Book: The Nest in the Honeysuckles, and other Stories

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




You recollect that our Saviour, when he saw the rich men casting their
gifts into the treasury and the poor woman casting in her two mites,
said that she had cast in more than they all. They had given of their
abundance; it had cost them no self-denial--but she, of her penury,
had cast in all the living that she had. God looks not only on the
outward act, but at the heart. He sees the motives which actuate us.
He saw Nelly's heart, and he approved her generosity. He gave her an
approving conscience, which made her very happy--far happier than she
could have been if she had been selfish, and thought only of her own
enjoyment.




LOVEST THOU ME?


Jesus, after his resurrection from the dead, appeared at various times
to his disciples. Once, when Peter, John, and a few others were
fishing in the Sea of Tiberias, he stood on the shore, and inquired of
them, "Have ye any meat?" They answered, "No." Then he directed them
to cast their net on the right side of the ship, and they should find
fish. They did so, and caught one hundred and fifty-three. The
disciples then knew it was Jesus who had spoken to them. After they
had secured the fish by drawing the net to the shore, Jesus invited
them to dine with him.

The disciples had observed, so soon as they came to land, a fire of
coals, and "fish laid thereon, and bread." This was the refreshment
our Lord had prepared for them, and he, himself, gave them the simple
repast.

After they had dined, our Saviour said to Peter three times, "Simon,
son of Jonas, lovest thou me?" The first and the second time Peter
answered, "Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee." Peter was
grieved because Jesus said unto him the third time, "Lovest thou me?"
and he replied, "Thou knowest all things; thou knowest that I love
thee."

How did Peter know that he loved Jesus? It was not because he always
did right, for a short time before he had denied his Lord, and had
more than once said that he did not know him! Yet, notwithstanding
this, when he was now asked, "Lovest thou me?" he could unhesitatingly
answer, "Thou knowest that I love thee."

If you should be asked, "Do you love your parents?" you would
immediately answer, "Yes." You know you love them. How do you know it?
It might not be so easy for you to answer this question as the other,
but at the same time you are conscious that you do love them. You feel
that they are your best friends. They provide for all your wants. They
furnish you with food and clothes and the means of education. They
take care of you when you are well and when you are ill. You feel
grateful to them for what they do for you, and you enjoy being with
them, and talking with them. You like to please them, and it makes you
sad when you have grieved them. Children who love their parents very
dearly sometimes do what they do not approve; but they are always
sorry for it, as Peter was when he went out and wept bitterly.

If you should be asked, "Do you love your heavenly Father?" could you
as readily answer, "Yes?" Do you like to hear about him and his
wonderful works? Is the story of Jesus' love for lost man one that
interests you? Is it pleasant to you to think of living forever with
the Lord when you leave this world?

If you love your Father in heaven, you do not love to do what is
wrong. If you are overcome by temptation, and sin against him, you are
sorry, as you are when you sin against your earthly parents.

Children, and grown people too, sometimes seem to think that religion
is to be kept by itself, separate and distinct from our daily duties,
and that it consists in praying, going to church, hearing sermons, and
wearing a sober face. It is true the Christian often feels sober, but
there is no one who may be so cheerful as he, for there is none that
can be so truly happy. True piety extends to all the acts of our
lives, and influences them all. It does not forbid our doing any thing
that it is right for us to do. A Christian child enjoys play quite as
well as any other child.

If Jesus should say to you to-day, as he did to Peter, "Lovest thou
me?" could you answer, "Yes, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee?" It
is just as easy for you to know whether you love him as it is for you
to know whether you love your father and mother. I trust there are
many children who do love the Saviour, and who wish to live to be good
and to do good.




MY LITTLE BAG.


On my table lies a little bag. It has no beauty to render it valuable.
It is not made of silk or velvet. The material is plain muslin, and
that by no means of the finest texture. It is not very neatly made.
The stitches are irregular. Sometimes they are piled one above
another, and again they are scattered far apart. The hemming shows
that no skilful seamstress held the needle. And yet this bag has
afforded me much pleasure. Every stitch was made by the hand of love,
and with a desire to gratify me and add to my happiness. It was a work
of toil, for the fingers were unused to such labour. Patient industry
and persevering effort were required to accomplish it. Self-denial,
too, was practised, for play was forsaken on its account.

It was a gift to me from a dear child; a token of his purest and
warmest affection; and that has made this coarse muslin more precious
than the richest material could be, which had no such extraneous
value.

What a blessing is love! How it enriches us! Without it we must ever
be poor. "God is love," and he has taught us to love one another.
"Love is the fulfilling of the law." We must love our neighbour as
ourselves.

"Little deeds of kindness,
Little words of love,
Make our earth an Eden,
Like the heaven above."

No offering of true love is valueless, however small or imperfect it
may be. My little bag is rich in pleasant associations, and I never
look upon it but with a full heart.

God does not accept what we do for him because of any peculiar
excellence in our devotion, but because it is the result of our love
to him.

[Illustration]




DO YOU LIKE YOUR SEAT?


On the day after one Fourth of July, I was obliged to go into the
city. The cars were crowded with those who were returning, after
spending our national anniversary in the country. How much they must
have enjoyed that day of release from city labour, and dust, and close
streets bounded by high brick houses! How beautiful to them the green
fields, the shady trees, and the soft-flowing river! How they gazed on
the hills luxuriating in verdure, and the valleys rich with their
treasures of wealth and beauty!

"God made the country," and all his works are perfect. I pity those
who are pent up in a large prison-city with nothing but a dwarf-maple
before their windows which at all resembles the country, and who have
to look up, up, up, before they can get a glimpse of the blue sky, and
the fleecy clouds which sail majestically along, ever varying from one
form of beauty to another. Thank God, my young friends, that he has
given you a country home, and never leave it, unless stern necessity
compels you to make your abode in the hot, crowded, feverish city.

The cars, on the morning of the fifth, were, as I have told you,
crowded, and it was difficult to find unoccupied seats. A gentleman
and his wife entered a car, near the door of which were two seats with
only one person in each. The first was occupied by a boy about
fifteen. The gentleman politely asked him if he would sit with another
gentleman, that he and the lady who was with him might not be
separated. The first impulse of the boy was a civil one, and he
started to rise; but the second thought was ungentlemanly, ungenerous,
and extremely selfish. "I like my seat very well," he muttered, and
drew back to the window and looked out. Perhaps even then he began to
feel ashamed of such rudeness.

The gentleman behind him immediately arose, and offered his seat. It
was accepted with a bow, and a "thank you, sir." The lady was
immediately behind the boy, and, as she seated herself, she said to
him, in a low, kind voice, "I fear you will never be a gentleman." He
made no reply, nor did he move his face from the window, but his very
ears blushed. He was evidently ashamed. During the whole ride he kept
nearly the same position, not being willing to meet the eyes of his
fellow-passengers, for he must have observed their disapprobation of
his ill-manners; and before the cars were entirely within the depot,
he went out upon the platform to escape from observation.

I hope the boy will never be rude in this way again, for he evidently
was made unhappy by it. There is only one reason why I fear he will
not profit by the well-merited rebuke he received, and that is,
because I saw one of his cheeks puffed out with a quid of tobacco! I
confess I do not expect so much improvement from a boy who indulges in
such a filthy habit, as from one who does not.

A gentlemanly boy must always be happier than one who is rough and
selfish. The boy in the car did not enjoy his ride, although, as he
said, he liked his seat very well. His impoliteness made it unpleasant
and the remembrance of it will never afford him gratification. I hope
none of you, who read about him, will be guilty of a similar error.

Always try to be accommodating to those about you. If you are asked to
do a favour, do it as if it gave you pleasure. You will never have
occasion to regret it. Be civil to those in your father's employment.
Their love and respect is of value to you. There are very few sunk so
low as not to appreciate true politeness. Above all others, be polite
to your parents, and your brothers and sisters. Do not indulge in
harsh words.

Perhaps the boy of whose history I have given you a single incident
never read Peter's instruction to the early Christians, in his epistle
to them, and did not know that the apostle considered politeness of
sufficient importance to be worthy of the attention of those to whom
he wrote. "Be courteous," is his direction to them, and I cannot give
you better advice on the same subject.

[Illustration]




THE LITTLE BEGGAR.


As I was walking up street, a few days since, I met two little girls
who looked very much alike, and were nearly of the same age. They wore
gingham sun-bonnets, which came far over their good-natured faces.
Their calico dresses were neatly made. Their blue woollen stockings
looked warm and comfortable, but their shoes were old and much worn.

As I passed, the elder held out her hand in a way which I could not
mistake, but I thought I would ask her what she wanted. She replied,
"A penny to get mother some sugar for her tea." I talked with the
children a few minutes about their mother, and inquired if she sent
them out to beg. They said she was obliged to do it, for their father
was dead, and she was not able to work.

[Illustration: The elder held out her hand.]

The children had such good, honest faces, and gave such evidence, in
their general appearance, of more care than most of this class of
children usually receive, that I thought I would go home with them,
that I might better judge of the correctness of their story, and of
the necessities of their mother. So I said to them--

"Where does your mother live?"

They named the street.

"Will you take me there?"

"Yes, ma'am. We must go this way;" and they turned off in the
direction of their home.

"What is your name?" I inquired of the elder child.

"Mary Ann ----."

"And what is your's?"

"Ellen ----," answered the younger.

"Have you any brothers and sisters?"

"We have one sister and one brother. Her name is Joanna, and his is
Michael. A man took Michael away the fifth of July--the day after the
Fourth--and we haven't seen him since. Mother thinks we shall never
see him again."

They told me that their father was a stone-picker, and while he lived,
they did very well, and went to school; but since he died, their
mother had been ill, and had bled at the lungs, and was not strong
enough to work.

I was pleased to see the children take each other by the hand, and
walk along quite lovingly by my side. They appeared kind and polite to
each other, and seemed to think that in me they had found a friend.
They talked very fast, and told me many things about themselves and
their way of life.

"We save our money to pay the rent."

"How much does your mother pay?"

"Three dollars."

"Three dollars a month!" I said, thinking how much it was for a poor
woman, who had herself and three children to feed and clothe.

"I don't know whether it is a month, or a week, or how long; I only
know it is three dollars.

"Once we were turned out in the snow. Oh! how cold my feet were!" The
remembrance of her sufferings seemed almost to make her shiver.

"What did you do?"

"A woman took us in her house."

"It is a long walk for you," said Mary Ann, as we crossed one of the
broad avenues, "and we live in the top of the house."

When we reached the house where the children lived, Mary Ann and Ellen
ran up before me so fast that I lost sight of them. The hall was so
dark that I could not see the stairs, but I could hear their feet
pattering quickly on, and I followed as best I could. The last flight
of stairs I could see distinctly, for the sky-light was just over
them. They were brown with age, but they were evidently often swept
and washed. I entered a room in which I saw the children. The woman
there they introduced as their mother. She did not receive me with
much cordiality. I suppose she wondered why I had come there. Her room
was small and scantily furnished. It was heated by a small furnace.
The great gray cat was dozing in the corner.

I seated myself on a clean wooden chair, and began to talk with the
mother about her children. She told me of her only son, "as fine a boy
as ever stood on two feet," and her anxiety in regard to him. I
attempted to encourage her to hope that so soon as navigation closed,
he would return to her, for he had been employed on a coal-boat; but
she refused to be comforted. She wished to find a place for Joanna in
the city.

Mary Ann, who is nine years old, said she should like to go to the
country. She thought she could wash dishes, set the table, and sweep,
and I thought so too, for she seemed to me one of the smartest little
girls I ever saw. She would have been quite willing to accompany me to
the country, if her mother had consented, and I could have taken her.

The children's mother came to this country when she was quite young,
and lived for several years as a servant in different families. She
showed me several papers which she carefully preserved in a basket.
One was a certificate from a physician--another from the person who
had employed her husband. As she opened her trunk I observed its
contents were nicely folded and arranged, as if she had a love of
order. She told me she was able to do nothing but sew and could not
procure much of that.

After the children came in, they combed their hair, and braided it,
and washed their hands and faces.

I inquired if the children could read. Ellen got her "Easy Lessons,"
and came and stood by my side while she read in it. Mary Ann read very
well in her geography, and Joanna in some "Reading Lessons" which she
had used at school. I asked them if they could write.

"I can," replied Mary Ann. "I can write my name, or I could your's if
I knew it."

I gave each of the children a piece of silver. They immediately handed
it, with a bright smile, to their mother. I told them I would call
again and see them some time, but I could not do it often. When I bade
them good-by, they all followed me to the door, and looked so pleased
and happy that I felt amply repaid for my long walk. I had gone but a
few steps, when Mary Ann came bounding along, and asked, "When will
you come to see us again?" I took her hand, and we walked together to
the next street.

There are many children as destitute as these little girls, and many,
very many, who have not even a feeble mother to care for them. Many
poor children are sent out to gather the coal from the streets, or
bits of wood where new buildings are being erected, and their bread
they beg from door to door.

In some of our cities benevolent people have opened schools for these
miserable children, where they are taught to sew and read, and to
observe to some extent the decencies and proprieties of life. In some,
a dinner is given to its pupils, and, where it is possible, a home for
the homeless in the country.

Children often save a part of their money for missionary or other
benevolent purposes. I cannot conceive a more suitable object for
their benefactions than other children who are poor and destitute. "It
is more blessed to give than to receive," the Bible tells us.

I hope you do not forget to thank God for the comforts and happiness
of home, which you enjoy; and I hope, also, that you will not forget
that we have the poor with us always, and must do them all the good in
our power.

"Have pity on them, for their life
Is full of grief and care;
You do not know one half the woes
The very poor must bear;
You do not see the silent tears
By many a mother shed,
As childhood offers up the prayer,
'Give us our daily bread.'"




LITTLE CHARLEY.


Charley was a sweet little babe. It was a pleasure to kiss his plump
cheek, and pat his fat and dimpled arms. He was a dear babe, and we
all loved him, and our blessed Saviour loved him even more than we
did.

Before Charley was two years old, he became ill. All that physicians
could do was done for him, but he daily grew more and more feeble. The
bright blue eyes lost their brilliancy, and became faded and dim. The
plump and rosy cheek became hollow and pale. The fat and rounded limbs
grew thin and weak, and we all felt that little Charley would soon be
taken from us.

The same sweet smile lingered about his mouth, although pain and
suffering had saddened that baby-face. He no longer tottered about the
floor, but was confined constantly to his bed. Not there even was he
to remain more than a few short weeks. The angel of death came, and
bore him to the Saviour's bosom. His friends looked at the beautiful
casket, and felt that the spirit which had inhabited it, and made it
precious, was no more there. They committed it tearfully to the grave,
and, lonely and sorrowing, returned to their desolate home. The crib
was vacant--the tiny shoe had no owner--the rattle lay neglected.
There was no need of the noiseless step lest the sleeper should be
awakened. Little Charley slept in death.

How sad and broken those loving hearts! Those parents were Christian
parents, and they sorrowed not as those without hope. Jesus, their
Saviour, had wept, and they knew their tears were not forbidden. One
of the cords which bound them to earth was snapped asunder. They had
one child in heaven, there to be a pure and sinless spirit in the
immediate presence of his Father--God. There was comfort in the
thought that Charley's tiny bark had safely passed over the sea of
life, and was securely anchored in the haven of eternal rest.

Charley had a brother, Willie, two years older than himself. Little
could he know of death--but he knew he had no baby-brother now, and
his mother told him Charley was in heaven.

"I hope, mother," said he, "the apostles will not get him."

"Why, my child?"

"Because they did not want little children to go to Jesus," was his
artless reply.

This little boy has recently removed, with his parents, to the city.
He does not like it as he did the green grass and shaded fields of the
country. He feels lonely without the companionship of the trees and
the birds, and he wishes that "God would take him right up to heaven
to play with Charley."

How is it with you, my dear child? Are you ready to be taken "right up
to heaven?" Do you love your Saviour? Do you obey your parents? Are
you truthful and conscientious? Do you study your Bible to learn all
you can about God, and what he would have you be and do? Do you pray
to him daily for His blessing, and ask Him to keep you from sin? Do
you seek His forgiveness for all you have done that is wrong?

So live, that when the angel of death comes for you, he may carry you
where Charley is, into the blessed home prepared for all who love God.
_When_ He will come, you cannot know. Be always ready, and then He
will not find you unprepared.

[Illustration]




DARLING WILLIE.


Willie was an active little boy, just large enough to be dressed in
frock and pantaloons. He was very affectionate, and everybody who knew
him loved him.

When he left the green fields in the country, to come with his parents
to the city, he did not feel so happy as in his pleasant home by the
river side, where the wild birds sung to him, and where he could watch
the branches of the old elm swaying in the breeze.

It was autumn when he came to town, and there were no flowers in the
yard attached to his city home. The grass was brown and frost-bitten,
and soon the white snow came and covered it. The stone walks were
swept, and when it was not too cold, Willie could ride around the
little square, seated on his velocipede. In his mother's parlour, he
could make houses with his blocks, or stables for his tin horses, and
often he went out to walk or drive with his mother, who always enjoyed
taking him with her.

The winter passed away, and every month the strong cords of love were
binding him still more closely to the hearts of his friends. Spring
came--the fresh grass sprung up, and the dandelions opened their
blossoms in Willie's playground. How he loved to look at them! Those
blades of grass, and the yellow flowers, filled his heart with
gladness. His eyes sparkled, and he could scarcely stand still as he
talked about them.

Willie was, one day, sitting with his grandmother by the open window.
The sun had just sunk below the horizon, and the clouds were
gorgeously tinted with his parting rays. Some of them were of a rich
golden hue, and others were dyed with rosy light. It was an
exceedingly beautiful sunset, and Willie, who loved all nature, gazed
for some time in silent admiration. Then, looking up to his
grandmother's face, and pointing to the west,

"See, grandmother," said he, "what a beautiful home Charley has!"

[Illustration: Willie was one day sitting with his grandmother by the
open window.]

Charley was Willie's little brother, whom the angels had taken from
earth, and carried to live with Jesus.

He thought Charley must have felt lonely when he first went to heaven;
but, as he would say, "now he has got acquainted, he is very happy."

Sometimes Willie would ask his mother, "Would you be lonesome without
me, mother?" It was always a pleasant thought to him that he might
early die and go to Jesus.

Willie liked to look at the blue sky. Perhaps it was because he
thought it was Charley's home. He watched every evening for the moon,
with her silvery light, and for the twinkling stars.

At one time, a cousin of his called to see him. He brought a basket
with him. Raising the cover, he said--

"Willie, come, look in my basket."

Willie came as requested.

"Oh! I know what it is! It is a rabbit for me!"

So it was. George opened the basket, and out jumped a white rabbit,
with pink eyes. It was a beautiful animal. Willie capered with
delight. He had a live plaything, and it pleased him more than the
velocipede, or his blocks, or any of his toys.

Willie said he loved his cousin George for bringing him the rabbit,
and his cousin Walter for sending it to him. They were happy because
they had made him so happy.

Not long after this rabbit was added to Willie's amusements, very sad
tidings came to the home of George and Walter. It was said that Willie
was dead. It seemed scarcely possible--for it was only a few days
since he had sent a message of love to them.

Some member of the family immediately went to town, and called on
Willie's father. It was indeed true that Willie was not there! He had
gone to be with the angels. God had heard his prayer. Heaven was a
better, safer, happier place for him than even his pleasant home, with
his fond parents, and he was taken "right up there," as he wished, to
be with Charley.

Saturday evening Willie went to his bed in apparent health. Sabbath
morning he complained of not feeling entirely well, and on Wednesday
he laid aside his garment of mortality, and put on the beautiful robes
made white in the blood of the Lamb, in the spirit-world. He was a
lovely child when he dwelt with us here below; how very lovely he must
be in the bright world to which he has gone!

His mother often weeps when she thinks of him, and she misses him more
than any one but a mother can. There is no one to play with his
blocks, or his tin horses, or his pretty rabbit. Yet Willie is very
happy, and his mother has no wish to recall him to earth, lonely and
desolate as is their once cheerful home.

Willie will shed no more tears. He will never feel sad or lonely. He
will suffer neither pain, nor hunger, nor weariness. But we, who love
him, may weep, as did Jesus when Lazarus lay in the grave; and we
shall never forget the sweet child, so full of life and love, who was
given us for a little while, and then taken home to glory.

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