Chapter 1

SMALL MEANS AND GREAT ENDS.

EDITED BY MRS. M.H. ADAMS

Word of Truth, and Gift of Love, Waiting hearts now need thee; Faithful in thy mission prove, On that mission speed thee.

1851.

PREFACE.

From the encouragement extended to our worthy publisher on the presentation of the first and second volumes of the Annual, we conclude that the experiment of 1845 may be regarded as a successful one, and the preparation of a little work of this kind an acceptable offering to the young.

The present year, our kind contributors have afforded us a much more ample supply of interesting articles than could possibly appear. We regret that any who have so generously labored for us and our young friends, should be denied the pleasure of greeting their articles on the pages of the Annual. Let them not suspect that it is from any disapproval or rejection of their labors. Be assured, dear friends, we are more grateful than can properly be expressed in a brief preface. Our warmest thanks are due our old friends, who, in the midst of other arduous duties, have willingly given us assistance. Let our new correspondents be assured they are gratefully remembered, although we have not the pleasure or opportunity to present their articles to our readers in the present volume. They are at the publisher's disposal for another year.

May the blessing of our Father in heaven rest upon the little book and all its mends.

M.H.A.

CONTENTS.

* * * * *

Small Means and Great Ends

Mary Ellen

The Dead Child to its Mother

Hope

The Young Soldier

The Stolen Children

My Grandmother's Cottage

The First Oath

The Fairy's Gift

A Lesson taught by Nature

Florence Drew

Shechem

The Little Candle

"Are we not all Brothers and Sisters?"

Fortune-Telling

The Boy who Stole the Nails

The Childless Mother

The Motherless Child

Faith

SMALL MEANS AND GREAT ENDS;

OR,

THE WIDOW'S POT OF OIL.

BY JULIA A. FLETCHER.

"Oh! how I do wish I was rich!" said Eliza Melvyn, dropping her work in her lap, and looking up discontentedly to her mother; "why should not I be rich as well as Clara Payson? There she passes in her father's carriage, with her fine clothes, and haughty ways; while I sit here--sew--sewing--all day long. I don't see what use I am in the world!

"Why should it be so? Why should one person have bread to waste, while another is starving? Why should one sit idle all day, while another toils all night? Why should one have so many blessings, and another so few?"

"Eliza!" said Mrs. Melvyn, taking her daughter's hand gently within her own, and pushing back the curls from her flushed brow, "my daughter, why is this? why is your usual contentment gone, and why are you so sinfully complaining? Have you forgotten to think that 'God is ever good?'"

"No, mother," replied the young girl, "but it sometimes appears strange to me, why he allows all these things."

"Wiser people than either you or I have been led to wonder at these things," said Mrs. Melvyn; "but the Christian sees in all the wisdom of God, who allows us to be tried here, and will overrule all for our good. The very person who is envied for one blessing perhaps envies another for one he does not possess. But why would you be rich, my child?"

"Mother, I went this morning through a narrow, dirty street in another part of the city. A group of ragged children were collected round one who was crying bitterly. I made my way through them and spoke to the little boy. He told me his little sister was dead, his father was sick, and he was hungry. Here was sorrow enough for any one; but the little boy stood there with his bare feet, his sunbleached hair and tattered clothes, and smiled almost cheerfully through the tears which washed white streaks amid the darkness of his dirty face. He led me to his _home_. Oh, mother! if you had been with me up those broken stairs, and seen the helpless beings in that dismal, dirty room you would have wished, like me, for the means to help them. The dead body lay there unburied, for the man said, they had no money to pay for a coffin. He was dying himself, and they might as well be buried together."

"Are you sure, Eliza, that you have not the means to help them?" asked Mrs. Melvyn. "Put on your bonnet, my dear, and go to our sexton. Tell him to go and do what should be done. The charitable society of which I am a member will pay the expense. Then call on Dr. ---- the dispensary physician, and send him to the relief of the sick one. Then go to those of your acquaintance who have, as you say, 'bread to waste,' and mention to them this hungry little boy. If you have no money to give these sufferers, you have a voice to plead with those who have; and thus you may bless the poor, while you doubly bless the rich, for 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.'"

Eliza obeyed, and when she returned several hours after, her face glowing with animation, and eagerly recounted how much had been done for the poor family; how their dead had been humanely borne from their sight; how the sick man was visited by the physician, and his bitterness of spirit removed by the sympathy which was sent him; how the room was to be cleaned and ventilated, and how she left the little boy eating a huge slice of bread, while others of the family were half devouring the remainder of the loaf; her mother listened with the same gentleness. "It is well, my daughter," said she; "I preferred to send you on this errand of sympathy, that you might see how much you could do with small means."

"I have a picture here," she continued, "which I wish you to keep as a token of this day's feelings and actions. It is called 'The Widow's Pot of Oil.' Will you read me the story which belongs to it?"

Eliza took her little pocket Bible, the one that she always carried to the Sabbath school, and, turning to the fourth chapter of the second book of Kings, read the first seven verses. Turn to them now, children, and read them.

"You can see in this picture," said her mother, "how small was the 'pot of oil,' and how large were some of the vessels to be filled. Yet still it flowed on, a little stream; still knelt the widow in her faith, patiently supporting it; still brought her little sons the empty vessels; the blessing of God was upon it, and they were all filled. She feared not that the oil would cease to flow; she stopped not when one vessel was filled; she still believed, and labored, and waited, until her work was done.

"Take this picture, my daughter, and when you think that you cannot do good with small means, remember 'the widow's pot of oil,' and perseveringly use the means you have; when one labor is done, begin another; stitch by stitch you have made this beautiful garment; very large houses are built of little bricks patiently joined together one by one; and 'the widow's small pot of oil' filled many large vessels."

"Oh, mother," said Eliza, "I hope I shall never be so wicked again. I will keep the picture always. But, mother, do you not think Mr. Usher would like this picture to put in the 'Sabbath School Annual?' He might have a smaller one engraved from this, you know, and perhaps cousin Julia will write something about it. I mean to ask them."

MARY ELLEN;

A SKETCH FROM LIFE.

BY MRS. MARGARET M. MASON.

"O, lightly, lightly tread! A holy thing is sleep On the worn spirit shed, And eyes that wake to weep; Ye know not what ye do, That call the slumberer back From the world unseen by you, Unto life's dim faded track."

How beautiful, calm, and peaceful is sleep! Often, when I have laid my head upon my pillow happy and healthful, I have asked myself, to what shall I awaken? What changes may come ere again my head shall press this pillow? Ah, little do we know what a day may unfold to us! We know not to what we shall awaken; what joy or sorrow. I do not know when I was awakened to more painful intelligence, than when aroused one morning from pleasant dreams by the voice of a neighbor, saying that Mary Ellen, the only daughter of a near neighbor, was dying. She was a beautiful little girl, about three years of age, unlike most other children. She was more serious and thoughtful; and many predicted that her friends would not have her long. She would often ask strange questions about heaven and her heavenly Father; and many of her expressions were very beautiful.

One day she asked permission of her mother to go and gather her some flowers. Her mother gave her permission, but requested her not to go out of the field. After searching in vain for flowers, she returned with some clover leaves and blades of grass. "Mother," said she, "I could find you no flowers, but here are some spires of grass and clover leaves. Say that they are some pretty, mother. GOD made them." Often, when she woke in the morning, she would ask her mother if it was the Sabbath day. If told it was, "Then," she would say, "we will read the Bible and keep the day holy." Her mother always strove to render the Sabbath interesting to her, and to have her spend it in a profitable manner. Nor did she fail; for little Mary Ellen was always happy when the Sabbath morning came. The interest she took in the reading of the Scriptures, in explanations given of the plates in the Bible, and the accuracy with which she would remember all that was told her, were truly pleasing. Her kind and affectionate disposition, her love for all that was pure and holy, and her readiness to forgive and excuse all that she saw wrong in others, made her beloved by all who knew her. If she saw children at play on the Sabbath, or roaming about, she would notice it, and speak of it as being very wrong, and it would appear to wound her feelings; yet she would try to excuse them. "It may be," she would say, "that they do not know that it is the holy Sabbath day. Perhaps no one has told them." She could not bear to think of any one doing wrong intentionally.

Whenever she heard her little associates make use of any language that she was not quite sure was right, she would ask her mother if it was wrong to speak thus; and if wrong, she would say, "Then, I will never speak so, and I shall be your own dear little girl, and my heavenly Father will love me." We often ask children whom they love best. Such was the question often put to Mary Ellen. She would always say, "I love my heavenly Father best, and my dear father and mother next." Her first and best affections were freely given to her Maker, not from a sense of duty alone did it seem, but from a heart overflowing with love and gratitude; and never, at the hour of retiring, would she forget to kneel and offer up her evening prayer. Thus she lived.

Now I will lead you to her dying pillow Many friends were around her. No one had told her that she was dying; yet she herself felt conscious of it. She wished to have the window raised, that she might see the ocean and trees once more. "Oh!" said her mother, bending over her, "is my dear little girl dying?" "I want to go," said Mary Ellen; "I want my father and mother to go with me." "Will you not stay with us?" said the stricken father; "will you not stay with us?" She raised her little hands and eyes--"Oh no," said she; "I see them! I see them! 't is lighter there; I want to go; get a coffin and go with me, father. 'T is lighter there!" She died soon after she ceased speaking. Her pure spirit winged its way to the blest home where we shall _all_ have more light, where the mortal shall put on immortality.

She died when flowers were fading; fit season for one of so gentle and pure a nature to depart.

"In the cold, moist earth they laid her When the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so beautiful Should have a life so brief. And yet 't was not unmeet that one, Like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, Should perish with the flowers."

But Oh! when that little form was laid in the cold grave,--when the childless parents returned to their lonely home, once made so happy by the smile of their departed child,--Oh! who can express or describe their anguish! In her they had all they could ask in a child; she was their only one. Everything speaks to their hearts of _her_; but her light step and happy voice fall not upon their ears; to them the flowers that she loved have a mournful language. The voice of the wind sighing in the trees has to them a melancholy tone. The light laugh of little children, coming in at the open window,--the singing of birds which she delighted to hear,--but speak to their hearts of utter loneliness. They feel that the little form they had nursed with so much care and tenderness, so often pressed to their bosoms, is laid beneath the sod. Yet the sweet consolation which religion affords, cheered and sustained the afflicted parents in their hours of deepest sorrow. They would not call their child back. They feel that she has reached her heavenly home. Happy must they have been in yielding up to its Maker a spirit so pure.

Two years Mary Ellen has been sleeping in the little grave-yard. Since then another little daughter has been given her parents,--a promising little bud, that came with the spring flowers, to bless and cheer the home which was made so desolate. The best wish I have for the parents, and all I ask for the child, is, that it may be like little Mary Ellen. I have an earnest wish, too that all little children who read this sketch may be led to love and obey God as much as Mary Ellen.

THE DEAD CHILD TO ITS MOTHER.

BY MRS. E.R.B. WALDO.

Mother, mourn not for me; No more I need of thee; Call back the yearning which would follow where No mortal grief can go; All thine affection throw Around thy living ones; they need thy care.

Let not my name still be A word of grief to thee, But let it bring a thought of peace and rest; Shed for me no sad tear, Remember, mother dear! That I am with the perfect and the blest.

Yes, let my memory still With joy thy bosom fill; For, though thou dost along life's desert roam, My spirit, like a star, Bright burning and afar, Shall guide thee, through the darkness, to thy home

HOPE.

BY REV. H.B. NYE.

Expectation is not desire, nor desire hope. We may _expect_ misfortune, sickness, poverty, while from these evils we would fain escape. Bending over the couches of the sick and suffering, we may _desire_ their restoration to health, while the hectic flush and the rapid beating of the heart assure us that no effort of kindness or skill can prolong their days upon the earth. _Hope_ is directed to some future good, and it implies not only an ardent desire that our future may be fair and unclouded, but an expectation that our wishes will, at length, be granted, and our plans be crowned with large success. Hence hope animates us to exertion and diligence, and always imparts pleasure and gladness, while our fondest wishes cost us anxiety and tears.

There are _false_ and _delusive_ hopes, which bring us, at last, to shame. There are those who expect to gain riches by fraud and deceit, in pursuits and traffics on which the laws of truth, love, and justice, must ever darkly frown. They forget that wealth, with all its splendor, can only be deemed a good and desirable gift when sought as an instrument to advance noble and beneficent aims,--when we are the almoners of God's bounty to the lonely children of sorrow and want.

If we seek wealth, let us not forget that pure hearts gentle affections, lofty purposes, and generous deeds, can alone secure the peace and blessedness of the spiritual kingdom of God.

There are some who have a strong desire for the praise and stations of men, yet are often careless of the means by which they accomplish their ends. Remember, my young friends, that no station, no crown, or honor, will occupy the attention of a good and noble heart, except it opens a better opportunity for philanthropic labor, and is conferred as the free offering of an intelligent and grateful people.

There are many, especially among the young, who seek _present_ pleasure in foolish and sinful deeds, vainly believing the wicked may flourish and receive the blessing of the good. Believe me, young friend, such hopes are delusive, and such expectations will suddenly perish. Let fools laugh and mock at sin, and live as if God were not; but consider well the path of _your_ feet! When your weak arm can hold back the globes which circle in space above us in solemn grandeur and beauty forever, then may you hope to arrest the operation of those laws which preserve an everlasting connection between obedience and blessedness, sin and sorrow.

In the spring-season of life, how beautiful are the visions which Hope spreads out to our admiring view, as we go forth, with gladsome heart and step, amid the duties of life, its trials and temptations. It begets manly effort by its promises of success, and leads us to virtue and self-denial, in our weakness and sin. When our heads are bowed to the earth in despondency and gloom, hope putteth forth her hand, scattereth afar the clouds, dispelleth our sorrow; and again, with a firmer step and a more trustful heart, we go forth on the solemn march of life! It is our solace and strength in the hours of woe and grief, when those in whose smile we have rejoiced pass from our presence and homes to the valley and shadow of death. And if we weep that they are not, and can never return,

"Hope, like the rainbow, a creature of light, Is born, like the rainbow, in tears,"

and we rest in the calm and blest assurance that we shall ultimately go to them, and with them dwell forever in a land without sorrow.

It may be said that we scarcely live in the present. =Memory=, in whose mysterious cells are treasured the records of the past, carries us back to our earlier years, and all our pursuits, and sports, and joys, and griefs, pass rapidly in review before us; and =Hope= leads us onward, investing future years with charms, and bidding us strive with brave and manly hearts in the conflicts and duties that remain. The former years--sorrowful remembrance!--may have been passed in luxury, indolence, or flagrant sin; the fruits of our industry and skill may have wasted away; friends, whose love once cast a golden sunshine on the path of life, may have proved false and treacherous; our fondest desires, perchance, have faded, and sorrows may encompass us about;--yet above us the voice of Hope crieth aloud, "_Press on_!"--through tears and the cross must thou win the crown; be patient, trustful, in every duty and grief; "_press on_," and falter not; and its words linger like the music of a remembered dream in our ear, until, at the borders of the grave, we lay down the burden of our sinfulness and care, and, through the open gate of death, pass onward to that world where hope shall be exchanged for sight, and we, with unveiled eye, shall look upon the wondrous ways and works of God.

THE YOUNG SOLDIER

BY REV. J.G. ADAMS.

A soldier! a soldier! I'm longing to be; The name and the life Of a soldier for me! I would not be living At ease and at play: True honor and glory I'd win in my day!

A soldier! a soldier! In armor arrayed; My weapons in hand, Of no contest afraid; I'd ever be ready To strike the first blow, And to fight my good way Through the ranks of the foe.

But then, let me tell you, No blood would I shed, No victory seek o'er The dying and dead; A far braver soldier Than this would I be; A warrior of Truth, In the ranks of the free!

My helmet Salvation, Strong Faith my good shield. The sword of the Spirit I'd learn how to wield. And then against evil And sin would I fight, Assured of my triumph, Because in the right.

A soldier! a soldier! O, then, let me be! Young friends, I invite you-- Enlist now with me. Truth's bands will be mustered-- Love's foes shall give way! Let's up, and be clad In our battle array!

THE STOLEN CHILDREN.

BY MRS. M.A. LIVERMORE.

Not many years ago, the beautiful hills and valleys of New England gave to the wild Indian a home, and its bright waters and quiet forests furnished him with food. Rude wigwams stood where now ascends the hum of the populous city, and council-fires blazed amid the giant trees which have since bowed before the axe of the settler. Between that rude age and the refinement of the present day, many and fearful were the strifes of the red owner of the land with the invading white man, who, having crossed the waters of the Atlantic, sought to drive him from his hitherto undisputed possessions. The recital of deeds of inhuman cruelty which characterized that period; the rehearsal of bloody massacres of inoffensive women and innocent children, which those cruel savages delighted in, would even now curdle the blood with horror, and make one sick at heart.

It was in this period of fearful warfare that the events occurred which form the foundation of the following story.

Not far from the year 1680, a small colony was planted on the banks of the beautiful Connecticut. A little company from the sea-side found their way, through the tangled and pathless woods, to the meadows that lay sleeping on the banks of this bright river; and here, after having felled the mighty trees whose brows had long been kissed by the pure heavens, they erected their humble cottages; and began to till the rich alluvial soil. The colonists were persevering and industrious; and soon a little village grew up beside the shining stream, fields of Indian corn waved their wealth of tasselled heads in the breezes, the rudely-constructed school-house echoed with the cheerful hum of the little students, and a rustic church was dedicated to the God of the Pilgrims. He who officiated as the spiritual teacher of this new parish, also instructed the children during the week. A man he was of no inferior mind, or neglected education; of fervent, but austere piety, possessing a bold spirit and a benevolent heart. His family consisted of a wife and two daughters; Emma, the elder, was a girl of eight summers, and Anna, the younger, was about five.

Never were children so frolicsome and mirth-loving as were Emma and Anna Wilson, the daughters of the minister. Not the grave admonitions of their mother, or the severe reproofs of their stern father; not their many confinements in dark and windowless closets, or the memory of afternoons, when, supperless, they had been sent to bed while the sun was yet high in the heavens; not the fear of certain punishment, or the suasion of kindness, could tame their wild natures, or force them into anything like woman-like sobriety. Hand in hand, they would wander amid the aisles of mossy-trunked trees, plucking the flowers that carpeted the earth; now digging for ground-nuts, now turning over the leaves for acorns; sometimes they would watch the nibbling squirrel as he nimbly sprang from tree to tree, or overpower, with their boisterous laughter, the gushing melody of the bobolink; they mocked the querulous cat-bird and the cawing crow, started at the swift winging of the shy blackbird, and stood still to listen to the sweet song of the clear-throated thrush; now they bathed their feet in the streamlets that went singing on their way to the Connecticut, and then, throwing up handfuls of the running water, which fell again upon their heads, they laughed right merrily at their self-baptism. They were happy as the days were long; but wild as their playfellows, the birds, the streams, and the squirrels.