Part 3

At the home of Miss Wilkins there was an excellent spread of ’possum, potatoes, rice, chicken, pickles, macaroni, bread, a precious Thanksgiving turkey, and the inevitable mincemeat pie. Besides Miss Gracie, there sat at the table that day her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Solomon Wilkins, John and Joseph Wilkins, brothers of Solomon who had come from a distance, Mary Andrews, a sister of Mrs. Wilkins, who also came from a distance, Grandma Wilkins, Grandma and Grandpa Andrews, the Rev. John Jones, his wife, his daughter, and his only son, Jasper Jones.

Jasper had gone to school at T—— one year after Gracie went, and, of course, was one year later in finishing the course there. On this Thanksgiving Day, nevertheless, he had been out of school long enough to have successfully established himself in the business of poultry raising and dairying.

Just before the dinner party was dismissed the Rev. Mr. Jones arose and said:

“There is another little ceremony you’all is invited to witness befo’ you go out to see the baseball game. I am authorized by these credentials which I hol’ in my hands to unite in the holy bonds of matrimony Miss Grace Wilkins and Mr. Jasper Jones. If there is no objection, these two persons will please stan’ up, an’ I’ll tie the knot.”

Of course there were no objections. The knot was tied. And when the villagers learned of the occurrence not long afterwards they had additional reason for believing that they were right when they voted that Piney Grove had never seen the like of such a Thanksgiving Day, and that Miss Gracie Wilkins was one of the best women in all the world.

VII. THE LOUD GIRL.

I do not know of a more sorrowful spectacle than that of a girl who is loud in her dress, loud in her manners, and loud in her speech. It is a great mistake for a girl to suppose that this loudness will be mistaken by her friends and acquaintances for smartness. The desire to be regarded as bright and witty has led many a girl into the folly of being loud in her manners. She often cherishes the illusion that the attention such manners attract is combined with admiration, when the truth is that those who witness her strange conduct are simply wondering how it is possible for her to throw to the winds that charm of all girlhood—modesty.

One afternoon not long ago I saw a group of girls of the loud type. They came into the street car in which I was sitting. They all wore boys’ hats. One wore a vivid red jacket with brass buttons, and another had on a brass belt. A third one had on a most conspicuous plaid skirt. This third one had a box of bonbons, and when the three were seated she opened the box and offered it to her companions, saying as she did so, in a voice loud enough and shrill enough to be heard in every part of the car:

“It’s my treat; have some, chums!”

Upon this invitation one of the girls dived down into the box like a hungry bear, and held up a piece of the candy in triumph and then dashed it into her mouth with a great guffaw. “O, Mame!” said one of the girls, “if you ain’t just horrid to go and take the very piece I wanted!”

“Mame” laughed and, taking the candy from her mouth, offered it to the other girl, saying as she did so:

“Well, here it is, Lulu!”

“Lulu” struck the candy from “Mame’s” hand, and it flew across the aisle into the lap of a lady sitting opposite the girls. This set all three of the girls to giggling and tittering, and they seemed in danger of convulsions when the owner of the box of candy let it fall and a part of the candy rolled out on the floor.

The conductor came forward and picked up the box and candy and handed them to the owner. She giggled out her thanks, and “Lulu” said: “Why didn’t you give him a gumdrop for his trouble?”

This seemed to impress the other girls as a most brilliant witticism, and they fell to tittering violently over it.

Presently a gentleman came in and stumbled slightly over the feet of one of the girls thrust out into the aisle.

“I beg your pardon,” said the gentleman, as he lifted his hat, whereupon the three girls grinned and giggled and giggled and grinned immoderately, and one of them said:

“Roxy, you had better ride out on the platform, where there is more room for your feet!”

“Roxy” then struck “Lulu” for making this speech. “Lulu” pretended to be much offended and flung herself over to the other side of the car, where she made a grimace at the other girls.

The conduct of these girls during the half hour that they were on the car was such as caused every father and mother who saw them to regard them with pity. The loud girl, my dear readers, is always an object of pity. She should be a sorry object for her own contemplation. An old writer has said: “You little know what you have done when you have first broken the bounds of modesty; you have set open the door of your fancy to the devil, so that he can represent the same sinful pleasure to you anew.”

Now, the loud girl may be entirely innocent of any actual wrong-doing, but she is regarded with dislike, distrust, and even disdain, by the better class of people. She acquires a reputation for rudeness and coarseness, and the people of refinement will not associate with her. Her character suffers, no matter how innocent she may be of any intention of doing wrong. Delicacy, modesty, is the certain sign of sweetness, purity and gentleness of character, just as indelicacy is the certain sign of a lack of these beautiful traits.

VIII. THE ROWDY BOY.

You can tell him wherever you see him. There are certain marks or appearances which he carries about with him and which are never absent. For one thing you will find him with a cigarette stuck in his mouth, and a cigarette is one of the deadliest poisons in the world for boy or man. He wears his hat on the side or cocked back on his head. Frequently he stuffs both hands in his trousers’ pockets. He doesn’t attend school regularly; sometimes he starts for school and ends at the bathing pond or the baseball park. He is late at Sunday school, if he goes at all, and he stands ’round on the outside at church while the service is going on inside. He steals rides on trains and on trolley cars, and on passing vehicles of all descriptions. He is saucy and impudent to older people, and is always ready and willing to quarrel or fight with his mates. He is what the boys call a “bully.”

The loud girl and the rowdy boy are two things of which we have seen enough in this world. They are things; they are hardly worth the dignity of being called human beings.

I saw one of these rowdy boys in his own home not a great while ago. His mother said to him:

“Johnnie, you must always take off your hat whenever you come into the house.”

“Good gracious alive,” he said, “I can’t do anything right. What is the use of grabbing off your hat every time you come into your own house?”

His mother looked sad, but said nothing. Presently she discovered that her little boy had brought some mud into the house on his shoes. In her sweetest tones she said:

“Johnnie, you must go to the door and wipe your feet now. See how you are tracking up the floor there!”

“Well,” said the rowdy boy with a snarl, “can’t the old floor be scoured? You must think this old house is gold.”

Now, I am a preacher, boys, and, being a preacher, of course I am what is called a “man of peace,” but I tell you that that was one time I came pretty near wishing that I wasn’t a preacher so that I might have given that boy what he deserved. I was sorry, for the time being, that he wasn’t my son. No manly little boy will ever talk to his mother in any such way. I suppose that boy thought it made him appear to be a very important personage, but he was very much mistaken. Don’t be rowdy, boys; don’t be rough; don’t be rude. You were made for better things.

IX. HONESTY.

Early in the morning two little boys came to the market place. They arranged their little stands and spread out their wares, and sat down to wait for customers. One sold watermelons and fruit, and the other sold fish and oysters. The hours passed on and both were doing well. By-and-by Sammie had only one melon left on his stand. A gentleman came along and said:

“What a fine, large melon! I think I will buy that one. What do you ask for it, my boy?”

“This is my last melon, sir; and though it looks fair, there is an unsound spot on the other side,” said the boy, turning the melon over.

“So there is,” said the man. “I don’t believe I’ll take it. But,” he added, looking straight at the boy, “is it very good business for you to point out the defects of your goods to customers?”

“Perhaps not, sir,” said the boy with becoming modesty, “but it is better than being dishonest.”

“You are right, my boy; always speak the truth and you will find favor with God and man. I shall not forget your little stand in the future.”

Then turning to the other boy’s stand the man asked:

“Are those fresh oysters?”

“Yes, sir,” said Freddie, “these are fresh this morning—just arrived.”

The gentleman bought them and went away.

“Sammie,” said Freddie, “you never will learn any sense. What did you want to show that man that spot on the melon for? He never would have looked at it until he got home. I’ve got an eye to business, myself. You see how I got rid of those stale oysters—sold them for just the same price as fresh oysters.”

“Freddie,” said the other boy, “I wouldn’t tell a lie, or act one either, for twice the money we have both earned to-day. Besides I have gained a customer and you have lost one.”

And it turned out just as Sammie said. The next day the gentleman bought a large supply of fruit from Sammie, but he never spent another penny at Freddie’s stand. It continued that way through all the summer. At the close of the season he took Sammie into his store, and, after awhile, gave him a share in the business.

X. UNCLE NED AND THE INSURANCE SOLICITOR.[2]

Turner Tanksley, a representative of the Workingmen’s Industrial Aid Insurance Company, called upon Edmund Grant, an elderly colored man, with a view to getting him to insure his life.

“Good morning, Uncle Ned,” said Mr. Tanksley.

“Mawnin’, Boss,” said the old man, raising his hat and making a low courtesy.

“Uncle Ned, do you carry any insurance?” inquired the solicitor.

“Does I car’y what?” asked Uncle Ned in great surprise.

“Do you carry any insurance? Is your life insured?” asked the solicitor by way of explanation.

“Bless Gawd! Yas, yas,” replied the colored man, “long ago—long ago.”

Then the solicitor asked: “In what company?”

Uncle Ned answered: “I’m a Baptis’, sah; I’m a Baptis’—a deep-watah Baptis’.”

Mr. Tanksley realized that the old man had not understood the question, but, anyhow, he asked:

“How long has it been since you joined?”

“I j’ined,” replied Uncle Ned, “de same year dat de stars fell—I reckon you know how long dat’s been?”

“That’s a long while,” commented the insurance man; “quite a long while. Does your company pay any dividends?”

“Boss,” said Uncle Ned with a broad grin, “dat question is plumb out uv my reach. What is you tryin’ to git at?”

“Why, Uncle Ned,” said Mr. Tanksley, “a dividend is interest paid on your money; and if you have been paying your money into one company for more than thirty years surely you ought to have been receiving your dividends long before now, especially if it’s an old-line company.”

“Well,” said Uncle Ned, “hit sho is de ole-line comp’ny—hit sho is. De Lawd sot hit up Hisse’f ’way back yondah on Calvaree’s tree. But I ain’t nevah hyeahed tell uv no intrus’ nor no divverdens ner nothin’ uv dat sawt; an’ you ain’t hyeah me say nothin’ ’tall ’bout payin’ in no money fer thirty yeahs—you know you ain’t. Salvation’s free, white man; salvation’s free—you knows dat ez well ez I does.”

The way Uncle Ned laughed when he had delivered himself of this remarkable speech would have done your soul good.

“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Tanksley with much condescension, “I see that I’ve misunderstood you. You’re talking about your soul’s salvation.”

“Dat’s what I is,” chimed in Uncle Ned, “dat’s what I is.”

“I came,” resumed the solicitor, “to talk to you about insuring your body in case of accident, sickness or death.”

“Accerdents is fer us all,” said Uncle Ned, with a far-away expression on his face, “accerdents is fer us all, an’ dah ain’t no gittin’ ’roun’ death.”

“That’s true,” responded the patient solicitor, “that’s true; insurance companies can’t prevent sickness and accidents and death any more than you can, Uncle Ned, but insurance companies can and do help you to bear your burdens in the time of trouble.”

“Dat’s jes’ what my ’ligion does,” said the old man with supreme satisfaction, “dat’s jes’ what my ’ligion does.”

“But we do it in a different way,” persisted the solicitor.

“Well, how does y’all do?” asked Uncle Ned.

Then the solicitor went over the details of the Workingmen’s Industrial Aid Insurance Company with his accustomed rapidity, telling about the initiation fees, monthly premiums, accident benefits, sick benefits, etc., etc., laying much stress especially upon the “endowment fund” that would be paid upon the death of the insured. When he had finished the elaborate narrative Uncle Ned, who had given the most earnest attention to the speaker, inquired:

“Boss, who you say de money goes to w’en I dies?”

“To your wife,” answered the solicitor, “or your children, or anybody you might name.”

“Well, Boss,” said the old man, “lemme ax you one question: Don’t you think dat would he’p de uddah fellah mo’n hit would me?”

“What other fellow?” asked Mr. Tanksley.

“My ole ’oman’s secon’ husban’,” replied Ned; “you know des ez good ez I does dat ef I wuz to die an’ leave my ole ’oman two hundred or three hundred dollars, dah’d be some cullud gent’man done changed her name ’fo’ ole Ned got cole in de groun’.”

Uncle Ned’s originality made it very hard for Turner Tanksley to suppress a smile. Without giving the solicitor a chance to speak, Uncle Ned continued:

“An’ dah’s anuddah way to look at hit. Wimmins is mighty cu’ious. Yas, sah; wimmins is mighty cu’ious. Ef I wuz to go into dis thing you’s tellin’ me ’bout, I dasn’t let Dinah know hit. White man, you don’t know—no, sah, you don’t know. Ef dat ’oman knowed she’d git all dat money w’en I died, she would sho put a spidah in my dumplin’—she sho would, an’ fuss thing I know I’d wake up some mawnin’ an’ fine myse’f dead, an’ all on account uv dis thing dat you calls ’showance. No, sah, I don’t want nothin’ to do wid hit. De Baptis’ church is good ’nuff fer me.”

When the solicitor turned the corner he heard Uncle Ned singing some kind of religious song with the following refrain:

“I’m Baptis’ bred, an’ Baptis’ bo’n. An’ w’en I die, dah’s a Baptis’ gone.”

XI. THE STRENUOUS LIFE.

They were having a rough-and-tumble time of it and Pansy was getting some pretty hard blows. She took them all good-naturedly, nevertheless, and tried to give as good as she received, much to the delight of her little boy friends. A lady who was standing near, afraid for the little girl, chided the boys and said:

“You shouldn’t handle Pansy so roughly—you might hurt her.”

And then Pansy looked up in sweet surprise and said with amusing seriousness:

“No; they won’t hurt me. I don’t break easy.”

It was a thoroughly childlike expression, but it had more wisdom in it than Pansy knew. She spoke out of a little girl’s experience with dolls, some of which, as she had learned, broke very easily. Pansy knew how delightful it was to have a doll that didn’t break so easily. Though she was not a homely girl by any means, and though she was not a wicked little girl, yet she wanted it understood that she was not like a piece of china. That was why the other children liked her so much—because she knew how to rough it without crying or complaining at every turn. Pansy was not a cry-baby.

There is all the time, my dear boys and girls, a great demand everywhere all through life for people who don’t break easily—people who know how to take hard knocks without going all to pieces. The game of life is sometimes rough, even among those who mean to play fair. It is very trying when we have to deal with people who break easily, and are always getting hurt and spoiling the game with their tears and complaints. It is so much better when we have to deal with people who, like little Pansy, do not break easily. Some of them will laugh off the hardest words without wincing at all. You can jostle them as you will, but they don’t fall down every time you shove them, and they don’t cry every time they are pushed aside. You can’t but like them, they take life so heartily and so sensibly. You don’t have to hold yourself in with them all the time. You can let yourself out freely without being on pins as to the result. Young people of this class make good playmates or good work-fellows, as the case may be.

So, boys and girls, you must learn to rough it a little. Don’t be a china doll, going to smash at every hard knock. If you get hard blows take them cheerily and as easily as you can. Even if some blow comes when you least expect it, and knocks you off your feet for a minute, don’t let it floor you long. Everybody likes the fellow who can get up when he is knocked down and blink the tears away and pitch in again. Learning to get yourself accustomed to a little hard treatment will be good for you. Hard words and hard fortune often make us—if we don’t let them break us. Stand up to your work or play courageously, and when you hear words that hurt, when you are hit hard with the blunders or misdeeds of others, when life goes roughly with you, keep right on in a happy, companionable, courageous, helpful spirit, and let the world know that you don’t break easily.

XII. A HUMBUG.

A boy or girl who is pleasant and agreeable everywhere except at home is a humbug. I know one boy who is a good deal of a humbug, although you would never think so if you were to see him in any place outside of his home. He is good-looking, neat and tidy, and carries himself like a little man. I do not know of a boy who can tip his hat more gracefully to a lady, or who can say, “I beg your pardon,” or “excuse me, please,” more pleasantly than he can. But, for all that, he is a humbug.

I visited his home the other day. I heard his mother speak to him.

“Alexander,” she said.

“Well, what do you want?” he asked in a voice which plainly indicated his displeasure.

“I want you to do something for me.”

“Oh, you are always wanting me to do something just when I want to be doing something else,” said Alexander, and this time he was whining.

In departing on his errand Alexander accidentally ran against his little sister in the hall. I expected to hear him say, “I beg your pardon” in the pleasant way that I knew he could say it, but he snapped out instead:

“Oh, get out of the way, can’t you?”

When he returned from the postoffice Alexander’s mother was out in the yard trimming the flowers. While Alexander was reporting to her, she happened to drop her scissors. I expected to see her polite and dutiful son pick them up, as he was close by when the scissors fell; but the boy paid no attention to the scissors. When his mother said: “Please pick up my scissors for me, Alexander,” he said:

“What did you drop ’em for?”

I spent the best part of one whole day at Alexander’s home, and never once during all that day did I hear him speak politely to his mother or sisters, nor did he observe the ordinary rules of courtesy and good behavior in their presence. He was continually grumbling and complaining and finding fault. So I think I have a right to say that this boy is a good deal of a humbug. Any boy is a humbug who is polite and gracious to others and in every way discourteous and disagreeable at home. Don’t you think so, too?

XIII. A CANDIDATE FOR BAPTISM.[3]

At the close of the regular prayer-meeting service the pastor of the New Mount Zion Colored Baptist Church, according to custom, stepped to the front of the platform and inquired:

“Is dar anybody present to-night who would like to jine dis church? Ef so, please stan’ up.”

Whereupon a little girl, apparently fourteen or fifteen years old, stood. The parson said:

“Take yo’ seat. Dah’s one; de church will set togeddah atter dismission an’ hyeah f’um dis little lamb.”

The benediction having been pronounced, all the sinners were asked to leave the room. Only church members are allowed to remain for these “after meetings.” When the room was cleared of all “the goats” a pompous-looking individual, perhaps a deacon of the church, arose and said:

“Bruddah Pastur, de house is in ordah an’ ready fur business.”

The pastor then asked the little girl who was seeking admission to come forward. She gave her name to a one-eyed man seated at a table in front, who, after a laborious effort, passed it up on a piece of paper to the preacher. The preacher, readjusting his brass-rimmed spectacles, looked at the piece of paper for a long while, and then raised his head and said:

“Bruddahs an’ sistahs, dis is little Queen Victoria Davis, who comes to tell us what de Lawd has done fur her soul.” Then, turning to the girl, he said: “My daughtah, we wants you to tell us what fuss started you to prayin’, and how you foun’ de Lawd, an’ so on an’ so fo’th. Speak loud so all kin hyeah.”

The little girl began as follows:

“Well, bruddahs and sistahs, what fuss started me to prayin’ was dat I knowed dat I had a soul to save, an’ ef I didn’t git religion hell would sho be my home.”

“True! True!” exclaimed a number of men and women in chorus.

“An’ den,” continued Queen Victoria, “I wanted to start to servin’ de Lawd while I was young: I wanted to give Him my bes’ days.”

“Amen,” said one old brother.

“Well,” asked the pastor, “how did you feel while you was seekin’ de Lawd?”

The girl hesitated a moment, evidently in doubt as to the exact purport of the question. Finally she said:

“I felt like I wanted to be saved.”

This answer not exactly suiting the parson, he put the question in a different way. Said he:

“Did you feel light er did you feel heavy while you was a-prayin’?”

“I felt both,” said the little girl in unaffected innocence. Funereal groans of pity swept through the congregation. The preacher tried again. This time he asked:

“Did you feel light de mos’ er did you feel heavy de mos’?”

When Queen Victoria responded, “I felt heavy de mos’,” a wave of approval greeted the remark.

“W’en did dat heavy load leave you?” asked the parson.

“Las’ Friday night,” said Queen Victoria; “las’ Friday night. I kep’ on a-prayin’ an’ a-prayin’, an’ I didn’t feel no bettah untell I made up my min’ dat I was a-gwine tah fin’ de Lawd er die a-tryin’. An’ las’ Friday night de Sperrit met me an’ spoke peace to my soul. I hyeahed a little voice, but I saw no man, an’ de little voice said to me, ‘Go in peace an’ sin no mo’: yo’ sins is furgiven an’ yo’ soul sot free’.”

At this everybody shouted assent. “Glory! Hallelujah!” exclaimed an elderly sister.

“Now, my daughtah,” said the preacher, “how did you feel atter dat?”

“I felt light ez a feathah,” said the child. There was another shout of approval, Queen Victoria having hit upon the regulation answer.

“Ef you was to die now, whar would you go?” inquired the examiner.

“To heaven,” was the reply.

“Ef you had ’a’ died in yo’ sins, whar would you ’a’ went?”