Part 4

"Dear me!" exclaimed Ben, balancing his coin between his finger and thumb. "I wish that he had had as good a dinner as I!" Twirl, twirl, went the half-crown, looking like a half transparent ball, as it spun rapidly round; then gradually its shape altered, it sank lower and lower, then rattled down to its old position on the table.

"I wish that some one would help him!" said Lucy, glancing at the money.

"So do I, with all my heart!" replied Ben, in a manner that told pretty clearly that his charity would not go beyond his good wishes.

There was a pause, which was first broken by Lucy. "I read such a funny account, in a book about Thibet," said she, "of a curious piece of superstition, that I put mark in the place, just that I might read it to you; I thought that it would make you laugh."

"Let's have it!" cried Ben, pocketing his half-crowns, for he dearly loved anything funny.

So Lucy opened a volume of Huc's "Travels," and read the following account of the strange ideas of a young student of medicine at Kounboum:—

"One day," writes the missionary Huc, "he proposed to us a service of devotion in favour of all the travellers throughout the whole world. 'We are not acquainted with this devotion,' said we; 'will you explain it to us?' 'This is it: You know that a good many travellers find themselves from time to time on rugged toilsome roads, and it often happens that they cannot proceed by reason of their being altogether exhausted. In this case we aid them by sending horses to them.' 'That,' said we, 'is a most admirable custom; but you must consider that poor travellers such as we are not in a condition to share in the good work. You know that we possess only a horse and a little mule, which require rest in order that they may carry us to Thibet.' He clapped his hands together, and burst into a loud laugh. 'What are you laughing at? What we have said is the simple truth; we have only a horse and a little mule.' When his laughter at last subsided, 'It was not that which I was laughing at,' said he; 'I laughed at your mistaking the sort of devotion I mean. What we send to the travellers are paper horses.' And therewith he ran off to his cell, and presently returned, his hands filled with bits of paper, on each of which was printed the figure of a horse, saddled and bridled, and going at full gallop. 'Here, these are the horses we send to the travellers! To-morrow we shall ascend a high mountain, and there we shall pass the day, saying prayers and sending off horses.' 'How do you send them to the travellers?' 'Oh, the means are very easy. After a certain form of prayer, we take a packet of horses, which we throw up into the air; the wind carries them away, and by the power of Buddha they are then changed to real horses, which offer themselves to travellers.'"

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed Ben, when she had finished. "I never heard anything so odd in my life. We have nothing in England like these paper horses."

"Well, I could not quite say that," observed Lucy; "there was something that reminded me of them just now."

"What was that?" said Ben, glancing up at his sister.

"Sending only 'good wishes' to those to whom we are able to send real help," Lucy replied with a smile. "They go just as far, and are exactly as useful to the poor, as the paper horses to the travellers in the deserts of Thibet."

XIV.

THORNS AND FLOWERS.

"WHAT can be the difference between Martha and Susan Williamson?" said old Dame Phillips. "They are as like as two cherries—the same rosy cheeks, the same height, the same hair, you could hardly know one from the other."

"No wonder, for they are twins," replied Widow Green.

"And yet, how is it that when one of them comes in, it seems as if a sunbeam were shining into the room; yet, when the other is near, you would think that she brought the cold east wind with her?"

"One lives for others, and one for herself; that's the difference between Martha and Susan," said Mrs. Green, as she poured out her cup of tea.

"Ah! I often think that they are like two travellers, walking through the world with baskets on their arms. Susan has filled her basket with roses, and wherever she goes there's the sweet smell and the pretty flowers to make every one round her glad. Martha has filled her basket with thorns; you fear to come near her for the prickles; she is scattering thorns wherever she passes, and leaves pain behind her wherever she has been!"

"I pity the children when they are left to her care," said the widow.

"Poor little lambs, they have their full share of the thorns. It is a word and a blow with her; and as for poor Albert, with his weak ankles, he may walk on till he drops afore she will take the trouble of carrying him one step.—Why, here she is!" added the old woman, as Martha entered the house with a bold, careless air.

"Good-day, Mrs. Phillips: I've come to borrow your warm new shawl. You see," added she, seeing a look of reluctance on the face of the rheumatic invalid, "I'm going to-morrow in the steamer to Greenwich, and it will be so cold on the water."

"Come to-morrow, then," said the good-natured dame; "why should I be all this cold evening without it?"

"Oh, it is not convenient to come to-morrow!" cried Martha. "I'm off early, so please for it now." And as she stepped carelessly forward to take the shawl from the shoulders of her shivering friend, she knocked down the cup which Mrs. Phillips had just filled. But Martha never said that she was sorry for the mischief done; she never even stopped to pick up the broken pieces; her only thought was ever "self!"

Having got all she wanted, Martha turned to depart, but lingered for a few minutes to talk.

"Ah! Mrs. Green, so your son has gone to sea, I hear. How the wind is blowing, to be sure! I could hardly get up the street. They say there has been a dreadful shipwreck off the Irish coast—every one lost!"

Mrs. Green clasped her hands with a look of terror.

"I hope that the wind will have gone down before I start for Greenwich," said Martha, as she bounced out of the room, forgetting, of course, to close the door. She was gone, but she had left the thorns behind her.

In a few minutes a gentle tap was heard.

"Come in," said Mrs. Phillips; and the bright kind face of Susan appeared.

"Good evening, Mrs. Phillips; I hope that you are feeling better. I have brought you a pair of mittens, which I have knit for you, to keep your poor hands warm in this cold weather.—Mrs. Green, I'm so glad to see you; and will not you be glad to see 'this?'" she added, holding up a letter, and then placing it in the mother's trembling hand, with pleasure almost equal to her own.

"My son's handwriting!" exclaimed Mrs. Green. "How did you come by it, my dear?"

"I knew that you were anxious for letters, so I stepped round by the post-office to ask if there were any for you."

"Bless you!" cried Mrs. Green. "You are always thinking of others."

When Susan entered the house, she had found gloom and anxiety there. Before she left it, there were bright looks and smiles of hope and gratitude. She had left the roses behind her.

And can you guess the secret cause of her kindness, of the constant, cheerful benevolence which made her welcome to all? Why did she seem to live for others?—Because she "lived to God!" One sentence spoken by the blessed Saviour seemed ever present to her mind: "'Love one another as I have loved you.'" She knew that the Lord Jesus had "died for all, that they which live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto Him which died for them" (2 Cor. v. 15).

Oh! dear reader, have "you" lived for yourself, or for your Lord; are you scattering roses or thorns?

On her way home Susan overtook an aged woman, bent down with years, and yet more with trouble, to judge from her sad, hopeless face. She carried a large bundle, which seemed too much for her strength. Cold as was the weather, she walked on but slowly, with a feeble, half-tottering step, often pausing, as though to take breath.

Susan paused; and her kind, pitying look seemed to encourage the poor old woman to address her.

"Could you, please, tell me the way to John Street, my dear? I am a stranger in London."

"With pleasure," replied Susan; "let me see—the third turn to the left, then walk on till you come to a baker's shop, then—"

"I shall never make it out," said the old woman, with a hopeless air.

"Well, then, I'll go with you, and show you the way. Don't hurry yourself, you look feeble, and your bundle is heavy; let me carry it for you, it would be a pleasure to me!" And she relieved the poor stranger of her burden, as they passed through the cold, silent streets.

"You are good, very good!" sighed the old woman. "Too good for this cold, heartless, miserable world!"

"I am sorry that you find it so miserable."

"Miserable enough! Here am I, a lone widow—I who have had a good husband, and three as fine boys as ever the sun shone upon. There is no comfort on earth for me!"

"But there is comfort in heaven! Do you not hope to see again those whom you have loved, never more to part? Do you not hope that they are happy now?"

"Ay, they are happy; for my husband feared God, and my boys were taken before they knew evil. But here am I, a feeble old woman, without a friend on earth."

"But you have a Friend in heaven; there is comfort again!"

"Ay, if I could take it, my dear; but my heart is low, and my spirit weary, and everything looks dark around and above!"

Susan rather whispered than spoke, "'Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise Him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.'" (Ps. xlii. 11).

A tear rolled down the pale cheek of the stranger, but her heart felt lighter: she had met with one who could feel for her.

"I wish," said she, after a pause, "that I had thought more of these things when I was young like you. It doesn't do to put off, one's heart grows cold and hard. And, oh! it's a weary, weary thing, old age like mine, no comforts around one, nothing but troubles to look back upon, nothing but death to look forward to!" and she sighed heavily.

"And heaven beyond!" said Susan.

"Ah! If I were sure of 'that,' but maybe heaven is not for a poor, ignorant, sinful creature like me!"

"I thought," said Susan timidly, "that heaven was for those who believe, who repent, who love the Lord Jesus and one another."

Not another word was spoken till they reached the house, when the aged stranger laid her trembling hand on the shoulder of her young guide.

"God Almighty bless you!" she murmured. "You've spoken the first word of comfort that I've heard for many a long day. God will bless you, and make you an angel above, as you love to do angels' work below!"

Reader! May you thus pass through life, blessing and blessed, the roses which you scatter on the paths of others throwing sweetness over your own, and making soft your death-bed at the last!

XV.

HEIR TO SOMETHING BETTER.

"WELL, he's a beauty, he is!" cried Betsy Bonser. "But fine feathers make fine birds, and his mother dresses him up as if he were Prince of Wales at least."

"Who is it, neighbour?" asked the feeble voice of Mary Blane, a sick woman who was lying in bed in the little cottage out of the window of which Betsy Bonser was looking as she spoke.

"Why, it's Squire Knight's little boy, to be sure—hat, feather, and all—sitting in his little carriage, with his dog on his knee. How unequal things are in this world! There were you with your dozen children, scarce able to put shoes on their feet, or bread in their mouths, and a thirteenth baby must come—" she glanced at a little creature asleep in its cradle—"just to be a burden and a trouble!"

"He's welcome—bless him!" whispered the mother.

"Welcome! Well, mothers have an odd way of taking these things," said Betsy. "I know the squire's baby was welcome, for he was heir to ten thousand a year!"

"And I hope that my baby is heir to something better," said Mary with a gentle smile. "If he be God's child, he'll have an inheritance one day in heaven!"

"Well," began Betsy—but she started with surprise, for she saw that the squire's lady now stood in the cottage!

Mrs. Knight had knocked so gently, and Betsy had talked so loudly, that the knock had not been heard, nor the soft step of the lady as she entered the poor woman's cottage.

"Oh! Beg your pardon, ma'am, I didn't see you," cried Betsy, dropping half-a-dozen courtesies.

Mrs. Knight had brought many nice things for the sick mother, and some little pieces of dress for Mary's baby, which her own boy had long outgrown. The lady took, I say, many things to the cottage; she took one thing away with her—the remembrance of the poor woman's words, which she had chanced to overhear: "I hope that my baby is heir to something better."

When Mrs. Knight returned to her boy, whom she had left outside with his nurse, she thought again and again of what Mary Blane had said.

"Ah!" reflected the lady, "my boy will have everything that money can give him, but, after all, the 'best' things are as free to the poor as to the rich. My child would be poor indeed if he were not heir to something better."

When a few months had passed away, the squire's little son fell ill. The groom mounted a horse and rode off at full speed for a doctor; another was sent for from London; everything was procured that could possibly help to save the child from dying. But if God wills to take a little lamb to His fold above, doctors and medicine and mother's fond care cannot keep him on earth. The squire's little darling was taken early to heaven.

Then people said, "What a grievous thing it was that the heir of such an estate should die!"

If one of Mary Blane's thirteen children had been taken, the world would have thought less about it, though every one was as dear to her as Victor Knight had been to his mother. And friends wondered how poor Mrs. Knight could bear her grief so meekly, and never murmur when called to part with the child whom she loved so well. It was the thought of her little one's happiness that soothed her sorrowing heart; she looked round on the splendid dwelling that might one day have been her son's, and repeated the poor woman's words, "My baby is heir to something better."

After some time, God comforted the poor lady by giving her another child. There were great rejoicings in the squire's house when a second heir was born; bonfires were lighted, tenants were feasted, and an ox was roasted whole. Mrs. Knight was again a happy and thankful mother. But she never forgot her first little treasure, whose picture with his dog on his knee, hung just opposite to the seat in her own quiet room where the lady used often to read the Bible. And when in her reading she came to an account of "an inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away, reserved in heaven," she would lift up her tearful eyes to the picture, and with a grateful heart would say, "Yes, earth's wealth and honours must pass away; thank God, through Christ, my baby was heir to something better!"

XVI.

THE TWO PETS.

A FABLE.

"AH, Poll! Poll!" cried the little spaniel Fidele to the new favourite of the family. "How every one likes you and pets you!"

"No wonder," replied the parrot, cocking her head on one side with a very conceited air. "Just see how pretty I am! With your rough hairy coat, and your turned-up nose, who would look at you beside me! Just observe my plumage of crimson and green, and the fine feather head-dress which I wear!"

"Yes, you are a beauty," said Fidele, "that I'm only an ugly little dog."

"Then how clever I am," continued Miss Parrot, after a nibble at her biscuit. "No human beings are likely to care for you, for you can't speak one word of their language."

"I wish that I could learn it," said Fidele.

"You've only to copy me." And then in her harsh grating voice the parrot cried, "What's o'clock?"

"Bow-wow!" barked Fidele.

"Do your duty!" screamed the bird.

"Bow-wow!" barked the dog.

"There's not a chance that any one will ever care for you, ugly stupid spaniel," cried Miss Poll. "You may just creep off to your kennel, you are not fit company for a learned beauty like me."

Poor Fidele made no complaint, but he felt sad as he trotted off to his corner. Before Poll's arrival at the Hall, the spaniel had been the favourite playmate of all Mrs. Donathorn's children. They had taught him to fetch and carry, to toss up a biscuit placed on his nose and catch it cleverly in his mouth, or to jump into the water and bring a stick that had been flung to ever so great a distance.

But as soon as pretty Poll came, no one seemed to care for Fidele any more. To teach the parrot to speak was the great delight of the children. They shouted and clapped their hands when she screamed out "Pretty Poll," "What's o'clock?" or, "Do your duty." Stupid Fidele! He could not be taught to speak. Ugly Fidele! Who could for a moment compare him to a beautiful parrot? So all the kind words, and soft pats, and sweet biscuits, were given to Poll. It is true that she made little Tommy once cry out with pain from a bite from her sharp beak—and that the least thing that displeased her would make her ruffle up her feathers in a very ill-tempered way, but still she was petted and praised for her cleverness and her beauty; and she quite despised poor Fidele, who was nothing but an ugly hairy dog.

One fine summer's day, the children carried the stand of their favourite to the bank of the pretty little river which flowed through their mother's grounds. Bessy and Jemmy amused themselves by feeding and chatting with the parrot, while little Tommy gathered daisies and buttercups, or rolled about on the grass. No one cared for Fidele; no one noticed what he was doing.

Presently Bessy and Jemmy were startled by a scream, and then a sudden splashing noise in the water. Poor little Tommy, eager to pull some blue forget-me-nots which grew quite close to the brink, had overbalanced himself and tumbled right into the stream. Oh, what was the terror of the children when they heard the splash, and saw the wide circles on the water where their poor little brother was sinking.

"Do your duty!" screamed the parrot, merely talking by rote, and not caring a feather for the danger of the child, or the distress of his brother and sister.

At that moment, there was heard another splash in the water, and then the brown nose and hairy back of Fidele were seen in the stream, as the little dog swam with all his might to save the drowning child. He caught little Tommy by his clothes; he pulled—he tugged—he dragged him towards the shore, just within reach of the eagerly stretched-out hands of Jemmy.

"Oh, he is saved! He is saved!" cried Bessy, as Tommy was dragged out of the river, dripping, choking, spluttering, crying, but not seriously hurt.

He was instantly carried back to the house, undressed, and put into a warm bed; and the little one was soon none the worse for his terrible ducking and fright.

"Oh, you dear—you darling dog!" cried Bessy, as she caught up Fidele, all wet as he was, and hugged him with grateful affection. "I will always love you, and care for you, for you were a true friend in need."

"Pretty Poll!" screamed the parrot, who did not like any one to be noticed but herself.

"Fidele is better than pretty; he is brave, and useful, and good," cried Bessy.

"Do your duty!" screamed out Miss Poll.

"Ah, Poll, Poll, it is one thing to prate about duty, and another thing to 'do it,'" said Bessy. "Fine words are good, to be sure, but 'fine acts' are a great deal better."

MORAL.

Beauty and cleverness may win much notice for a time, but it is he who is faithful, good, and true, who is valued and loved at the end.

XVII.

THE TWO STANDARD MEASURES.

"MAMMA, how tall was that great giant of whom papa was telling us?" said Harry, who, after standing with his back to the door, a pencil in one hand, and a ruler in the other, was busily engaged in examining some marks which he had made on the panel.

"He was nearly seven feet high, I believe," replied Mrs. Prince, without raising her eyes from her work.

"And how tall do you think that I am?" said the little boy, with a look of conscious pride.

"You? I should say about four feet, my dear."

"I am 'eight' feet high!" cried Harry, with exultation.

"Impossible!"

"I have just measured myself, mamma."

"You must have measured wrong."

"Oh I have been very careful; see, here is the mark for each foot up the door—one, two, four, six, eight."

"But what is your standard measure, Harry?" said his mother with a smile.

"This pretty little ruler, 'that I made for myself,'" cried the child, exhibiting his pasteboard measure, neatly marked with divisions for the inches, "but only half the proper length!" "You see, dear mamma, that I am taller than the giant!"

"Foolish child!" you say, and I should say so too, did I not fear that half the world act exactly as he did. We are all too apt to make our standard measures for ourselves, laying aside "the only true one," which we find in the Bible; and thus we often deem ourselves sensible and good, when our wisdom is folly, our actions full of sin.

The Bible tells us that "holiness" is absolutely necessary. "There is no need to be so very particular," cries the world. The Bible declares that we shall be judged for "every idle word." "My words are my own!" says the trifler.

It is clear that there are "two standard measures" before us: one short and easy, the other long and trying; one that makes us seem like giants, the other like dwarfs. Thus we are too ready to choose the standard "of our own making," and wilfully to deceive our own hearts. But oh! Let us ask ourselves one solemn question—"By which standard shall we be measured at the last day?"