Part 11

But there are some bad boys, I am sorry to say—really bad boys, bad in heart and in deed. I have seen some on the chain gangs; I have seen some hanging around the street corners—especially on Sundays, with no clean clothes on; I have seen them smoking cigarettes—and a cigarette is something which no manly boy will use; I have seen them in saloons, drinking, playing pool and playing cards; I have sometimes seen them shooting dice in the street for money. There are probably one thousand boys in the jails, reformatories and in the penitentiaries in the single state of Georgia. To form anything like an adequate estimate of the total number of bad boys in the South we must add to the above number the boys imprisoned in the other states; and, also, that much larger number who have never been imprisoned because they happen never to have been arrested, or who have been arrested and have had their fines paid in money; and, finally, we must add those who have already served their time and are again at large. So, you see, there are many thousands and thousands of bad boys in the world, and they are very easily found. Are you a bad boy or a good boy? Isn’t it better to be a good boy than to be a bad boy?

LXIII. THE BAD BOY—HOW TO HELP HIM.

Almost anybody can make something out of a boy who is naturally good, but it takes one of very Christlike power and patience to make anything out of a really bad boy. Yet all boys may be reclaimed, reformed, saved; at least so I believe. And the first step in making a good man out of a bad boy has to do with the boy’s body. The Holy Bible tells us that our bodies are the temples—the dwelling places—of the Holy Ghost, and every boy, and every teacher of every boy, in the home or day school or Sunday school, should give more time and attention to the body in order to make it a fit place for such a holy being. It is as true now as of old that plenty of soap and water will exert a wholesome influence in making bad boys good. Some one has said that cleanliness is next to godliness, and somebody has added that soap is a means of grace. A boy who is taught to bathe regularly and who is taught to keep his clothing neat and clean at all times will in that way learn the great lesson of self-respect quicker than in any other way; and, in my judgment, the shortest way to the purification of a boy’s habits, a boy’s morals, a boy’s character, is to teach him first to keep his body pure. Keep it pure not only by baths and clean clothes, but keep it pure and sweet by keeping it free from whiskey and tobacco in every form. Exercise, regular, and systematic exercise, whether as work or play, will go a great way towards keeping the body clean and healthy. Every boy is mistaken, every parent is mistaken, who thinks that labor is unworthy, or that any kind of honest work is degrading. The body needs to be kept alive and vigorous by the frequent use of all its parts, and there is no better way to keep the body vigorous than by doing some kind of work—work that requires the use of the hands and legs and muscles, work that stimulates the blood and makes it flow freely through the body.

Another step in the process of making a good man out of a bad boy has to do with the mind. The body grows not alone by exercise, but the body grows by what we put into it: the food we eat and the water we drink, etc. We might say, I think, that the body grows on what it feeds on. It is the same way with the mind: the mind grows on what it feeds on. If we feed our minds on obscene pictures, on bad books, on vulgar stories, told by ourselves or our associates, we cannot expect to have minds that are keenly alive and active for good. Our thoughts control us, boys and girls, whether we understand the process by which they control or not. Our thoughts control us. If our thoughts are pure and sweet and noble, we will be pure and sweet and noble. If our thoughts are impure, vile and ignoble, we will be impure, vile and ignoble. Our thoughts rule us. So every boy should guard well his thoughts; every boy should guard well what he puts into his mind. Every boy’s mind feeds on what he puts into it, and every boy’s mind grows on what it feeds. It goes without saying, then, that a boy should not read “blood and thunder” detective stories, stories about the “James Brothers” and other outlaws and bandits; nor should a boy read filthy so-called “love stories.” All such literature should be shunned, as a boy would shun deadly poison. A boy who desires to become a good man should read only those things which will give him confidence in himself that he can and may become a good man—good for the service of God and the service of his fellow-men. Bad company must also be left behind if a bad boy wants to become a good boy. Those boys who tell smutty jokes and stories should not be allowed to associate with that boy whose eyes have been opened and who wants to feed his mind on good and wholesome food. Character, boys, in its last analysis depends chiefly on three things: Heredity, environment and will. Now you cannot do much to change your inherited tendencies—the tendencies you receive from mother and father at birth, but you can do much in offsetting, in overcoming these tendencies. You can also do much with the aid of a generous and enlightened public to change your surroundings if they happen to be bad. I confess that your mothers and fathers, your teachers and pastors ought to do much more in this regard than you; but if they will not exert themselves to get you out of evil surroundings, then, as you value your own life and time and possibilities, by the help of God, try to get out yourselves. The will is very largely influenced by your surroundings. Hence you can see the importance of having good books and good associates.

But whatever you do, boys, do not forget Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world. The highest part of your nature is your spiritual nature, and, while you are building up the body and building up the mind, do not forget to build up your soul. If others will not assist you in this greater matter you can help yourselves. The Master said: “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not.”

LXIV. THOMAS GREENE BETHUNE.

(“Blind Tom.”)

I suppose there is not a little colored girl or boy in America who has not heard of the wonderful “Blind Tom,” one of the greatest musicians of the world. I wish that every boy and girl might have seen him and heard him give one of his remarkable performances with the piano. I had that high favor and privilege myself. During his life on the stage, or for more than forty years, “Blind Tom” was seen probably by more people in the world than any one living being. His stage career was closed somewhere in 1900. I do not know whether he is living at present or not. If he is still alive, and he probably is, he is very nearly sixty years old. Everywhere, in this country and Europe, those who observed him most closely, and attempted to understand him, pronounced him a living miracle, unparalleled, incomprehensible, such as had not been seen before in the world, and probably never would be seen again.

Thomas Greene Bethune, better known to the public as “Blind Tom,” was born within a few miles of the city of Columbus, Georgia, on the twenty-fifth day of May, 1849. He was of pure negro blood, and was born blind. He was little less than four years old when a piano was brought to the house of his master, for he was born a slave. As long as any one was playing he was contented to stay in the yard and dance and caper to the music. Sometimes he was permitted to indulge his curiosity by being allowed to run his fingers over the keys. One night the parlor and piano had been left open. Before day the young ladies of the family awoke and were astounded to hear Blind Tom playing one of their pieces. The family gathered around him to witness and wonder at his performance, which they said was marvellously strange. Notwithstanding that this was his first known effort at a tune, he played with both hands and used the black as well as the white keys. Pretty soon he was allowed free access to the piano, and began to play off-hand everything he heard. As young as he was, he soon mastered all of that and began composing for himself. The record of his public life is too long for me to give, but that Blind Tom was known and honored around the world is known to everybody.

But feeling that every colored boy and girl should be justly proud of Blind Tom’s record, I will give some words from the book of Hon. James M. Trotter, himself a colored man. His book is called “Music and Some Highly Musical People.” He says:

“Blind Tom is unquestionably the most wonderful musician the world has ever known. He is an absolute master in the comprehension and retention of all sound. You may sit down to the pianoforte and strike any note or chord or discord, or a great number of them, and he will at once give their proper names, and, taking your place, reproduce them. Complete master of the pianoforte keyboard, he calls to his melodious uses, with most consummate ease, all of its resources that are known to skillful performers, as well as constantly discovers and applies those that are new. Under his magnetic touch this instrument may become, at his will, a music box, a hand organ, a harp, or a bagpipe, a “Scotch fiddle,” a church organ, a guitar, or a banjo; it may imitate the “stump speaker” as he delivers his glowing harangue; or, being brought back to its legitimate tones, it may be made to sing two melodies at once, while the performer, with his voice, delivers a third, all three in different time and keys, all in perfect tune and time, and each one easily distinguishable from the other! He remembers and plays fully seven thousand pieces. Some persons, it is true, have had the temerity to say that Blind Tom is an idiot. Out with the idea! Who ever heard of an idiot possessing such power of memory, such fineness of musical sensibility, such order, such method, as he displays? Let us call him the embodiment of music, the soul of music, and there let our investigations rest, for all else is vain speculation. No one lives, or, so far as we know, has ever lived, that can at all be compared with him.”

LXV. NOT FIT TO KNOW.

Susan and Mamie and Lillian and Marjorie were always close friends. They usually went together and played together and it was very unusual to see one of them without the others. At school they always made it a rule to lunch together and play together. One day at recess they were standing in a little group all by themselves when Frances joined them.

“What are you talking about, girls?” asked Frances in cheerful tones.

“I’m telling them a secret,” said Susie, “and we will let you know, too, Frances, if you’ll promise not to tell any one.”

“I’ll promise you not to tell anybody but my mother,” said Frances, “for I have made it a rule to tell my mother everything.”

“No; you can’t even tell your mother,” answered Susie; “you must not tell any one in the world.”

“Well, then, I refuse to hear it,” said Frances, as she walked away, “for what I can’t tell my mother is not fit for me to know.”

Don’t you think Frances was right, girls? I think so. As soon as little boys and girls begin to listen to words and stories which they would be ashamed to repeat to their mothers they are on the road to temptation, and nobody can tell how soon they will reach the end, which is always disgrace and death.

I wish all the boys and girls who will read this book would make the reply of Frances their motto: “What I cannot tell my mother is not fit to know.” Stick to this rule through thick and thin, and you will avoid many of the snares and pitfalls by which many of your companions and playmates sink into shame and sin. Don’t read a note that you would be afraid to have your mother read. Don’t look at a picture that you would be ashamed to have your mother see. Don’t speak any word, and don’t allow any to be spoken to you, that you would not like to have your mother hear. A girl’s best friend is her mother. A boy’s best friend is his mother. And, boys and girls, be very sure that if a thing isn’t fit for your mothers to know it isn’t fit for you to know.

LXVI. THE RIGHT WAY.

Henry Oliphant always considered himself lucky whenever he was able to get a ride on the street cars without paying for it, or get a glass of soda water or be admitted to some public place, where an admission fee was charged, without paying the price. He was bragging one day to some of his boy friends that he had not paid anything to witness the school exhibition the night before. Frank Sewall was brave enough to chide him for having done so. Frank was a plain-spoken boy, and Henry didn’t like what Frank had said. He thought what he had done was all right, while Frank had said that it was all wrong. Anyhow, Henry decided to get his father’s opinion on the matter.

“Father,” he said, when night had come, “I got in the hall last night for nothing.”

“How was that?”

“I just walked by the doorkeeper and he didn’t ask me for any money.”

“Did the doorkeeper see you?”

“Well, father, that was his business; he was put there for that purpose; he ought to have seen me.”

“But I asked you, Henry, whether the doorkeeper saw you. I want you to answer that question.”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Do you think he saw you?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Well, Henry, if he had seen you, don’t you think he would have asked you for your money or a ticket?”

“I guess so, father; but he didn’t ask me for anything.”

“Well, now, Henry, you know that a charge of ten cents was made at the door, and that no one had a right to enter who had not paid the ten cents. You did go in without paying. Now, whether the doorkeeper saw you or not, do you think that that was quite honest on your part? Was that the right way for you to act?”

“Well, I would have paid him if he asked me. I wasn’t the doorkeeper.”

“I guess the man who stole our wood last week would have paid me if I had seen him and asked him; but we called that stealing.”

“But, father, I did not take anything from the doorkeeper.”

“Who gave you the money with which to pay your admission?”

“Mother.”

“Where is that money now?”

“I have it; but I didn’t take it from the doorkeeper.”

“But you kept it from him, Henry. It belongs to the doorkeeper. He gave you its value. My son, the right way is, whenever you buy anything, whether it be a ride or a glass of soda water or permission to see a concert, whenever you buy anything you ought to pay for it. If you don’t you are no better than a common robber. You must go to-day and give Mr. Hall that ten cents.”

LXVII. KEEPING FRIENDSHIP IN REPAIR.

I sometimes think that boys and girls, and even old people, are often careless in the matter of their friendships—not careless in the matter of selecting friends, though I am sure there is room for improvement along that line—but careless in trying to keep the good friendships we have already formed. We ought to keep our friendships in repair. Perhaps you think that our friendships are not things which need to be kept in repair. How foolish it is to think so! Does a garden need to be weeded? Does an old fence need to be kept in repair? Do we paint our houses only once in a century? What about the musician—does he not need to keep in practice? Supposing that you never kept your muscles in repair by constant use or exercise—how long would you be strong or healthy? And do you think that your friendships, because they are in a way intangible—you cannot see them, handle them or taste them—do you think that they grow and thrive of their own accord, and, therefore, do not need to be kept in repair? Slights, snubs, angry words, unpleasant conduct, long-continued lack of association, long-continued lack of familiar intercourse, and coldness, even where the meetings are periodic—these things, boys and girls, will kill the warmest friendship and choke the tenderest love. So we ought to be careful to keep our friendships in repair. If we had no friends in this world, no playmates and companions, no kindred spirits into whose keenest sorrows and highest joys we entered with deep and full sympathy, and who did not enter into our sorrows and joys in the same way—if we had no friends in this world, with all of its wealth and splendor, we should not desire to live very much longer. But to have friends and to be friendly goes a long way towards making the world a beautiful and blessed place to live in.

How, then, may we keep our friends? Easy enough—by cultivating them; and we cannot keep them in any other way. We should take time to be friendly. Little notes, little presents, little visits, little social entertainments, little kindnesses—these things, and things like them, go a great way in cementing our friendships, in tying people to us, as it were, with hooks of steel. We should not neglect these means of keeping our friendships in repair. Always give your friends a cordial welcome in your homes, and at your little children’s parties; let them feel, make them feel, that their coming adds to your pleasure without increasing your burdens. Don’t be selfish and narrow; be broad-minded and liberal. Keep your friendships in repair, and then see if you do not find your horizon broadened, your life sweetened, and the weary weight of this sad old world lightened.

LXVIII. LITTLE ANNIE’S CHRISTMAS.

Christmas morning came.

Daylight was just peeping into the room.

Poor little Annie, the cripple, awoke and turned her eyes towards the corner where she had hung her stocking the night before.

Surely, she thought, as she watched it, there could not be very much in it, because it didn’t seem to be any larger than it was when she had hung it up. After awhile she crept slowly to where it was.

She did not take her crutches, for fear she would disturb her mother, who slept in the same bed with her. It was hard for her to move around without her crutches, but she persevered and finally she reached her stocking.

She put out her thin little hand and felt it. Yes, there was something in it! Then she put her hand inside and took out something which seemed round and soft. She took it out and looked at it. It was a little cake. Poor little Annie smiled, and put her hand back into the stocking. This time she found something which was done up in paper. She opened the paper and found a whole dozen of gumdrops. How brightly her little eyes flashed! She was only six years old and she had never had so much candy at one time in all her life.

By-and-by her mother awoke. She raised her head and saw Annie’s happy face. “Poor girl,” she thought, “how happy I would have been to have bought something else for her, but I wasn’t able. I hope she will be happy with what she has.”

“See, mother,” cried Annie, “I have twelve gumdrops and a cake. We will eat half of the gumdrops to-day and save the other half for to-morrow. You’ll eat three and I will eat three.”

“No, Annie,” said her mother, “you must eat every one by yourself.”

Annie smiled, but did not say anything.

Little Annie’s mother was a widow, and she was very, very poor; there were many times when they had only a little dry bread and water for the day’s food. For this bright Christmas season there were many things besides food which she would like to have bought for her poor little crippled child; but she did not have any money to pay for playthings or toys.

After breakfast on this Christmas day Johnny Ray came to see them. He brought with him a good thick shawl for Annie’s mother and four pairs of warm stockings which his mother had sent for Annie, and, also, a large package of nice candy.

Little Annie’s mother cried for joy.

Little Annie was too happy to speak. She had never dreamed of having so much candy at one time!

LXIX. THE VELOCIPEDE RACE.

One bright day Archibald mounted his velocipede and rode out into the long green lane, where he could ride for a long distance without interruption. He had left his coat in the house because he knew that riding would make him very warm.

When he reached the lane the velocipede moved along so smoothly that Archibald was very happy. By the time he had gone nearly a half mile he was tired and stopped for a rest.

Pretty soon he heard a noise coming from behind, and he wondered what rider it might be on the same track that beautiful spring morning. He looked up and saw John Smith coming, riding a large velocipede and going as fast as he could.

Archibald quickly mounted his wheel and started on a swift run, trying to overtake the flying John. Before they reached the end of the road they saw Clara Hempton, standing by the fence with her little velocipede. Clara watched the boys as they flitted past. She thought that she could keep up with John, but she was not sure that she could ride as fast as Archibald.

While she was meditating Archibald cried out:

“Clara, you wait until we finish this race, and then we three will go back together.”

Archibald reached the end first, but John was not very far behind.

When Clara reached them Archibald said:

“Now we will all have a fair start and see who will reach the other end first.”

So they all started on a line. Archibald knew that he was the largest and could go the fastest, but, as he had won the other race, he did not ride this time as fast as he could. He thought this was the right way to give the others a fair chance.

Clara and John reached the other end of the lane at exactly the same time, with Archibald a short distance behind them.

John and Clara were greatly delighted because they had won the race from the big boy, Archibald. Archibald was pleased because they were pleased. This was not the only time that Archibald had proved that he was a good and kind boy, and that he was thoughtful of little children younger than himself.

From this little story of the velocipede race many other little boys and girls may learn a good lesson, I hope, that will do them good all through life.

LXX. FAULT-FINDING.