Book: Good Cheer Stories Every Child Should Know

V >> Various >> Good Cheer Stories Every Child Should Know




"But why does he always and only complain?" moaned the corn plants, as
the new terror was breathed over the field. "Have we not done our best
from the first? And has not mercy been with us, sooner or later, all
along? When moisture was scant, and we throve but little, why did he
not rejoice over that little, and wait, as we did, for more? Now that
abundance has come, and we swell triumphant in strength and in hope,
why does he not share our joy in the present, and wait in trust, as we
do, for the future ripening change? Why does he always complain? Has
he himself some hard master, who would fain reap where he has not
sown, and gather where he has not strewed, and who has no pity for his
servants who strive?"

But of all this the Master of the Harvest heard nothing. And when the
days of rain had rolled into weeks and the weeks into months, and the
autumn set in, and the corn still stood up green in the ridges, as if
it never meant to ripen at all, the boldest and most hopeful became
uneasy, and the Master of the Harvest despaired.

But his wife had risen no more from her bed, where she lay in sickness
and suffering, yet in patient trust, watching the sky through the
window that faced her pillow, looking for the relief that came at
last. For even at the eleventh hour, when hope seemed almost over, and
men had half learned to submit to their expected trial, the dark days
began to be varied by a few hours of sunshine; and though these passed
away, and the gloom and rain returned again, yet they also passed away
in their turn, and the sun shone out once more.

And the poor sick wife, as she watched, said to those around her that
the weather was gradually changing, and that all would come right at
last; and sighing a prayer that it might be so with herself also, she
had her Bible brought to the bed, and wrote in the flyleaf the text,
"Some thirty, some sixty, some an hundredfold"; and after the text the
date of the day, for on that day the sun had been shining steadily for
many hours. And after the date the words, "Unto whom much is given,
of him shall much be required; yet if Thou, Lord, be extreme to mark
iniquity, O Lord, who may stand?"

And day by day, the hours of sunshine were more in number, and the
hours of rain and darkness fewer, and by degrees the green corn ears
ripened into yellow, and the yellow turned into gold, and the harvest
was ready, and the labourers not wanting. And the bursting corn broke
out into songs of rejoicing, and cried, "At least we have not waited
and watched in vain! Surely goodness and mercy have followed us all
the days of our life, and we are crowned with glory and honour. Where
is the Master of the Harvest, that he may claim his own with joy?"

But the Master of the Harvest was bending over the bed of his dying
wife.

And she whispered that her Bible should be brought, and he brought it,
and she said, "Open it at the flyleaf at the end, and write, 'It is
sown in corruption, it is raised in incorruption; it is sown in
dishonour, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised
in power; it is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body!'"
And she bade him add the date of the day, and after the date of the
day, the words, "O Lord, in Thy mercy say of me--She hath done what
she could!" And then she laid her hand in his, and so fell asleep in
hope.

And the harvest of the earth was gathered into barns, and the
gathering-day of rejoicing was over, and the Master of it all sat
alone by his fireside, with his wife's Bible on his knee. And he read
the texts and the dates and the prayers, from the first day when the
corn seeds were held back by drought; and as he read a new heart
seemed to burst out within him from the old one--a heart which the
Lord of the other Harvest was making soft, and the springing whereof
He would bless.

And henceforth, in his going out and coming in from watching the
fruits of the earth, the texts and the dates and the prayers were ever
present in his mind, often rising to his lips; and he murmured and
complained no more, let the seasons be what they would and his fears
however great; for the thought of the late-sprung seed in his own dry
cold heart, and of the long suffering of Him who was Lord and Master
of all, was with him night and day. And more and more as he prayed for
help, that the weary struggle might be blessed, and the new-born
watching and waiting not be in vain, so more and more there came over
his spirit a yearning for that other harvest, where he and she who had
gone before might be gathered in together.

And thus--in one hope of their calling--the long-divided hearts were
united at last.




A THANKSGIVING DINNER[24]

BY EDNA PAYSON BRETT.

Ministers' sons, somehow, have a bad reputation. Little
Johnnie was one and he thought it pretty hard to have to go
to church on Thanksgiving Day. But the pink-frosted cakes--


"Oh, dear!" puffed a certain little boy one bright Thanksgiving
morning, as he jerked his chubby neck into the stiffest of white
collars. "Great fun, isn't it, having to sit up in meeting for a
couple of hours straight as a telegraph pole when I might be playing
football and beating the Haddam team all to hollow! This is what comes
of your pa's being the minister, I s'pose."

[Footnote 24: From the _Youth's Companion_, November 29, 1900.]

But Johnnie, for that was his name, continued his dressing, the ten
years of his young life having taught him how useless it is to make a
fuss over what has to be done.

In a few minutes he had finished, and was quite satisfied with his
appearance, but for his shoes. These he eyed for a moment, and
concluding that they would not pass inspection, started for the
woodshed to give them a shine.

On his way he passed the open dining-room door, and suddenly halted.
"Oh! Why can't I have a nice little lunch during sermon time?"

He took a step back and peeped slyly into the room; then stole across
to the old-fashioned cupboard, stealthily opening the doors, and such
an array of good things you never beheld! Sally was the best cook in
Brockton any day, but on Thanksgiving she could work wonders.

He looked with longing eyes from one dish to another. Now the big pies
were out of the question, and the cranberry tarts--he felt of them
lovingly--but no, they were altogether too sticky. He stood on tiptoe
to see what was on the second shelf. To his delight he found a platter
filled with just the daintiest little pink-frosted cakes you ever saw.

"O-oo, thimble cakes!" he exclaimed. "You are just the fellows I want!
I'll take you along to church with me." He cast one quick glance
around, then grabbed a handful of the tiny cakes and crammed them into
his trousers' pocket.

"Lucky for me ma isn't going to meeting to-day," chuckled the naughty
boy, "and I don't believe grandma'd ever tell on me if I carried along
the turkey!"

The early bell had now begun to ring, and Johnnie started for the
village church.

"Come, my son," said Doctor Goodwin, as they entered the
meeting-house, "you are to sit in the front seat with grandma this
morning: she is particularly anxious to hear every word of the sermon
to-day. And where's your contribution, boy? You haven't forgotten
that?"

"No, sir," meekly answered Johnnie, "it's tied up in my handkerchief."
But his heart sank--the front seat! How ever was his lunch to come in
now?

The opening hymn had been sung, the prayer of thanksgiving offered,
and now, as the collection was about to be taken, the pastor begged
his people to be especially generous to the poor on this day.

Up in the front pew sat Johnnie, but never a word of the notice did he
hear, so busy was he planning out his own little affair. It wasn't
such easy planning either, just supposing he got caught!

But what was that? Johnnie jumped as if he had been struck. However,
it was nothing but the money plate under his nose, and the good Deacon
Simms standing calmly by.

To the guilty boy it seemed as if the deacon must have been waiting
for ten minutes at the least, and in a great flurry he began to fumble
for his handkerchief. What _had_ he done with it? Oh, there it was at
last, way down in the depths of his right trousers' pocket.

He caught hold of the knotted corner, and out came the handkerchief
with a whisk and a flourish, and scatter, rattle, helter-skelter, out
flew a half-dozen pink thimble cakes, down upon the floor, back into
Mrs. Smiley's pew, and to Johnnie's horror one pat into the deacon's
plate!

The good man's eyes tried not to twinkle as he removed the unusual
offering, and passed on more quickly than was his wont.

Miserable Johnnie, with his face as red as a rooster's comb and eyes
cast down in shame, saw nothing but the green squares on the carpet
and the dreadful pink-frosted cakes. He was sure that every one in the
church was glaring at him; probably even grandma had forsaken him, and
each moment he dreaded--he knew not what.

To his surprise, the service seemed to go right on as usual. Another
hymn was sung, and then there was a general settling down for the
sermon. Very soon he began to grow tired of just gazing at the floor,
yet he dared not look up, and by and by the heavy eyes drooped and
Johnny was fast asleep.

All was now quiet in the meeting-house save the calm, steady voice of
the preacher. Pretty soon a wee creature dressed all in soft brown
stole across the floor of a certain pew. She was a courageous little
body indeed, but what mother would not venture a good deal for her
hungry babies? Such a repast as this was certainly the opportunity of
a lifetime. Looking cautiously around, then concluding that all was
safe, she disappeared down a hole in a corner way under the seat. In a
twinkling she was back again; this time, however, she was not alone.
Four little ones pattered after Mamma Mouse, and eight bright eyes
spied a dinner worth running for.

Never mind what they did; but when Johnnie awoke at the strains of
the closing hymn and tried to remember what had gone wrong, he saw
nothing of the pink-frosted cakes save some scattered crumbs.

What could have become of them, he thought, in bewilderment.

He hardly knew how he got out of the church that day, but he found
himself rushing down the road a sadder and a wiser boy. Grandma and
papa had remained to chat. Johnnie did not feel like chatting to-day.

When he reached the house he did not go in, but out to the hayloft,
his favourite resort in time of trouble. When the dinner bell sounded,
notwithstanding the delicious Thanksgiving odours which had been
wafted even to the barn, it was an unwelcome summons; yet go he must,
and walking sheepishly into the dining-room, he slunk into his chair.

"Well, John," said his father, as he helped him to turkey, "I
understand that you did not forget the poor to-day. Eh, my son?"

"The poor?" What could he mean? Johnnie was too puzzled to speak.

Then his father went on to tell how little Mrs. Mouse and her babies
had nibbled a wondrous dinner of pink thimble cakes on the floor of
pew number one while Johnnie slept. Grandma and Mrs. Smiley had told
him all about it on the way home; besides, he had seen enough himself
from the pulpit.

Johnny bravely bore the laugh at his expense, and as the merriment
died away heaved a deep sigh of relief, and exclaimed, "Well, I'm
glad somebody had a feast, even if it wasn't the fellow 'twas meant
for! Humph, _'twas_ quite a setup for poor church mice, wasn't it? But
they needn't be looking for another next year. You don't catch me
trying that again--no-sir-ee!"




TWO OLD BOYS[25]

BY PAULINE SHACKLEFORD COLYAR.

Walter's two grandfathers were a pair of jolly chums, _as
boys_. There is plenty of humour in this tale of a turkey
hunt.


"Day after to-morrow will be Thanksgiving," said Walter, taking his
seat beside Grandpa Davis on the top step of the front gallery.

[Footnote 25: _From Lippincott's Monthly Magazine_, December, 1896.]

"And no turkey for dinner, neither," retorted Grandma Davis, while her
bright steel needles clicked in and out of the sock she was knitting.

The old man was smoking his evening pipe, and sat for a moment with
his eyes fixed meditatively upon the blue hills massed in the
distance.

"Have we got so pore as all that, Mother?" he asked, after a while,
glancing over his shoulder at his wife, who was rocking to and fro
just back of him.

"I'm obleeged to own to the truth," answered the old lady dejectedly.
"What with the wild varmints in the woods and one thing an' another,
I'm about cleaned out of all the poultry I ever had. It's downright
disheartenin'."

"Well, then," asserted Grandpa Davis, with an unmirthful chuckle, "it
don't appear to me as we've got so powerful much to be thankful about
this year."

"Why, Grandpa!" cried Walter, in shocked surprise, "I never did hear
you talk like that before."

"Never had so much call to do it, mebbe," interposed the old man
cynically.

The last rays of the setting sun touched the two silvered heads, and
rested there like a benediction, before disappearing below the
horizon.

Silence had fallen upon the little group, and a bullfrog down in the
fishpond was croaking dismally.

"Why don't you go hunting, and try to kill you a turkey for
Thanksgiving?" ventured Walter, slipping his arm insinuatingly through
his grandfather's. "I saw a great big flock of wild ones down on the
branch last week, and I got right close up to them before they flew."

"I reckon there ought to be a smart sight of game round and about them
cane brakes along that branch," said the old man slowly, as though
thinking aloud. "It used to be ahead of any strip of woods in all
these parts, when me and Dick was boys. But nobody ain't hunted there,
to my knowledge, not sence me and him fell out."

"I wish you and Grandpa Dun were friends," sighed Walter. "It does
seem too bad to have two grandpas living right side by side, and not
speaking."

"I ain't got no ill-will in my heart for Dick," replied Grandpa Davis,
"but he is too everlastin' hard-headed to knock under, and I'll be
blamed if I go more'n halfway toward makin' up."

"That's just exactly what Grandpa Dun says about you," Walter assured
him very earnestly.

"Wouldn't wonder if he did," said the old man pointedly. "Dick is
always ben a mighty hand to talk, and he'd drap dead in his tracks if
he couldn't get in the last word."

Be this as it might, the breach had begun when the Davis cattle broke
down the worn fence and demolished the Dun crop of corn, and it
widened when the Dun hogs found their way through an old water gap and
rooted up a field of the Davis sweet potatoes. Several times similar
depredations were repeated, and then shotguns were used on both sides
with telling effect. The climax was reached when John Dun eloped with
Rebecca, the only child of the Davises.

The young couple were forbidden their respective homes, though the
farm they rented was scarce half a mile away, and the weeks rolled
into months without sign of their parents relenting.

When Walter was born, however, the two grandmothers stole over,
without their husbands' knowledge, and mingled their tears in happy
communion over the tiny blue-eyed mite.

It was a memorable day at each of the houses when the sturdy little
fellow made his way, unbidden and unattended, to pay his first call,
and ever afterward (though they would not admit it, even to
themselves) the grandfathers watched for his coming, and vied with
each other in trying to win the highest place in his young affections.

He had inherited characteristics of each of his grandsires, and
possessed the bold, masterful manner which was common to them both.
"Say, Grandpa," he urged, "go hunting to-morrow and try to kill a
turkey for Thanksgiving, won't you? I know grandma would feel better
to have one, and if you make a cane caller, like papa does, I'll bet
you can get a shot at one sure."

The old man did not commit himself about going, but when Walter saw
him surreptitiously take down his gun from the pegs on the wall across
which it had lain for so many years, and began to rub the barrels and
oil the hammers, he went home satisfied that he had scored another
victory.

Perhaps nothing less than his grandson's pleading could have induced
Grandpa Davis to visit again the old hunting-ground which had been so
dear to him in bygone days, which was so rich in hallowed memories. It
seemed almost a desecration of the happy past to hunt there now alone.

The first cold streaks of dawn were just stealing into the sky the
next morning when, accoutred with shot-pouch, powder-flask, and his
old double-barrelled gun, Grandpa Davis made his way toward the
branch. A medley of bird notes filled the air, long streamers of gray
moss floated out from the swaying trees, and showers of autumn leaves
fluttered down to earth. Some of the cows were grazing outside the
pen, up to their hocks in lush, fresh grass, while others lay on the
ground contentedly chewing their cuds. All of them raised their heads
and looked at him as he passed them by.

How like old times it was to be up at daybreak for a hunt! The long
years seemed suddenly to have rolled away, leaving him once more a
boy. He almost wondered why Dick had not whistled to him as he used to
do. Dick was an early riser, and somehow always got ready before he
did.

There was an alertness in the old man's face and a spring in his step
as he lived over in thought the joyous days of his childhood. The
clouds were flushed with pink when he came in sight of the big water
oak on the margin of the stream, and recollected how he and Dick had
loved to go swimming in the deep, clear water beneath its shade.

"We used to run every step of the way," he soliloquized, laughing,
"unbuttonin' as we went, chuck our clothes on the bank, and 'most
break our necks tryin' to git in the water fust. I've got half a
notion to take a dip this mornin', if it wasn't quite so cool," he
went on, but a timely twinge of rheumatism brought him to his senses,
and he seated himself on the roots of a convenient tree.

Cocking his gun, he laid it across his knees, and waited there
motionless, imitating the yelp of a turkey the while. Three or four
small canes, graduated in size, and fitted firmly one into the other,
enabled him to make the note, and so expert had he become by long
practice that the deception was perfect.

After a pause he repeated the call; then came another pause, another
call, and over in the distance there sounded an answer. How the blood
coursed through the old man's veins as he listened! There it was
again. It was coming nearer, but very slowly. He wondered how many
were in the flock, and called once more. This time, to his surprise,
an answer came from a different direction--a long, rasping sound, a
sort of cross between a cock's crow and a turkey's yelp.

He started involuntarily, and very cautiously peeped around. Hardly
twenty steps from him another gray head protruded itself from the hole
of another tree, and Grandpa Davis and Grandpa Dun looked into each
other's eyes.

"I'll be double-jumped-up if that ain't Dick!" cried Grandpa Davis,
under his breath. "And there ain't a turkey as ever wore a feather
that he could fool. A minute more, and he'll spile the fun. Dick," he
commanded, "stop that racket, and sneak over here by me," beckoning
mysteriously. "Sh-h-h! they are answerin' ag'in. Down on your
marrow-bones whilst I call."

Flattening himself upon the ground as nearly as he could, and creeping
behind the undergrowth, Grandpa Dun made his way laboriously to the
desired spot. He had never excelled in calling turkeys, but he was a
far better shot than Grandpa Davis.

Without demur the two old boys fell naturally into the _role_ of
former days. Breathless and excited, they crouched there, waiting for
the fateful moment. Their nerves were tense, their eyes dilated, and
their hearts beating like trip-hammers.

Grandpa Davis had continued to call, and now the answer was very near.

"Gimme the first shot, Billy," whispered Grandpa Dun. "I let you do
the callin'; and, besides, you know you never could hit nothin' that
wasn't as big as the side of a meetin'-house."

Before Grandpa Davis had time to reply, there came the "put-put-put"
which signals possible danger. A stately gobbler raised his head to
reconnoitre; two guns were fired almost simultaneously, and, with a
whir and a flutter, the flock disappeared in the cane brake.

The two old boys bounded over the intervening sticks and stumps with
an agility that Walter himself might have envied, and bending over the
prostrate gobbler exclaimed in concert: "Ain't he a dandy, though!"

They examined him critically, cutting out his beard as a trophy, and
measured the spread of his wings.

"But he's yourn, after all, Dick," said Grandpa Davis ruefully. "These
here ain't none of my shot, so I reckon I must have missed him."

"I knowed you would, Billy, afore your fired," Grandpa Dun replied,
with mock gravity, "but that don't cut no figger. He's big enough for
us to go halvers and both have plenty. More'n that, you done the
callin' anyhow."

Then they laughed, and as they looked into one another's faces, each
seemed to realize for the first time that his quondam chum was an old
man.

A moment before they had been two rollicking boys off on a lark
together--playing hooky, perhaps--and in the twinkling of an eye some
wicked fairy had waved her wand and metamorphosed them into Walter's
two grandfathers, who had not spoken to each other since years before
the lad was born.

Yet the humour of the situation was irresistible after all, and,
without knowing just how it happened, or which made the first advance,
Dick and Billy found themselves still laughing until the tears coursed
down their furrowed cheeks, and shaking hands with as much vigour as
though each one had been working a pump handle.

"I'll tell you what it is, Billy," said Dick at last; "you all come
over to my house, and we'll eat him together on Thanksgivin'."

"See here, Dick," suggested Billy, abstracting a nickel from his
trousers' pocket; "heads at your house, and tails at mine."

"All right," came the hearty response.

Billy tossed the coin into the air: it struck a twig and hid itself
among the fallen leaves, where they sought it in vain.

"'Tain't settled yet," announced Dick; "but lemme tell you what let's
do. S'posin' we all go over to-morrow--it'll be Thanksgivin', you
know--and eat him at John's house."

"Good!" cried Billy, with beaming face. "You always did have a head
for thinkin' up things, Dick, and this here'll sorter split the
difference, and ease matters so as--"

"Yes, and our two old women can draw straws, if they've got a mind to,
and see which of them is obligated to make the fust call," interrupted
Dick.

"Jist heft him, old feller," urged one of them.

"Ain't he a whopper, though!" exclaimed the other.

"Have a chaw, Dick?" asked Billy, offering his plug of tobacco.

"Don't keer if I do," acquiesced Dick, biting off a goodly mouthful.

Seating themselves upon a fallen hickory log, they chewed and
expectorated, recalling old times, and enjoying their laugh with the
careless freedom of their childhood days.

"Dick, do your ricolleck the fight you and a coon had out on the limb
of that tree over yonder, one night?" queried Billy, nudging his
companion in the ribs. "He come mighty nigh gittin' the best of you."

"He tore one sleeve out of my jacket, and mammy gimme a beatin'
besides," giggled Dick. "And say, Billy, wasn't it fun the day we
killed old man Lee's puddle ducks for wild ones? I don't believe I
ever run as fast in my life."

"And, Dick, do you remember the night your pappy hung the saddle up on
the head of the bed to keep you from ridin' the old gray mare to
singin' school, and you rid her, bareback, anyway? You ricolleck you
was stoopin' over, blowin' the fire, next mornin', when he seen the
hairs on your britches, an' come down on you with the leather strop
afore you knowed it."

Thus one adventure recalled another, and the two old boys laughed
uproariously, clapping their hands and holding their sides, while the
sun climbed up among the treetops.

"Ain't we ben two old fools to stay mad all this time?" asked one of
them, and the other readily agreed that they had, as they once more
grasped hands before parting.

Walter had arranged the Thanksgiving surprise for his parents, but
when he brought home the big gobbler he was unable longer to keep the
secret, and divulged his share in what had happened.

"I didn't really believe either one of them could hit a turkey," he
confided to his father, "but I wanted to have them meet once more, for
I knew if they did they would make friends."

The parlour was odorous with late fall roses next morning, the table
set, and Walter and his parents in gala attire, when two couples,
walking arm in arm, appeared upon the stretch of white road leading up
to the front gate.

One couple was slightly in advance of the other, and Grandpa Davis,
who was behind, whispered to his wife:

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