Book: The Nest in the Honeysuckles, and other Stories

V >> Various >> The Nest in the Honeysuckles, and other Stories




From that time there has been a marked change in the children. Their
characters have much improved and they have been, in all respects,
more conscientious and trustworthy. One of the boys has, I think,
found a Christian home, and the other is waiting for one.




"IT ALMOST MAKES ME CRY."


"It almost makes me cry to think of the heathen," said Willie Dudley,
as he was standing by his mother's work-table, with his elbow leaning
upon it, and his head resting upon his hand. "I don't wonder
missionaries go to them." His face was thoughtful and sad, and the
tears stood in his eyes.

He had just been looking at two hideous idols, which had been brought
from Africa, and his mother had been telling him that the heathen
thought they were gods, and prayed to them.

Little Eddie wondered that any people could think these stone images
were God. His large, blue eyes looked larger and rounder than ever,
they were so filled with amazement at what he heard. He could only
say, "Oh, mother! oh, mother!" in tones which indicated surprise,
pity, and horror.

Mrs. Dudley told her children that the heathen had not been taught, as
we have, that God is a spirit, and that they had never learned the
commandment, "Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any
likeness of any thing that is in the heaven above, or that is in the
earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth; thou shalt
not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them; for I, the Lord thy
God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the
children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me;
and showing mercy unto thousands of them that love me, and keep my
commandments."

"I don't wonder that the missionaries go to them," was the sentiment
on the mind of Willie, as he thought of the ignorance and degradation
of the heathen. He loved, himself, to hear about God, and our blessed
Saviour, and he knew that God required a pure and spiritual worship.
He knew God was the Creator of the world, and that his power and glory
could not well be represented or conceived by man. He had often heard
of the heathen, and had read about their idols, but to see and handle
a stone head which had been actually an object of religious worship,
made it seem much more real to him than ever before, that there are
many people who have never learned to worship the true God.

Willie has always had a great reverence for his heavenly Father.
Several years ago, he was reading a description of one of the idols of
the Hindoos. The picture was disgustingly repulsive. He went to Mrs.
Dudley with his book, saying, "Mother, I don't like to call g-o-d God
here; I want to call it d-o-g, for I don't think it is right to call
such a thing by that great name."

Perhaps Willie will some day be a missionary, and preach the glad
tidings of salvation to those who are now sitting in darkness, and in
the shadow of death. But if he is not a missionary himself, I trust he
will never forget to do what he can for those who, far from their
homes and their friends, are fulfilling Christ's last command, to "go
into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature."

All Christians cannot be missionaries, but they can all do something
to spread a knowledge of true religion throughout the world. They can
contribute of their property to this noble purpose. Our heavenly
Father accepts the smallest gift, offered in love. We, surely, who
live in comfortable homes, and are surrounded by so much that is
pleasant, should never forget those who, in foreign lands, are
preaching the "unsearchable riches of Christ."

If our Saviour were now upon the earth, I suppose dear children, you
think it would be a great pleasure to minister to his wants, and
provide him with food or clothing, or any thing he might need. It is
delightful to know that what we do for those who love him, he accepts
as done to himself. In his Holy Word he says, "Inasmuch as ye have
done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it
unto me."




THE BOY WHO STEALS.


Mrs. Dudley was sitting at her dining-table. The dessert was before
her. There were fine, red water-melons, rich and juicy, with glossy
black seeds peeping out from their hiding-places, and musk-melons,
fragrant and luscious, which grew in her own garden. They had been
gathered early in the morning, by George and Willie, and placed in the
cellar, that they might be cool and refreshing. The boys had assisted
in planting them in the spring, and with their little hoes they had
worked about them during the summer, and subdued the weeds. They had
watched their growth, and every day they examined the vines to find
those that were ripe. They carefully gathered them, and sometimes
there were so many that their wheelbarrow was quite full. Then they
had the pleasure of carrying some to their neighbours. Mrs. Dudley did
not consider good ripe fruit injurious, but much more healthy, in
summer, than meat, puddings, and pastries, so that melons formed quite
an important part of the family dinner. The children enjoyed them
particularly, because they had raised them, in part, by their own
industry.

George asked to be excused from the table. Not long after he left,
Mrs. Dudley heard a cry, as if some child was in trouble. She looked
around. Mary, and Willie, and Eddie were there. The sounds of distress
could not come from George, for he never cried in that way. Mr. and
Mrs. Dudley immediately arose and went out upon the lawn. The children
followed. They looked here and there, and soon saw a boy near the
house. He had a small bundle in his hand, and a little tin pail. I
should think he was ten or eleven years old. He was crying, and
calling to a boy who stood at the gate. Mr. Dudley inquired of him,

"What is the matter?"

"John won't let me go home."

"How does he prevent you? What does he do to you?" asked Mrs. Dudley.

"He won't let me alone."

"Does he try to make you fight?" she again inquired,--for she had
frequently seen that large boys often love to tease and torment
smaller ones, and she thought perhaps this little fellow was abused by
a tyrannical companion. She thought of going to speak to the boy at
the gate, but Mr. Dudley made further inquiries, and the child's
answers were not very satisfactory.

Mary Dudley now came near her mother, and, speaking in a low voice,
said to her, "That is the boy who steals."

While they were talking with him a larger boy came up, and said his
teacher had sent him and the boy at the gate to take Jimmy back to
school.

"Why, what has he done?" asked one of the group which surrounded him.

"He has been stealing the children's dinners. He stole yesterday, and
he has been stealing to-day."

This was a sad account to hear. Jimmy begged to be permitted to go
home, but Mr. Dudley told him he had better return to the school. He
then very reluctantly walked down to the gate with the largest boy,
and I suppose was led back to his teacher.

Mrs. Dudley had never heard of this child before, but Mr. Dudley said
he had known him as a very bad boy. She asked Mary how she happened to
know any thing about him. Mary told her that he attended
Sunday-school, and that, a few Sundays before, one of the children
could not find his cap. A thorough search was made for it, but it
could not be found. The superintendent thought some one must have
taken it. He suspected Jimmy, because his reputation was so bad, and
followed him on his way home. Jimmy had it on his head, and his own
cap was hidden under his sack!

The superintendent of the school talked with Jimmy, who said he would
never steal again; but, alas! he soon forgot his good resolution.
Although he carried a dinner for himself in his tin pail, he took
whatever he liked from the baskets of his companions.

Mrs. Dudley has seen this boy several times since she heard him crying
on the lawn. She says it always makes her feel sad to meet him, for
she cannot avoid thinking,--"that is the boy who steals." She has
learned that he has no father or mother, but lives with his
grandparents. I fear he "will bring down their gray hairs with sorrow
to the grave." He has allowed himself to steal small things, and as he
grows older he will probably take articles of more value. He may
become a housebreaker or a murderer.

It is dangerous to indulge in the least sin. It hardens the heart, and
stifles the whisper of that still, small voice, which so often tells
children, when they are tempted to do wrong, "That is not right; you
should not do that."

In some Catechism the question is asked, "What is my duty to my
neighbour?" and a part of the answer is, "To keep my hands from
picking and stealing." I suppose "picking" must mean, secretly taking
little pieces of cake, or sugar, or any thing of the kind, of small
value. I presume Jimmy was in the habit of "picking," at his
grandmother's before he ventured to steal at school.

I could tell you several very sad stories of people who have stolen
when they were children, and who have grown more and more wicked, as
they have advanced in years, till they became a curse to society and
themselves. "The way of transgressors is hard." These people have no
true enjoyment. There is always a fearful looking forward to the
future.

It is not pleasant to me to write about bad children, and I should not
do it if it were not to warn the dear children I so much love against
the formation of wrong and sinful habits.

How much better it would be for Jimmy if he had learned to "touch not,
taste not, handle not," that which does not belong to him!

[Illustration]




LOOK AT THE BIRDS!


October, with its golden and crimson hues, its "gentle wind," and its
"fair sunny noon," has passed away. November has come. The sun shines
brightly, and the sky is almost clear of clouds; but the chill wind
blows roughly, and the leaves are rudely torn from the trees where
they have gladdened us through the spring and the summer by their
refreshing shade, their modest beauty, and their sweet music, as they
sung to the gentle breeze which played amid the branches. They lie
now, most of them, beneath the trees, wrinkled and faded, or scattered
here and there, far from their fellows, wherever the cold blast has
wafted them.

The birds have been taught by their unfailing instinct that summer has
departed, and winter is near. They no more warble their rich melodies,
or flit in and out of the bowery recesses of the honeysuckles or peep
with knowing look under the eaves, or into the arbour. Other purposes
prompt to other acts, and they are taking their farewell of the
pleasant summer haunts, where they have built their nests and reared
their young.

This morning, soon after sunrise, Willie was standing on the lawn,
contemplating the beauties of nature, and thinking, I suppose, of the
changes of the seasons, when all at once I heard him shout, "Look at
the birds! Look at the birds!" We threw open the window, and there
were thousands and thousands of them almost over our heads. Their
wings made a noise like the rushing of a steam-engine as it cleaves
the air in its speed. They were calling to each other with a short,
quick sound. It seemed as if they were giving and receiving orders. We
watched them till they disappeared over the tree-tops.

"There are more! There are more!" shouted Mary. We again looked
towards the rising sun, and up over the eastern hills came another
immense flock, calling to each other as the first, and they too
disappeared behind the western hills.

"There is another flock!" and so indeed there was. Up from the meadows
and over the hills they came, swaying up and down in their flight, and
so near that we could see each bird distinctly. Almost simultaneously
they alighted on Clover Hill to rest for a moment. I can never forget
their motion so full of grace and beauty, waving and undulating like
the gentle swell of the ocean. Soon, another company followed in the
same direction, and when they were over Clover Hill, up flew the
others, and away they went with them beyond our sight. Flock after
flock appeared, each taking the same general direction, and some of
them so large that they stretched from the hills which bounded our
view on one side, as far as our eye could see on the other. They
looked, as Willie said, like bees swarming, only they were much
larger. Occasionally a few stragglers could be seen, hurrying on to
join their party, which was in advance of them. Perhaps they had
delayed to take a last farewell of their pleasant summer homes, or,
may be, they were dilatory in their habits, and did not make their
morning toilet in season. I hope they will be more prompt in future,
for it is a bad habit to be late, and occasions, often, much vexation
and inconvenience.

I never before saw so many birds together, although I have frequently
been startled by the peculiar sound made by large numbers flying in
company, and have looked at them with wonder and admiration.

The migration of birds is one of the most remarkable phenomena in
natural history. "The stork in the heaven knoweth her appointed times,
and the turtle, and the crane, and the swallow, observe the time of
their coming," and so do all birds of passage. Their Creator has
endowed them with a wonderful instinct, which, in some way, unknown to
us, teaches them to guard against the severity of the season by
seeking a warmer climate, and when "winter is past," and "the flowers
appear on the earth," and "the vines, with the tender grape, give a
good smell," then "the time of the singing of birds is come," and
their voice is heard in our land. Some of them return, not only to the
same country, but to the same place, where they have previously built
their nests, and, year after year, raise their broods in the same
friendly tree.

It is said that, to enable birds to fly with ease, and to continue
long on the wing, they must fly against the wind. I observed, this
morning, that there was a brisk wind from the west, while the birds
were flying a little south of west. Perhaps they had been waiting
several days for a favourable wind, and that may have been the reason
of the great number of flocks we saw.

"Behold the fowls of the air," said our Saviour, in his sermon on the
mount; "for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns,
yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than
they?" At another time, when he was talking with his disciples about
the persecutions they should endure for his sake, he said to them,
"Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not
fall on the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your
head are all numbered. Fear ye not, therefore; ye are of more value
than many sparrows."

Not one of that immense number of birds, which we saw flying to a
warmer country, can perish without God's knowledge. He sees every one
of them. During the summer, he has fed them on the meadows near the
sea-shore, and now that winter is approaching, he has taught them to
seek other localities, where their appropriate food can be found.

Whenever God's children are tempted to yield to despondency, and to
fear that they shall suffer from want, let them remember that they are
of more value than many sparrows, and that if they trust their
heavenly Father, their bread shall be given them, and their water
shall be sure. He who feeds the birds will feed them. May he

"Fill" our souls "with trust unshaken
In that Being who has taken
Care for every living thing,
In Summer, Winter, Fall and Spring."

[Illustration]




THE LOST CHILD.


It was a Sabbath morning in November, clear, bright and frosty. Mrs.
Dudley's family were preparing for church. They heard Carlo bark
violently, and knew a stranger must be near. Carlo is a faithful
watch-dog, but his habit of barking at visitors is so disagreeable,
that he is usually kept chained in the day-time. On Sunday, as no
company is expected, he is permitted to go at large. When Mr. Dudley
heard Carlo, he immediately threw open the window, and spoke to him.
He saw a gentleman, who was evidently much alarmed. None of the family
knew him. The stranger soon made known the occasion of his call, by
inquiring,

"Have you seen any thing of a stray child?"

"No, we have not; whose child is lost?"

"Mr. McPherson's."

"How old is the child?"

"About six years old. His mother sent him from home, yesterday, about
two o'clock, and she has heard nothing from him since. He had a small
tin pail with him to get some yeast."

It is sad to hear that a child is lost, and all the family sympathized
with the anxious parents. "How badly you would feel if I was lost!"
said Eddie, and he looked sober and grieved, as he thought of the
little boy about his own age, who had wandered from home, no one knew
where. There was much fear that he had fallen into the river, as he
had been seen on the dock.

At ten o'clock the family started for church. They met people who were
searching for the child, and who asked them, as the gentleman had done
at the house, "Have you seen any thing of a stray child?"

Notice was given in the churches that a boy was lost, and many a
mother's heart beat quicker as she thought of her own dear little
ones, and imagined one of them sleeping, perhaps, through that cold
November night on the ground, or (fearful thought!) buried deep in the
chill water.

After church, you could hear one and another inquiring anxiously, "Has
the child been found?" But no favourable answer was received. In the
afternoon, however, many hearts were gladdened by learning that he was
safe. He had gone to the village, and got his pennyworth of yeast, and
then, instead of returning immediately, he stopped to play with some
boys. He had gone with them to a part of the village with which he was
not acquainted and when he wished to go home, he did not know what
direction to take. He chose a road leading him from home, and wandered
at least five miles. Just before dark an old gentleman and his
grandson were walking on the road, and they observed this little boy
crying.

"What do you suppose he is crying about?" said the child to his
grandfather.

"I don't know. Perhaps he has been sent to the grocery, and does not
like to go."

They watched him and found he did not stop, but passed on with his tin
pail, crying grievously. They waited for him to come up to them, and
asked him,

"What are you crying about?"

"I want to go home!"

"Where is your home?"

The boy could not tell.

"What is your name?"

"William Hudson." He did not say, as he should have done, William
Hudson McPherson.

The old gentleman kindly took him by the hand, and led him to his own
home. William's tears were soon dried, and he became quite contented.
It was too late to attempt to find his parents that night, as he could
not tell where they lived, and the name of Hudson was not familiar to
the good people who had given him shelter.

When Sabbath morning came, William was questioned again and again,
till at length some clue was obtained of his father's place of
residence. The horse was harnessed, and William, with lame and
blistered feet, was placed in the wagon. About noon he safely reached
home, and was clasped once more to his mother's heart. The father had
not returned from his search, and he afterwards said, it had seemed to
him that he never could go home without his child, on account of the
terrible and almost frantic distress of the mother. As he approached
his house, borne down with grief, he saw a wagon at the door. His
heart leaped with joy, for he thought the lost one was found. He
opened the door hopefully, and there, indeed, was William gathered
once more with his brothers and sisters around the great
cooking-stove, tears of joy flowing down the grateful mother's cheeks.

All this great grief which William's father and mother endured--all
the anxiety felt throughout the town--and all the sufferings of the
boy himself, were occasioned by William's stopping to play, when he
ought to have gone directly home!

Children often think they are quite as capable of judging for
themselves, as their parents are for them. Sooner or later this
opinion will lead them into trouble. William thought it was safe to
stop and see the boys play marbles, but he found, to his sorrow, that
it would have been far better to have resisted temptation and denied
himself the short pleasure he enjoyed.

Every human heart is grieved when a child like William strays from
home. We do not wonder that his mother should be fearfully anxious in
regard to his fate. But, oh! how much more bitter tears a loving
mother sheds, when her dear ones stray from the path of virtue, and
become disobedient and wicked! I hope none of the children who read
about William will go astray from the right path, but will ever choose
that which is pure and lovely and of good report, and which, through
the grace of God in Christ Jesus, will safely lead them home to
heaven.

[Illustration]




THE UNPLEASANT NEIGHBOUR.


Eddie's father has a disagreeable neighbour. In one way or another he
is a constant source of annoyance. Sometimes his pigs will creep
through the fence, and root up the smooth green lawn. His part of the
fence he will not keep in repair, and the hungry cows, in search of
food, will break into the garden, and make sad havoc among the
cabbages and other vegetables. His fine bay horse, whom he knows will
jump over any ordinary fence, is permitted to run in a pasture, where
he can eke out his scanty meal by a hearty lunch among Mr. Dudley's
corn. All these aggressions, and many more, have been borne with the
greatest patience.

Mr. Dudley has often been advised to resort to the law as a means of
defence, yet he has been reluctant to do so. The children have
sometimes felt very indignant when they have been obliged to chase the
pigs or the cows out of the yard or field, but their parents have
endeavoured to teach them Christian forbearance.

At one time Eddie had been thinking about Mr. Morrison,--for by that
name I shall call the unpleasant neighbour,--and he said very
seriously to his mother,

"Mother, can Mr. Morrison go to heaven if he dies."

She hesitated a moment how to answer him, for, she had taught him that
it is wicked to lie and to swear, and that if a person loves God he
will not be in the habit of committing such sins; so she told him,
that unless Mr. Morrison repented he could not go to heaven.

At another time Eddie and his mother were talking about God's love for
the beings he has made. She told him that God loves every one.

"Does he love Mr. Morrison?" he inquired.

"Yes, God loves Mr. Morrison. He is grieved and offended by his
wickedness, but he loves him. You know I love you, when you have done
wrong, although I am sorry that you have been naughty. I do not cease
to love you. The Bible tells us that while we were sinners, God so
loved us as to send his Son to die for us. He loves all, and wishes
all to repent and believe in Christ, and be happy. He has provided a
way for all who believe to be saved, and it is only because people
love sin more than they love holiness, that they are lost."

Nothing can give us a higher idea of God's love, than the thought that
he loves every one--even his enemies. "God is love." What a blessed,
glorious thought! How it encourages us to trust him at all times!

God does not willingly afflict, nor grieve, nor punish any one. All
that he does, he does from the truest love.

The knowledge that God loves us should lead us to love him. We are
naturally disposed to love those who love us, and always do, unless
there is something repulsive about them. There can be nothing
repulsive about God, for he is love, and we who love him, love him
because he first loved us.

One night, after little Eddie had repeated the Lord's Prayer and his
usual evening petitions, he raised his head, and said to his mother,

"Shan't I pray for Mr. Morrison, now?"

"Yes, dear, if you wish to," she answered.

He bowed his head again, and uttered a simple prayer for the man who
was the occasion of so much trouble and perplexity to his father's
family. He prayed that God would forgive his sins for Jesus' sake, and
make him a good man. It was very pleasant to hear Eddie pray thus, and
to witness his kind and forgiving spirit.

Mr. and Mrs. Dudley have often regretted that the children should have
their early memories saddened by such a neighbour, but perhaps their
heavenly Father wishes to teach them a lesson of forbearance and love
for those who injure them, which they could not so well learn in any
other way.

Our Saviour, when dying on the cross, taught us practically the duty
of forgiveness. He prayed even for those who put him to death.
"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." Do you not
suppose he was pleased to hear Eddie ask his Father in heaven to
forgive Mr. Morrison and make him a good man?

[Illustration]




THE BOY WHO KEPT HIS PURPOSE.


"I would not be so mean," said George Ward to a boy who stood by,
while he put the candy he had just bought in his pocket.

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