Part 7

“I suffered little from any punishment I received, except from hunger and cold. I could get enough neither of food or clothing, but suffered more from cold than hunger. In the heat of summer or the cold of winter alike, I was kept almost in a state of nudity—no shoes, jackets, trousers, or stockings—nothing but a coarse tow linen shirt reaching to the knee. That I wore night and day. In the day time I could protect myself by keeping on the sunny side of the house, and in bad weather in the corner of the kitchen chimney. The great difficulty was to keep warm at night. I had no bed. The pigs in the pen had leaves, and the horses in the stable had straw, but the children had nothing. In very cold weather I sometimes got down the bag in which corn was carried to the mill and got into that. My feet have been so cracked by frost that the pen with which I am writing might have been laid in the gashes.” With regard to his food he said that he often disputed with the dogs over the crumbs that fell from his master’s table.

Now this man, born so lowly and surrounded by such circumstances, turned out to be in the course of time by hard work and self-application one of the most influential American citizens and one of the greatest orators that this country has ever known. Among other high offices of trust and responsibility, he was once marshal of the District of Columbia, recorder of deeds of the District of Columbia, and United States minister to Hayti.

He died February 20th, 1895, at his home in Anacostia, D. C., at the age of seventy-seven years. A monument to his memory has been erected in Rochester, N. Y., where he once lived.

What Frederick Douglass made of himself is possible for any American boy with grit. Every boy and girl in America should read the life of this pre-eminent negro and strive to emulate his virtues. His memory is worthy to be honored to the last day of time.

XXXV. OUR DUMB ANIMALS.

Domestic animals—like horses, cats and dogs—seem to be almost as dependent upon kind treatment and affection as human beings. Horses and dogs especially are the most keenly intelligent of our dumb friends, and are alike sensitive to cruelty in any form. They are influenced to an equal degree by kind and affectionate treatment.

If there is any form of cruelty that is more reprehensible than another, it is abuse of a faithful horse who has given his whole life to the service of the owner. When a horse is pulling a heavy load with all his might, doing the best he can to move under it, to strike him, spur him, or swear at him is simply barbarous. To kick a dog around, to tie tin cans to his tail, or strike him with sticks, just for the fun of hearing him yelp or seeing him run, is equally barbarous. No high-minded man, no high-minded boy or girl, would do such a thing. We should never forget how helpless, in a large sense, dumb animals are—and how absolutely dependent upon the humanity and kindness of their owners. They are really the slaves of man, having no language by which to express their feelings or needs.

The poet Cowper said:

“I would not enter on my list of friends, Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, Yet wanting sensibility, the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.”

Every boy and girl should be willing to pledge himself to be kind to all harmless living creatures, and every boy and girl should strive to protect such, creatures from cruel usage on the part of others. It is noble, boys and girls, for us to speak for those that cannot speak for themselves, and it is noble, also, for us to protect those that cannot protect themselves.

XXXVI. A PLUCKY BOY.

The boy marched straight up to the counter.

“Well, my little man,” said the merchant, “what can I do for you?”

“If you please,” said the boy, “I came in to see if you wouldn’t let me work for you.”

The boy was not yet ten years old, and he was small for his age. But there was something in his speech, or manner that held the man’s attention.

“Do some work for me, eh?” said the man. “What kind of work could you do? You can hardly look over the counter.”

“Oh, yes; I can,” said the little fellow, as he stood on tiptoe and peeped over the counter.

Out of sheer curiosity the merchant came from behind the counter, so as to get a good look at the boy.

“Oh,” he said, “I see you’ve got copper taps on your shoes; I suppose your mother couldn’t keep you in shoes if they didn’t have taps on them!”

“She can’t keep me in shoes anyway, sir,” and the little boy’s voice hesitated.

“How old are you?” asked the merchant.

“I’m older than I look; folks say that I’m small for my age.”

“Well, what is your age?”

“I’m going on ten,” said Davie, with a look of great importance. “You see,” he continued, “my mother hasn’t anybody but me, and this morning I saw her crying because she could not find five cents in her pocket-book, and she thinks she must have lost it—and it was—the—last cent—that she had—in the world; and—I—have—not—had—any—breakfast, sir.” The voice again hesitated, and tears came into the little boy’s eyes.

“Oh, don’t cry, my little man; I guess I can help you to a breakfast. Here, take this quarter!” He pulled a quarter from his vest pocket and handed it to the boy. The boy shook his head.

“Mother wouldn’t let me beg,” was his simple answer.

“Humph!” said the merchant. “Where is your father?”

“We never heard of him, sir, after he went away. He was lost in the steamer City of New York.”

“That’s too bad. But you’re a plucky little fellow, anyhow. Let me see,” and he looked straight down into the boy’s eyes, and the boy looked straight up at him. Turning to the head man, after awhile, the merchant said:

“Palmer, is cash boy No. 5 still sick?”

“Dead, sir; died last night,” was the reply.

“I’m sorry; but here’s a boy you might use. Put him down in No. 5’s place. We’ll try him for awhile, anyhow. What is your name, my little man?” he asked, turning again to the boy.

“Davie Thomas.”

“Well, Davie, we’ll give you three dollars a week to start with; you come to-morrow morning and I’ll tell you what to do. Here’s a dollar of your wages in advance. I’ll take it out of your first week’s pay. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir; I understand, and I thank you, too. I’ll be back in the morning.”

Davie shot out of the store, and lost no time in getting home. The old creaky steps in the old ram-shackle house fairly sang with delight as the weight of the little boy hurried up them.

“I’ve got it, mother;” exclaimed Davie. “I’m a cash boy! The man’s going to give me three dollars a week, and he says I’ve got pluck, too; and here’s a dollar to get some breakfast with, and don’t you cry any more, for I’m going to be the man of this house now.”

At first the mother was dumfounded; then she looked confused; and then she looked—well, it passes my power to tell how she did look as she took Davie in her arms and hugged him and kissed him, the tears streaming down her cheeks. But they were tears of joy and thankfulness!

XXXVII. A HEART-TO-HEART TALK.

“Henry, I asked you to remain after school a few minutes because I wanted you to help me rearrange the desks and furniture, but I had another reason for asking you to remain, and I think it is more important than the one I have just stated.”

The desks had all been arranged according to the teacher’s notion, and Henry Holt had gathered up his books to go home. It was then that his teacher, Miss Ada Johnson, addressed him.

“Won’t you sit down here a minute, David?” she continued. “I wish to speak to you a minute or two.”

David quietly took a seat. He was one of the largest boys in school, and had been giving an unusual amount of trouble during the day. In fact he had been a source of annoyance ever since the new teacher had taken charge.

“David,” the teacher went on, “I wonder if you realize how hard you have made it for me in school to-day? Is there any reason why we cannot be friends and work together? And I wish to be a friend to you, if you will let me. You could help me so much and you could help your schoolmates so much if you only would. I want to ask you if you think your conduct has been manly to-day? Has it been kind?”

David said nothing, but hung his head.

“I heard before I came here that you were an unruly boy. People say that you will neither study nor work, and some people say that you are a very mean boy. Some of these things may be true, David, I am sorry to say, but I want to tell you that you are the only hope of a widowed mother, and I want to say, also, that I think that you are breaking her heart.” The teacher’s voice faltered at the last words.

“I know that your father,” the low voice went on, “was a brave and noble man; and when I hear people say, ‘It is a good thing that Henry Oliver died before he knew what his son was coming to,’ I think what a pity it is that they cannot say, ‘How sad it is that Henry Oliver died before he could know what a fine, manly fellow his son would be, and what a stay and comfort to his mother’.”

The boy’s head dropped to the desk in front of him, and he began to sob. The teacher went over to him and said gently:

“You can be all this. It is in your power to be all that your father would have you, all that your mother would have you. Will you not turn over a new leaf now, not only in your behavior and work in school, but in your whole life as well?”

David raised his head.

“I am with you—I’ll do it, teacher,” he replied, a new resolve shining in his face. All that day he did some of the most serious thinking of his life. And he kept his promise.

The years have been many since then. The little teacher has long since passed to her rest, but David Oliver is a living monument to the power of a few searching words, the potency of a little personal interest and kindliness manifested at a critical time.

XXXVIII. A GHOST STORY.

Uncle Mose, an old-time colored man, once said in a company of people who were talking about ghosts that he wasn’t afraid of any ghost that ever walked the earth.

“No, sah; not me,” he said; “I’se got my fuss time to be skeered uv anyt’ing dat’s dead.”

Whereupon Noah Johnson told Uncle Mose that he would bet him a load of watermelons that he couldn’t spend one night in the “Widder Smith’s house.” Now, the Widow Smith’s house was said to be haunted, or, in other words, it was filled with ghosts.

“Des name de night,” said Uncle Mose. “I’ll stay dar; no ha’nts won’t bodder wid me. No, sah; no ha’nts won’t bodder wid me, an’ yo’ watermillions is des ez good ez gone already!”

The details were arranged; judges were appointed; and Uncle Mose was to stay in the haunted house that very night. He got him some pine-knots to keep a good blaze in the old-fashioned fireplace, carried along an extra plug of tobacco, secured a large dry-goods box to be used for a chair, and then he set out for the house.

He made a blaze and seated himself on the pine box. For a time he sung a number of old plantation songs for his own amusement, as well as to keep him company. About midnight, feeling somewhat drowsy, Uncle Mose got up, took a light and went on a tour of inspection. He examined every room in the house. His search revealed nothing unusual. He wound up his search chuckling to himself:

“I sho is makin’ dis load uv watermillions easy. Noah Johnsing didn’t know who he’s foolin’ wid. I’m a man myse’f; I ain’t afeared uv nothin’—I ain’t!”

Down he sat on the box, and pretty soon he was dozing. It was not very long before he suddenly awoke. He was at once seized with strange and sudden fear. He was too frightened to move. Although he did not look around, he was conscious that there was another presence in the room. His hair stood on ends. He felt a cold chill run up and down his back. By that time he knew that the object in the room, whatever it was, was moving towards him. Still he did not move, because he could not. The ghost (for that was what all the people said it was) stood over Uncle Mose for a little while, and then quietly sat down on the box beside him. Uncle Mose looked straight into the fireplace, but his heart was beating like a runaway horse. The silence in the room at that moment was like unto the silence of death. Everything was still and solemn. Uncle Mose could almost hear his own heart beating. The ghost finally broke the silence by saying, with a loud sigh:

“Huh! Huh! There don’t seem to be but two of us here to-night!”

It was then that Uncle Mose looked around for the first time. As he did so he exclaimed:

“Yas; an’ f’um dis out dah won’t be but one!” And with that he jumped through the window, taking a part of the sash with him.

The judges had been waiting in the open air near the house, so as to watch the proceedings. They called to the fleeing Uncle Mose, as he passed them, and ordered him to stop. They said that they were all there and would protect him. But Uncle Mose, as he kept on running, hallooed back:

“I’ll see y’all later!”

He ran at the top of his speed for more than a mile, for he was well nigh scared to death. By-and-by, from sheer exhaustion, he was compelled to stop for a little rest. He was wet with perspiration from head to foot, and his clothes were as limp as a wet dishrag. But the poor old man had no sooner seated himself on a stone by the roadside than up jumps the ghost and sits down beside him once more.

“Huh!” said the ghost. “You seem to have made pretty good time to-night.”

“Yas,” said Uncle Mose; “but what I hase done ain’t nothin’ to what I’se gwinter do!” And up he jumped and lit out once more.

He had not gone far on his second trip before an old rabbit ran out of the bushes and took out down the road ahead of him. Uncle Mose hallooed at the rabbit and said:

“Git out uv de way, rabbit, an’ let somebody run what kin run!”

On and on the poor old man, almost scared to death, ran and ran. Perhaps he would have been running until now but for a very unfortunate accident. About five miles from the Widow Smith’s house he came in contact with the limb of a weeping willow tree that hung across the road. The poor old fellow, already tired out, was knocked speechless and senseless. Toward the break of day the judges, who had followed him, found him lying on the ground doubled up near the tree. Dim consciousness was slowly returning when they picked him up. They rubbed him, and walked him around for a little while, and soon he was able to move himself.

The first thing Uncle Mose said was:

“Tell Noah not to min’ ’bout dem watermillions. I stayed in dat house des ez long ez I could keep my conscience quiet. My ole mammy allus tole me dat hit wuz a sin an’ a shame to bet, an’ now I b’lieves hit!”

And to this day, boys and girls, if you want to see a really mad man, you just ask Uncle Mose if he ever saw a ghost.

XXXIX. GOOD CHEER.

Everybody loves the cheerful boy or girl, the cheerful man or woman; and everybody ought to love such people. I wish all the boys and girls in America would organize one grand SUNSHINE SOCIETY, whose chief object should be the promotion of good feeling, good cheer, peace and happiness among all the people everywhere. But, first, a boy or girl, man or woman, must have sunshine in their own souls before they can communicate sunshine to others. And, boys and girls, it would greatly assist us in securing sunshine in our souls if we looked at our mercies with both eyes, as I might say, and at our troubles and trials with only one eye. What we enjoy in this world is always a good deal more than that which we do not enjoy; but we do not magnify our blessings sufficiently. We do not make as much of them as we ought. We do not rejoice because of them as we ought. We ought to keep daily a record of God’s goodness and kindness and patience and love. The Lord’s mercies are new every morning and fresh every evening; but we do not realize that they are so, because we do not stop to count them up; we do not think about them. If we stopped to weigh the matter I think we should find more in our lives to be happy about than to be sorry about. Our good fortunes always outweigh our misfortunes; and we should find it so if we only acquired the habit of remembering God’s goodness to us as well as the disappointments and sorrows and afflictions which are for us all.

Then we should study contentment. We should study to be content. We must cultivate the habit of being satisfied with what we have at present, and we should not worry about those things which we do not possess. Worry because of things they did not possess has made countless thousands mourn. Let us enjoy what we have. Let us make the most of what we have. And let us not worry about things which we do not possess. No matter how miserable our own lot may be, there is always some one whose lot is more miserable still. Worry kills more people than work. In fact worry unfits a man for work. The man who has learned the philosophy of being content in whatsoever state he is is the man who is and will be happy. One of the things in this world that pays a hundred-fold is contentment, and there is nothing that casts so much blight and mildew upon life’s fairest flowers as discontent.

Again, it would help us to keep cheerful if we kept steadily engaged in some work of usefulness. Let us go about doing good. Let us go about seeking opportunities of doing good. Doing good makes the heart healthy, and heart-health makes sunshine, happiness and good cheer.

A little thought will convince you, boys and girls, that your own happiness in this world depends very largely on the way other people bear themselves toward you. The looks and tones at your breakfast table, the conduct of your playmates, the faithful or unreliable people that you deal with, what people say to you on the street, the letters you get, the friends or foes you meet—these things make up very much of the pleasure or misery of your day. Turn the thought around, and remember that just so much are you adding to the pleasure or misery of other people’s days. And this is the half of the matter that you can control. Whether any particular day shall bring to you more of happiness or of suffering is largely beyond your power to determine. Whether each day of your life shall give happiness or suffering to others rests with yourself. And there is where the test of character comes. We must be continually sacrificing our wills to the wills of others, bearing without notice sights and sounds that annoy us, setting about this or that task when we would rather be doing something else, persevering in it often when we are very tired of it, keeping company for duty’s sake when it would be a great joy to us to be by ourselves; and then there are all the trifling and outward accidents of life, bodily pain and weakness, it may be, long continued, losing what we value, missing what we desire, deceit, ingratitude and treachery where we least expected them; folly, rashness and willfulness in ourselves. All these little worries which we meet each day may lie as stumbling-blocks across our way, or we may make of them, if we choose, stepping-stones of grace.

I want all the little boys and girls who read this book to be joy-makers, to be burden-bearers, to be among those who shall assist in filling the whole world with good cheer. It is our duty to cheer and comfort others; it is our duty to make the world not only better but happier—happier because better—for our having lived in it. To all the other beatitudes might well be added this one: Blessed are the cheerful people, for they shall inherit the earth.

XL. LIFE A BATTLE.

Boys and girls, I want to repeat to you now some words which were delivered long ago by the Hon. Schuyler Colfax, a man who was once the vice-president of the United States. These words are wholesome, and should be read and considered by parents and school teachers and by children themselves all over our land:

“Above all things, teach children what their life is. It is not breathing, moving, playing, sleeping, simply. Life is a battle. All thoughtful people see it so. A battle between good and evil from childhood. Good influences, drawing us up toward the divine; bad influences, drawing us down to the brute. Midway we stand, between the divine and the brute. How to cultivate the good side of the nature is the greatest lesson of life to teach. Teach children that they lead these two lives: the life without and the life within; and that the inside must be pure in the sight of God as well as the outside in the sight of men.

“There are five means of learning. These are: Observation, reading, conversation, memory, reflection.

“Educators sometimes, in their anxiety to secure a wide range of studies, do not sufficiently impress upon their scholars the value of memory. Now, our memory is one of the most valuable gifts God has bestowed upon us, and one of the most mysterious. Take a tumbler and pour water into it; by-and-by you can pour no more: it is full. It is not so with the mind. You cannot fill it full of knowledge in a whole lifetime. Pour in all you please, and it still thirsts for more.

“Remember this:

“Knowledge is not what you learn, but what you remember.

“It is not what you eat, but what you digest, that makes you grow.

“It is not the money you handle, but that you keep, that makes you rich.

“It is not what you study, but what you remember and reflect upon, that makes you learned.

“One more suggestion:

“Above all things else, strive to fit the children in your charge to be useful men and women; men and women you may be proud of in after-life. While they are young teach them that far above physical courage, which will lead them to face the cannon’s mouth; above wealth, which would give them farms and houses and bank stocks and gold; is moral courage—that courage by which they will stand fearlessly, frankly, firmly for the right. Every man or woman who dares to stand for the right when evil has its legions, is the true moral victor in this life and in the land beyond the stars.”

These brave and true words were spoken by Mr. Colfax long years ago. They were true then; they are no less true now. Every boy in America should treasure them in his heart. Every girl in America should commit them to memory and make them the rule of her life. Mothers and fathers, school teachers and preachers, and all who have the care of the young in any way would do well to study these wise counsels and reflect upon them and strive to impress upon those for whom they are laboring.