Part 4

"No, I didn't miss the mail, either," said poor Harvey, very crossly; he felt so bad, he thought he couldn't help being cross. "Keep still, can't you? 'I'm' telling this story; I didn't forget about the letter at all. I didn't stay three minutes; but there came a big wind along, and blew off my hat, and I had to climb the picket fence to get it, and then I made for the post-office as fast as I could; and when I got there, the letter was gone."

Then he told how he went back, and searched all the way, and searched the yard at Bailey's, and Joe searched, and the parrot searched, or seemed to, but no letter could be found.

"What did father say?" Emily asked, after a moment of dismayed silence.

"That is the worst of it," Harvey said, sitting up with dry eyes, feeling too miserable to shed any more tears, "I haven't told him a word about it; I don't see any use in telling; the letter is gone, and he can't find it, for I looked 'everywhere;' and the mail is gone, he can't send another, and I might just as well keep still, and not trouble him, to-night at least."

Then Emily found her usual busy tongue. "O, Harvey, that won't do at all; maybe he could write another by that very early mail in the morning, that would help some; or he might telegraph, or send somebody on the train; men know how to do ever so many things. You ought to tell father right away. He could do something, I'm sure; and you've 'got' to tell him some time; I should think you would want it over."

One word in this sentence carried weight with it. Harvey rose up, his face pale. "I forgot all about the telegraph," he said, "I must tell him right away."

Now, some people might suppose Mr. Harper was a very fierce man, since his son so dreaded to tell him of the accident; but the truth was, if there had been nothing but a whipping to dread, Harvey would not have wasted so much time nor so many tears. His father was the kindest, most patient of men, and Harvey so loved and respected him, that to bring trouble, by his carelessness, on that good father, was something that he could hardly bear to think of. Besides, they were not rich, and a hundred dollars was a good deal of money for them to lose.

Mr. Harper had come home from the office, and was in his room, a grave-faced father; he listened quietly and sadly to Harvey's eager story, but before it was half through, he put an arm tenderly around the boy, and when it was finished, leaned over and kissed him.

"Thank you, my son," he said. "I was feeling very sad over it all; I thought you were going to try to deceive your father by saying nothing to him about it."

"Why, father!" said Harvey in great astonishment. "Did you know anything about it?"

Then the father told "his" story, how one of the clerks from the office, passing down the south side of the square, a few minutes before mail time, saw a letter lying in the grass near Mr. Bailey's house, and picking it up, he recognized it as the one that was of great importance, so, without loss of time, hastened to post it.

"And I saw him coming out of the post-office, just as I was walking back there the second time, when I couldn't find the letter!" exclaimed Harvey. "If I had only told him."

Then, after a moment of silence, he added one more word that his father was glad to hear. "Father, I truly meant to tell you all about it, but I thought I would wait until morning, because it would make you feel so badly; but Emily said, tell you right away. And father, I won't stop for any old parrot after this."

TWO SINGERS.

ONE was Miss Cecilia Jamison. She sang in the opera house the evening that the Mozart Glee Club gave their closing concert for the season. She was called the best singer in the club. She wore a white silk dress with a very long train, very costly white lace around her neck, elegant new bracelets on her arms, and a necklace of pearls around her neck, with a tiny locket attached, set in diamonds.

People said she looked "perfectly lovely," and her voice was just like an angel's; though as none of them ever heard an angel, I don't know how they told. "Some" people said that; there were others who thought her hair wasn't arranged becomingly, and that she didn't manage her train gracefully, and that there were a great many people who sang as well as she did.

Besides, there was a good deal of confusion and trouble behind the curtain, just before Miss Cecilia sang; she laid down her sheet of music "exactly in that spot," just as people who lose things, are always sure they did, and when she went for it, it wasn't there.

"'You' must have moved it," said Miss Cecilia to the leading alto, and her voice couldn't have sounded quite like an angel's, then.

"I!" said the leading alto, and her face grew red. "What should you think I want of 'your' music."

"Well, 'somebody' has taken it, just to annoy me." declared Miss Cecilia, and she threw things about, and tipped over a bouquet of flowers that belonged to the leading alto, and spilled the water on the second soprano's white kid gloves, and did mischief generally.

And when at last she moved forward to the stage, those left behind looked at each other and said, "Aren't you glad she is gone at last? Did you ever see anybody act so hateful?"

Well, she sang, and these were some of the words:—

My love sits at the window, gazing, gazing, gazing, My love sits at the window, gazing out into the night.

What there was wonderful in that, or who she thought cared, I don't know; but she repeated it again and again; she yelled it, and moaned it, and whispered it, and wailed it, and told how dear her love was to her, and what she would do for him, and the names he called her, in a way that was perfectly senseless; no "love" worth having would have done any such thing.

Then she stepped back and the audience showered bouquets on her, and clapped their hands so loud that she had to come back and sing another line of "My love sits at the window."

And that was all. No, it "wasn't" all; for the people, going home, talked about her; some said they "could not see" why such a fuss was made over her voice, that it seemed to them she just "squealed;" and others said they were afraid she was growing very vain; that so much praise was had for young people. And even that was not all; the trouble is, there is never an end to anything. The song Miss Cecilia sang that night, the words she spoke in getting ready to sing, the words she spoke afterwards, the effect that the words, and the actions, and the song, had on other people,—all these went on doing their work, and though neither you nor I know the story, it growing, "growing," and Miss Cecelia will have to meet it again some day. That is the story of one singer: next month I will tell you about the other.

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HE WENT IN.

BY REV. C. M. LIVINGSTON.

TWO young men were "going in," as I passed along. They had been standing at the door a moment before in earnest conversation, as I could readily see from a distance, every little while one trying to pull the other in. But I just caught a good look of one and knew him. He was from the country, a member of a Sunday-school. He came to the city and become a clerk in one of our large stores. One of the other clerks soon got well acquainted with him. They often walked the streets together, after tea when their work was over. This other clerk knew all the low, wicked places of the city, especially where there was drinking and gambling.

There was one particular saloon where he went every night, and spent his substance in riotous living.

The keeper of this place allowed him many privileges, provided he would bring other clerks. So the young man was a daily visitor there, and it cost him but little to drink and play billiards and cards, if he only brought one or two others with him. Out of such the bar-keeper made his gains.

Now this young man from the country, whom we will call Will, had never been in a saloon in his life, nor had he ever tasted intoxicating drink; and when he left home for the city, he had promised his mother to keep away from all such places, and be true to total abstinence.

But he liked society and music and pictures, and he was very curious. He wanted to see what was to be seen, and so he loved to walk about the city and see the sights, though he meant never to go near any bad places; certainly never to enter them.

This time of which I began to speak, Will's friend had led him about from shop window to picture gallery, and so on, till suddenly they stood before that saloon. It had a beautiful front, high, broad, and seemingly all glittering with gold. Hundreds of gas jets, within and without, made everything bright like midday. Handsome young men were going in and coming out, smiling, smoking, now and then, it is true, swearing and staggering. Sounds of sweet music ever and anon floated through the opening and closing door, and what seemed most gorgeous paintings could occasionally be seen.

Thus Will stood with his friend, almost bewildered, as one in a new world. His friend had led him there for a purpose. He rightly guessed how he would be affected by all the sights and sounds near that saloon; though up to this time he had not told Will that he ever frequented such places.

But Will, after a few minutes, began to remember his promise to his mother, and was about to turn and go away, when his companion plead for five minutes more of the music. Then he urged Will just to step in, just that once; that they needn't have anything to do with the wrong of it, but could simply see for themselves, and no doubt learn a great deal; and, what was best of all, prove to themselves that they could resist temptation, though right in the midst of it.

He urged that the city missionary and many other gentlemen went in just to find out how things were inside, and be able to speak from experience. But Will had promised, and was about tearing himself away, when the door opened, and he caught a full view of the inside. It was gorgeous, dazzling. He had never seen anything so magnificent. Then the music, how could he get away from it? Why not listen a moment longer?

So he listened, and it seemed as though angels must be playing. Was not music a good thing? Why not go in just once, and enjoy it near by, and see how they made it so sweet. Yet the promise came before him.

"Mother, you needn't fear for me. I'll keep clear of all such things. I will for your sake at least."

At that moment a fine looking gentleman came out and spoke very politely to Will's friend, and was introduced to Will. And they conversed about many things, while enrapturing music went on within, and again and again the paintings could be seen, all aglow with light.

"Come," said the gentleman, "will not your friend step in a moment, and see the paintings, and enjoy the music better than one can out here? You will find most comfortable chairs, and the latest periodicals, and ice water (I see you are weary), all at your service. The proprietor is a friend of mine, and a perfect gentleman, too, if I do say it. Very few such as he in this city. He is highly respected. Several of the ministers know him. He used to be an active member of one of the largest Sabbath-schools here, and quite a supporter of the church,—does a great deal of good yet, gives great sums to several poor families whose fathers have got to drinking to excess. Strange that a man can't control himself. I know when to stop after I've taken a little to refresh myself. I despise a young man who has to sign a pledge to keep from being a sot.

"Gentlemen who come in here are none of your low class. The proprietor won't have it. He is determined to prove that a young man may find a pleasant and profitable place to spend an evening with his friends, without falling into the beastly habit of common saloons. Come in a few minutes and rest yourselves, and then let's take a stroll somewhere else."

So saying, he opened the frail door. Again that bewildering world within was seen. Poor, weak Will! He had stopped, just stopped and listened and looked in a moment. That was all. What possible harm could there be in that? Harm enough. He "was constrained" and "went in," and came out at midnight—"intoxicated," for the first time in his life.

Three persons were once walking together one evening, and when they came near a certain house, two of them urged the third to go in with them. I do not know if there was one picture, or any kind of music, or any other such thing to attract him; but he went in. Think you they played cards or billiards together, or drank beer, or whiskey, or any strong drink, or used any low slang words, or told any disgusting stories, or took God's name in vain, or came out with red faces and blood-shot eyes, and staggered through the streets, carousing as they went?

Yet they sat and dined together, and talked most warmly till their "hearts burned," yes, and they were all "intoxicated" when they separated that night—not like Will with maddening whiskey, but with "love," intoxicated with love to God, and everybody, and each other,—a love that caused one of those three to lay down his life—to die on the cross—to wash away with his own blood the sins even of drunkards and drunkard makers; a love that caused the other two to go here and there, telling the story of redeeming love.

"He went in." Ah, yes one goes in, like Will; goes into some beautiful, fascinating—Hell, to lose his own soul; another goes in, like Jesus at Emmaus, into some plain cottage, or lost soul, to save that soul.

What if you were to just "never enter" a saloon, no matter what may tempt you, but always be in the habit of going into God's house, or wherever the Lord will go with you, and like those two disciples eat of the bread which he may break and bless, and drink the water which he will give from the fountain of life.

Well, what say you to that?

He says: "Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and sup with him, and he with me."

I wonder if it will be said of you at the last day, "He went in;" I mean, into glory.

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[JESUS, LOVER OF MY SOUL]

THOU, O Christ, art all I want; More than all in thee I find: Raise the fallen, cheer the faint, Heal the sick, and lead the blind:

Just and holy is thy name, I am all unrighteousness; Vile and full of sin I am, Thou art full of truth and grace.

A THANKSGIVING SHOWER.

THE boys and girls of No. 42. talked about it all one day, during recess.

"She's real sick," said one.

"Who is?" asked another.

"Why, Gertie; and she doesn't think she's ever going to be any better. She looks awful! I saw her yesterday: I peeked in at the window and talked to her. She is real lonesome in that ugly, dark room. They're awful poor!"

"I know it!" said Alice Burns. "Her mother used to work in the factory, until she got rheumatism, and couldn't; and now her father is out of work, and they 'most starve, some days."

"Where do they live?"

"Why, in Lewis's basement,—a horrid, old, dark, ugly place! I've peeked through the window now and then, and talked to Gertie, and I never saw such an ugly, black hole of a room as it is. I should think she would die, lying there."

The talk lasted for two or three days. The scholars could not forget Gertie; she had been one of the best readers in the class, and was a favorite. At last a bright idea came to one of them. I don't know which began it; they all chimed in so fast, that we could never find out which first said, "Let's give her a thanksgiving!"

It was within a week of the annual Thanksgiving Day, and I presume the remark that one of the boys made, that "he" did not see what Gertie had to be thankful for, suggested it. You never saw anything like the way in which it grew! Every boy and girl in that school had something they were ready to give, to help Gertie be thankful. At first it was only flowers; but when one girl said she couldn't eat flowers, and was often hungry, and another said she couldn't sleep on them, and had an awful hard bed, and another said she couldn't wear them, and hadn't clothes enough to keep her warm, the flowers grew into sacks of flour, and bags of potatoes, and chickens, and comfortables, and blankets, and a woollen wrapper, and ever so many other things. Of course the mothers helped; mothers are almost always willing to help sweet, bright thoughts that their children have.

Well, the next question was, how to get the gifts to her. Every boy and girl wanted to go and see her, and take his and her offering; but frail little Gertie was too weak for that; so they finally thought out the queerest plan. All the light, soft presents that could stand a bumping, and not make much noise, they resolved upon throwing down that basement window, one after another, as softly and quietly as it could be done! And the rest of the things? Oh, that is the nice part of the story! It was Celia Winters who said,—

"After all, girls, what good will the nice things do her, if she has to live in that dark old basement?"

"Yes, and if her father doesn't get some work to do?" chimed in Charlie Webster. He always agreed with Celia.

After that, the two had their heads together, talking a good deal, and no one could find out what they were going to throw down at Gertie, until at last they owned that, besides flowers from their own greenhouses, they were not going to give her anything but two pieces of paper!

But the papers! Celia's read that a cunning little house on Simmons street, with three rooms and a kitchen, had been rented for a year, and the Winters' carriage would be all ready to take her to her new home on Thanksgiving morning. (I forgot to say that it had been planned to give the shower the day before Thanksgiving, so that Gertie could have the whole of that day in which to be thankful.)

Charlie's paper was for Gertie to give to her father; it contained an invitation from his father to be foreman of a machine shop, at good wages, which were to commence on Thanksgiving morning; and pasted in a corner of the paper, folded down and bearing Gertie's name, was a gold dollar of Charlie's own.

What fun they had, those boys and girls! They talked it over afterwards, trying to decide whether they didn't have even a better time than Gertie. It was so nice to go softly to that basement window, one by one, and drop down a bundle right before Gertie's amazed eyes. At first they sent flowers, white ones, and they nearly spoiled the silence by a shout when they heard Gertie say,—

"Why, mother, it snows, right in here!" And then in the next breath, "Oh, mother, it snows 'flowers!'"

"Let it snow wool now!" said Rob Holden, and he popped down a great blanket at Gertie's feet.

It took a long time, and was the funniest frolic the young people ever had. Of course, it would have been much easier to have sent the things all to the nice new house, the rent of which Celia's mother had paid, and which the seventy other mothers had furnished; but then it wouldn't have been near so funny.

There is no use in my trying to tell you what Gertie and her mother said or did that afternoon. They were too astonished to do much besides look at one another and laugh; and as the great, soft, comfortable bundles kept dropping down, they looked at each other and cried. No, of course you can't see what there was to cry about; but if you had had such a hard time to get enough to eat and wear as this family had, you might have cried for joy.

But what could they do or say when Celia's and Charlie's papers dropped down on them, and were read and understood? Dear little Gertie! Let me tell you what she said. She clasped her two thin hands together, and looked up, not at the basement window, but above it, and murmured, "I think we must all have died, and gone to heaven!"

There ought to be a picture of that cunning little house into which they moved next day, to show you; everything that a neat little family of three could need, the seventy mothers—helped much by the seventy fathers—had put into it. Oh, I think you would like a picture of the handsome carriage and horses and coachman who came for Gertie on Thanksgiving morning, and took her to the little new house; or maybe a picture of the dray that followed her, piled high with the things that were showered down the window the night before; or maybe a picture of Gertie, in an easy-chair in front of the stove, in their bit of a dining-room, with a carpet on the floor, she with her feet on soft cushions, and soft cushions at her back, and a soft, bright shawl around her, eating a bit of Thanksgiving turkey.

Ah, I know you would like a picture of all the scholars of Room 42 who set this ball a rolling; but there were over seventy of them, and how could I show you their photographs? You must just imagine it all.

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THE OTHER SINGER.

NO bracelets, nor necklaces had she; no white silk dress had she ever seen, and a common white muslin, even, she had never worn; she was barefooted, and though the morning was warm, she had wrapped an old shawl around her to hide the holes in her dress. A neat little girl was Mandy, or at least she would have been, if she had known how; she always washed her feet in the fast-running gutter puddles, after a hard rain, just because she liked to see them look clean; but she had no needle and thread at home, nor patches; and her work among the barrels, picking for rags, was not the cleanest in the world.

Yet on this afternoon, the very afternoon in which Miss Cecilia was getting ready for the concert, and frowning over her white silk, because the trail did not hang quite as she liked, did this little girl, Mandy give a concert. Her audience was an organ-grinder who stopped to rest a bit,—an old woman who was going by with a baby, and a little boy with a load of chips. The words she sang were:

"There is a fountain filled with blood, Drawn from Immanuel's veins."

And the chorus repeated as many times as did Miss Cecilia's. "I've been redeemed, I've been redeemed, I've been redeemed;" don't know "how" many times over; but what different words from Miss Cecilia's!

"Where did you get that?" asked the organ-grinder.

"What?" said Mandy, startled, and turning quickly.

"'That;' that you're singing."

"Oh, I got it to Sunday-school." And she rolled out the wonderful news, "I've been redeemed, I've been redeemed; been washed in the blood of the Lamb."

"I don't s'pose you understand what you're singing about?" said the organ-grinder.

"Don't I, though," said Mandy, with an emphatic little nod of her head. "I know all about it, and it's all true. I belong to Him; he is going to make me clean inside, and dress me in white some day, to stay with him forever and ever. 'I've been redeemed, I've been redeemed,—been washed in the blood of the Lamb.'"

Away down the street, as far as the organ-grinder could hear, as he trudged on, there came back to him the faint sound of that chorus, "I've been redeemed."

Nobody threw bouquets to Mandy; nobody said she had a sweet voice.

But the organ-grinder kept saying the words over and over to himself; they were not new words to him. Years ago, his old mother used to sing those first ones, "There is a fountain." He had never heard the chorus before, but he knew it fitted; he knew all about it; his mother had taught him; and away back, when he was a little boy, a minister had said to him once, "My boy, you must be sure to find the fountain and get washed."