems and Bibles and the dictionary."

"Is that the way you rank your books?" asked Mrs. Carter smiling.

"No; but it is such a matter of course to have the Bible that I was not going to mention it, then I just happened to think of the dictionary."

"Well, go to the dictionary and see what you find there."

Essie turned over the pages and read, "An instrument used for writing, formerly made of the quill of a goose or other bird, but now also of other materials, as gold and steel."

"Why, mamma, is that true, pens can be made of a quill? I never heard of such a thing."

"There are a few things that my daughter has never yet heard of."

"Now, mamma, you are laughing at me! But truly I never heard of a pen being made of a quill. Dear me, I wish I had a cyclopædia. The next time we come out here I mean to bring a whole set!"

"Perhaps I could tell you something about pens," said Mrs. Carter quietly.

"O mamma! I beg your pardon," exclaimed Essie coloring slightly. "I ought to have known that you could! I have heard papa call you a walking cyclopædia."

"Your uncle Horace was at one time employed in a gold pen manufactory and I learned a great deal at that time, and we studied up the history of pens. If I remember rightly the first pens used were made of iron or steel and were not used with ink, but the letters were cut in stone, or clay, and afterwards the same sort of an instrument was used to write upon waxed tablets; then when parchment and paper began to be used pens were made of reeds, and of course the people must have had ink of some sort. Now about quill pens. It was probably more than a thousand years ago that some one discovered that the quills of birds made better pens for writing on paper than could be made of reeds, and people have used quill pens more or less ever since."

"Why do we not use them? Did you ever use one?"

"Two questions at once! I'll answer the last one first. Yes, I remember using quill pens when I first began to go to school. My father had never used any other and he had a prejudice against steel pens, which had already come into use, and as we kept a flock of geese we always had a supply of quills. It was considered in my father's day one of the necessary qualifications of a schoolteacher that he should be able to make a good quill pen. Such steel pens as we use may be classed among modern inventions. It is said that they were first introduced about the beginning of the nineteenth century, but they were not a success and very little progress was made in the manufacture for more than a quarter of a century. One thing will surprise you, I think. The first pens made, in an English factory about the time they were successfully introduced, sold for nearly twenty-five cents apiece at wholesale rates."

"At that rate it would cost papa a fortune to keep me in pens! Why, I use up a box in a little while."

"Probably; you are apt to use up things."