Part 1

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THE PANSY

EDITED BY "PANSY" MRS. G. R. ALDEN.

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Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO., and entered at the Boston P. O. as second-class matter.

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=D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY, Publishers, Franklin and Hawley Sts., Boston.=

_Volume 13, Number 31._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO. _June 5, 1886._

THE PANSY.

SIX O'CLOCK IN THE EVENING.

LORD, EVERMORE GIVE US THIS BREAD.

THOU ART THE CHRIST, THE SON OF THE LIVING GOD.

YOUR FATHER ABRAHAM REJOICED TO SEE MY DAY: AND HE SAW IT AND WAS GLAD.

"WHY, you've found another verse about bread!" said Grandma, then her eyes grew thoughtful.

"Association is a queer thing, children; association of ideas, I mean." (Some people might think that Grandma Burton used large words in talking to her grandchildren; but the fact was, she did not try very hard to make her words little. Not that she selected long ones; her language was always simple; but words which they would be likely to hear among cultured people, or to see in their books, she aimed to use in talking with them. If they did not understand a word, they were always at liberty to ask its meaning. The consequence was, they were quite intelligent children, and the phrase, "association of ideas," did not trouble the older ones in the least. As for little Sarah she did not bother her brains about it, yet awhile.)

"Now you wouldn't suppose," continued Grandma, "that there was anything in that verse to make me think of a large, old-fashioned farm-house kitchen, with a wooden bowl on the table, and a wooden spoon hanging over it, and old-fashioned dishes arranged on the shelf above it, and a woman in a straight dress, and neck handkerchief, bending over the bread-bowl, and a little girl with a high-necked apron on, standing before an old-fashioned churn, moving the dasher up and down, yet I see all those things as plainly as though it was yesterday morning, instead of sixty odd years ago."

"What makes it, Grandma? What happened?" And Marion settled little Sarah more comfortably on the hassock, and straightened herself, ready to listen.

"Why, it is this association of ideas I was speaking of; my memory of that verse about bread is mixed in with all those scenes. I was the little girl moving the dasher. You see it was this way:

"Mother was very sick that spring, and father had to take her to the city to be under the care of a great doctor, and he had to stay with her; so we children were scattered. I went to spend a week with aunt Pat Worcester."

"What a horrid name for a woman!" said Rollo.

"Oh! it was a nice name. _Patriot_, the whole name was, but almost everybody called her aunt Pat. She was a splendid woman. People all respected her. She was my father's aunt and he had lived with her a good deal when he was a boy and loved her very much; he liked to have me stay with her. That winter, or spring, it was, she had a nephew living with her; a great red-headed boy named Jeremiah, only we always said Jerry. I didn't like him very well. He was a smart, bright boy, and might have been pleasant, only he was always teasing children younger than himself, telling them things which were not true, threatening to drown them, you know, or bury them alive, or something of that sort; things that he had no more notion of doing than he had of flying; but they were too young to know it, poor things, and he had that kind of evil nature which seemed to be pleased with making others uncomfortable. He didn't trouble me much, because I kept close to aunt Pat; but once in awhile he would wink his great eyes at me, and tell me he was going to swallow me, some day, when aunt Pat wasn't looking."

Grandma's children all laughed at this, and Marion questioned: "Why, Grandma, you surely didn't believe _that_, did you?"

"No, child; not exactly, of course; and yet I couldn't help feeling kind of creepy all over, when I was in danger of being left alone with him, and I thought of his great mouth. It is my opinion that little folks suffer from these things more than older ones have any idea. I should despise a boy who would descend to so mean a trick as trying to tease one younger than himself."

Harold looked out of the window, steadily, his cheeks a trifle red. The question was, did Grandma know, or did she _not_ know, that he told little Bobby White the other day he was going to tie him to the top of the great big flag staff at the corner, and leave him swinging there for a flag, because his dress was red, and his collar was white, and his eyes were blue. But Grandma didn't look at Harold.

"Aunt Pat was moulding bread in the great wooden bowl, and I was moving the dasher up and down very slowly, and watching her all the while. I wanted to learn how to make bread, and I asked a great many questions; but, after all, the thought most in my mind, and which I said nothing about, after a fashion which children often have, was this very story about Jesus feeding the five thousand people with five loaves of bread. Only the day before, which had been Sunday, aunt Pat had read this whole story to Jerry and me, and talked it over. She was an excellent hand to tell Bible stories, she made them seem so real. She explained the size of the loaves, and all about it. When I saw the great big ones she was moulding, I thought they would have fed a great many more than the little lad's; and from that I went on, thinking out the story, and the way those people followed Jesus the next day, and asked for the bread which would keep them from getting hungry again, without understanding at all what they were asking for. Aunt Pat said they prayed just as plenty of people did nowadays; asked great big things without thinking of them, or wanting them very much. Just then Jerry came in, blowing his fingers, and pretending to be very cold; it _was_ a rather sharp spring morning, and he had been out at the woodpile. He said he wasn't so cold, though, as he was hungry. Aunt Pat laughed, and said she wondered if there was ever a boy made wasn't hungry all the time; then she looked at the clock, and found it was about the time when she always gave Jerry a lunch; for he had been up and at work since five in the morning. Oh! he had his breakfast, of course, a little after five, but aunt Pat always gave him a piece in the middle of the forenoon. By this time she had her loaves all nicely moulded, and she went to the closet and cut him a thick slice of the most excellent bread, and spread it with butter that smelled like June roses. Jerry took great bites of it with a satisfied air, smacking his lips to show how good it was; it must have brought some thought of the very story I was thinking about, for suddenly he spoke out: 'Evermore give us this bread! I say so too!' Then aunt Pat's eyes flashed. 'Jeremiah,' she said, and her voice was very stern, 'you are named after too good a man to be guilty of making fun of Scripture in any such way. Repeating a prayer, too, and not meaning it any more than the heathen do, when they mumble words to their little stone gods. I'm ashamed of you!'

"Jerry looked a little abashed, and muttered that he didn't mean any harm; but I remember to this day, just how wrought up aunt Patriot was about it; she told Jerry that boys who commenced by turning sacred words to fit their own notions, often ended by being profane, wicked men. And that's just the way Jeremiah Carter ended. I haven't thought of him for many a day. But he grew up to be a bad man."

"After all," said Rollo, after a few moments of silence, "you don't think, Grandma, that quoting that Bible verse made a bad man of him?"

"N-o," said Grandma, speaking slowly, giving her head a little doubtful shake the while, "I wouldn't like to say that. Boys do trifle with serious words, sometimes, and get over it, and make good men. I should be sorry _enough_ if I thought they didn't. But then, Jeremiah Carter was exactly that kind of a boy. He had no reverence for the Bible, nor for words of prayer; he was tempted to make fun of everything; and he got so used to it, that after awhile, nothing of that kind shocked him; he became one of these men who pretend not to believe the Bible; and sometimes I have thought that if he had not learned to make light of it when he was a boy, it would not have come so handy when he grew up. Anyhow it always makes me think of Jeremiah Carter when I hear anybody doing it; and he isn't a pleasant body to think of, I can tell you. He died a good many years ago, and they said his last word was a profane one."

The grandchildren made no other comments, and Rollo presently began to whistle. He knew one thing; and that was, it was a great temptation to him to quote a Bible verse now and then, for his own use. Not anything so wicked as Jeremiah did, but in a way that his grandmother, he knew, would call "light and trifling." He wasn't sure whether anybody else had noticed this habit and he made up his mind while he whistled, that they should never again have a chance to notice it in him.

PANSY.

THOMAS AND CLARA.

THAT boy and girl in the picture were real persons. They were Thomas and Clara; were born in a certain town in Steuben County, N. Y., ten years apart--though they seem to be almost of the same age--and always knew each other.

Clara was a very thoughtful girl, and anxious to know all about everything--often trying to do things beyond her power. She was also fond of her needle, and at an early age could use it with remarkable skill and rapidity.

You need not be surprised to learn that her father used tobacco. Most men do. They begin in boyhood. Many boys think it fine to be men, and that one of the quickest ways to be men is to smoke or chew. So they become deathly sick learning to use tobacco. It is strange. It costs a great sum of money in one's life--enough to buy a home. It makes the breath offensive. It is a very filthy habit and selfish as it is filthy, for though the tobacco user is a great nuisance to many people, especially to ladies, yet he does not seem to care how much others dislike his smoke or breath. He goes right on puffing his cigar or nasty old pipe-fumes into the nostrils and eyes of all who come near.

Now Clara's father was no exception. Sometimes he would come into the kitchen or dining-room--the parlor even--and fill the air with tobacco odor.

Clara's mother would get out of patience at times and say it was a nasty habit and that men had no more right to smoke and chew than women.

And she was right!

Clara loved her father. In her eyes no man was quite as grand as he except the minister. But on this tobacco question she took strong grounds with her mother, her pastor and Sabbath-school teacher, who all thought the same way.

Hearing her mother express her mind so often against this "filthy weed" she learned the many arguments against its use and resolved that she would do everything in her power to prevent her friends from raising or having anything to do with it.

One thing she knew--she never, no, _never_ would marry a man who used tobacco.

Thomas was so much older than herself she was afraid to speak to him as her heart often moved her, about certain habits she feared he was learning.

So the years went by. The great war of the Rebellion came on. Young boys were joining the army. Word came that Thomas had enlisted and with many other young persons was on his way to the front where men of the North and South were shooting each other down by the thousand.

Those were awful days. Not so much because many died on the battlefield and suffered in loathsome prisons, but because of the bad habits many of the young soldiers acquired by being among wicked associates.

Thomas passed through some dreadful experiences. He does not like to speak of them now, telling them only when he is urged.

He was in battle after battle and saw many of his comrades shot down by his side. He was also in prison.

But the war came to an end. He returned and brought with him many things, among them a great love for tobacco.

You need not wonder. Nearly all the soldiers loved tobacco; the majority, I fear, played cards and drank whiskey, and took God's name in vain.

Thomas escaped everything except tobacco, although he had seen so much of the other things.

As the soldiers were brave for their country, so many at home became bold for Jesus. Clara came out on the Lord's side, though many of her mates laughed at her for it.

But she stood firm and when she had a good chance she spoke true words for her Master.

Between her home and another near by was a telephone. Her cousin and Thomas would converse over it. Sometimes Clara would "try her hand" at talking over the wire. This, however, Thomas did not know. He supposed Clara's cousin, Halsey, was always at the other end of the telephone, answering or asking questions.

One day as the conversation was going on, Thomas said:

"Well, I must stop now and take a smoke."

"Don't do it," came a quick response. It was from Clara, but Thomas did not know it.

"Why not?" inquired Thomas.

"It is nasty," flashed back the quick answer.

"When may I smoke?" came another question.

"Not till I give you permission," Clara replied.

These were her last words through the telephone to Thomas. She never gave him permission, as she died soon after.

Thomas never used tobacco after that. I heard him tell the story in the meeting Clara used to attend.

L.

POEM FOR RECITATION.

ONLY A HEART'S-EASE.

Sought the king his garden When the air was ringing With the joyous music That the birds were singing. When the sun threw westward Long bright beams of gold, And the dew was sparkling On the wold.

Found his plants all drooping Sullenly and sadly; Buds and blossoms hung their heads, Born to bloom so gladly. When the king demanded Why in sorrow bent, There was but one answer-- Discontent.

For the graceful willow By the fountain weeping, And the lovely jasmine, All her perfume keeping, Answered when he questioned-- Each with envy spoke-- "Ah, because I cannot Be an oak."

E'en the elm-tree answered, Sadly and complaining, "Ah, because I am not Bloom and fruitage gaining." And the vine, down drooping, Lamentation made Just because it could not Cast a shade.

Rose would be a dahlia, Ferns the flowers would copy, Daisy grow a sunflower, Heliotrope, a poppy. Only little Heart's-ease Looked all glad and bright, And the king said, wond'ring At the sight,

"Wherefore, little Heart's-ease, Art _thou_ not repining?" And the Heart's-ease answered, All her gold heart shining, "Why, when me you planted 'Mong your garden store, You wanted just a heart's-ease, Nothing more."

Do you know the lesson That the fable's giving? 'Tis the very secret Of all happy living. In whatever station God for you deems best, Yours to grow and brighten, His the rest. M. R. P.

"ONLY A CHILD'S PRATTLE."

IT was one of those summer mornings when the earth seems all aglow with sunshine. The Granger House faced the east, and the doors and windows were opened to let in the light and brightness of the morning. It was a handsome house, somewhat old-fashioned, but handsome still and elegantly furnished. It should have been a happy home, but there was a shadow resting upon it; as yet it was not a deep, dark shadow, indeed it was scarcely perceptible to any save to one troubled heart. Mr. Granger did not see it, he did not know that a horrible fear was sometimes clutching at the heart of his almost idolized wife. He did not suspect his own peril and did not see as she did, the demon lurking in those bottles and decanters on the sideboard.

That morning, little Alice, the one petted darling of the house, was playing upon the lawn, with no other companion than her favorite doll, almost as large as Alice herself.

She had wandered about the grounds, the mother watching the golden head and thinking that sunshine itself was not brighter, until suddenly the child's attention was attracted by what was to her an altogether new sight. A young man was passing. Just in front of the house he staggered and would have fallen had it not been for the assistance of a companion a little less helpless than himself. I need not describe the scene. Unfortunately, to the most of us it is not an unusual sight. We have seen too often the unsteady and uncertain step of a drunkard, we have too often heard the silly laughter and listened to the imbecile chatter of those who have drowned their manhood in a glass of liquor.

But to Alice Granger, a child of five years, it was a new and strange sight and one which she could not comprehend. Her doll lay unheeded upon the ground while with an earnest, curious expression upon her face she watched the two travellers out of sight. Then she ran to the house.

"Mamma," she said, "there were two funny-acting men went past just now. They went on both sides of the street and did not act as if they knew how to walk. They were just as silly as could be."

"Yes, dear; I saw them."

"Mamma, what made them act so?" inquired the child.

Mrs. Granger was inclined to evade the question. She was sorry that her darling had witnessed the disgusting spectacle. She would have spared her the knowledge of this form of sin awhile longer, but it could not now be helped, and as Alice persisted she said at length,

"My dear child, those young men had been drinking too much wine."

"Too much wine! But, mamma, wine does not make folks act like that!"