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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2011 with funding from 
 The Library of Congress 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/selectedverseproOObick 
 

SELECTED 
 VERSE and PROSE 
 
 By 
 
 Hannah M. Bickley 
 
 Edited by 
 
 M. Grace Houseman 
 
 Philadelphia 
 1917 
 

 Copyright 1917 
 
 by 
 
 M. Grace Houseman 
 
 / 
 
 APR 10 1917 
 
 GI.A460248 
 
Contents 
 
 Portrait Frontispiece 
 
 Memoir — M. Grace Houseman .... 5 
 
 Verse 
 
 Un forgotten IS 
 
 The Yesterdays 17 
 
 The Old Year 19 
 
 A Beautiful Hand 21 
 
 My Country Home 22 
 
 The New Preacher 24 
 
 I'd Give, If I Had More 27 
 
 The Message of the Shadows .... 30 
 
 To Rev. George Bickley Houseman . . 32 
 
 In Memory of John C. Burns, M. D. . . 34 
 
 Beyond 36 
 
 Hymn, Church of Our Savior . . . . 37 
 
 Hymn for Mother's Day 38 
 
 Mother's Day Hymn 39 
 
Contents — Prose 
 
 Autobiography of a Cane 43 
 
 Autobiography of an Old Bible 49 
 
 Our Paper 64 
 
 A Stone's Story 66 
 
 Story of a Collection Basket .... 70 
 
 Retirement of Mr. Wm. Rodgers ... 73 
 
 Twelve Visitors 
 
 Thanksgiving 82 
 
 Birthdays 86 
 
 Vacation 89 
 
 A Costly Sacrifice 91 
 
 Father Time's Visit 94 
 
 An Appreciation of Lettie Hackman Ban ton 97 
 
 Life's Day 100 
 
MEMOIR 
 
 THE deepest and most sacred experi- 
 ences of life are those we silently 
 treasure in our hearts. Thus it is when 
 Death takes one of our very own. In 
 the ensuing darkness and silence, who 
 can voice the sense of loss, or do aught 
 with the overwhelming rush of precious 
 memories but to lock them forever in 
 the heart? 
 
 So I feel at this moment, as I sit in the 
 vacant room of my loved one. A thous- 
 and memories of the past, when "the 
 day was no longer than her kindness, ,! 
 come crowding in upon me, but my pen 
 is powerless to give them expression. 
 Yet, if Maeterlinck said truly that "the 
 dead are never dead until they are for- 
 gotten" then my dear Aunt will live 
 long in the hearts of her many friends 
 and loved ones; and, believing that to 
 them this little volume will be welcome, 
 I shall here attempt to outline the facts 
 of her life, and to add, as best I may, my 
 tribute of affection. 
 
Hannah M. Bickley was a daughter of 
 the late Rev. George and Mary Williams 
 Bickley, and was the ninth of a family 
 of eleven children, only two of whom 
 are now living. Born at Crescentville, 
 Philadelphia, her childhood was spent 
 here and at Montgomery Square (her 
 " country home," shown in illustration 
 facing page 22) . As a child she delighted 
 in composing verses, and even in her im- 
 mature school exercises gave promise of 
 literary talent. From her mother's Welsh 
 ancestry, she probably inherited her love 
 of poetry and her retiring, sensitive dis- 
 position. 
 
 Her early education was received in 
 the country schools, and here, as else- 
 where, her keen intellect usually won for 
 her a place at the head of her classes. 
 After her parents had removed to Frank- 
 ford, she completed a course at Peirce 
 Business College. For some time she was 
 a successful teacher in the schools of Dela- 
 ware and Montgomery Counties, but after 
 her mother's death she resigned her posi- 
 tion as teacher to assume new duties, and 
 with ease and grace she presided over her 
 
father's home while he lived. In his 
 loneliness he was cheered by her loving 
 solicitude for his comfort, and her artistic 
 touches made the home attractive. 
 
 Always a student, household duties 
 did not occupy her time to the exclusion 
 of her literary pursuits, and she was one 
 of the honor graduates of the Pioneer 
 Class of Chautauqua. In 1881 her short 
 story, "Ernestine West," was published. 
 For a number of years she was principal 
 of the Bookkeeping Department of Beth- 
 any College. Always actively identified 
 with the work of the church, for more 
 than thirty years she was an earnest and 
 successful teacher in the Sunday school 
 of Central M. E. Church, Frankford, of 
 which her father was one of the founders. 
 An enthusiastic worker in the Woman's 
 Foreign Missionary Society, for some 
 years she filled most capably the office of 
 District Secretary. She was interested 
 in the Auxiliary Society of her home 
 church from its inception, and it was 
 through her efforts that the Mission 
 Band was organized. 
 
 The underlying motive which impelled 
 
her to literary work was the hope that 
 she might write something that should 
 leave a lasting impress for good, and 
 lead others to love the Master whom she 
 served. In making the selection for this 
 little book, it has been somewhat dif- 
 ficult to know what she would have 
 deemed worthy of publication. She 
 was extremely modest about having 
 any claim to literary merit, and I 
 have been guided solely by what I 
 think would have been her wish in this 
 matter. 
 
 From among the many hymns she 
 wrote, I have chosen three of the most 
 recent, two of these having been written 
 at the request of her nephew, Dr. G. 
 Bickley Burns, for Calvary M. E. Church, 
 and sung by the congregation on Mother's 
 Day. The "Autobiography of an Old 
 Bible" and 'The New Preacher," written 
 long ago, have been recopied several times 
 in religious periodicals. Many of the 
 prose articles were written for the paper 
 of her home church, "The Central Rec- 
 ord." Two of her poems, "Where are 
 the Yesterdays" and "Beyond," at the 
 
suggestion of her pastor, Dr. C. E. 
 Adamson, were read by him at her 
 funeral services. 
 
 During the last eighteen months of her 
 life, she was in a semi-invalid condition, 
 at times suffering intensely. In the early 
 part of her illness, she was greatly cheered 
 by the visits of her brother, the late Rev. 
 C. W. Bickley. The close bond of mutual 
 affection which had existed between them 
 since childhood was severed only by his 
 death in October, 1915, and but nine 
 months later she, too, heard the "one 
 clear call," and "crossed the bar." 
 
 These meagre facts leave so much 
 unsaid, but heart-throbs, not words, 
 must tell the story. Those for whom this 
 little book is intended must read between 
 the lines, as they recall the purity of her 
 life, her beautiful Christian character, 
 and the sincerity of her friendships. 
 Unswerving in loyalty to her kindred, 
 how untiring was her devotion to those 
 she loved! Never forgetting a favor be- 
 stowed upon herself, how ready she was 
 at all times to bestow kindness on others! 
 There was a depth of tenderness in her 
 
nature for the wretched, the poor and 
 the unfortunate. 
 
 "The human heart paints and cherishes 
 its own pictures of its loved ones. These 
 are not the pictures the world sees. They 
 are richer, truer, more tender." She was 
 so like a mother to me that words fail 
 utterly to tell of the numberless, quiet, 
 self-sacrificing ways in which she ex- 
 pressed to me the love of her heart. 
 
 Death may rob us of our dear ones, but 
 love lives on, for surely "the outreach of 
 the heart/ ' the yearning to meet again, 
 are but proofs of its immortality. We of 
 the home circle will sorely miss her coun- 
 sel, her wealth of disinterested love, and 
 "heart at leisure from itself to soothe and 
 sympathize/ ' They are our common 
 treasure of memory, to brighten our path- 
 way and to inspire us with the hope that 
 some day, through God's dear love, we 
 shall meet again in the Homeland. 
 
 "I cannot think of them as dead, 
 Who walk with me no more ; 
 Along the path of life I tread, 
 They have but gone before. 
 
 10 
 
The Father's House is mansioned fair 
 
 Beyond my vision dim ; 
 All souls are His, and here or there 
 
 Are living unto Him. 
 
 And still their silent ministry 
 Within my heart hath place, 
 
 As when on earth they walked with me 
 And met me face to face. 
 
 Their lives are made forever mine ; 
 
 What they to me have been 
 Hath left henceforth its seal and sign 
 
 Engraven deep within. 
 
 Mine are they by an ownership 
 Nor Time nor Death can free ; 
 
 For God hath given to Love to keep 
 Its own eternally. " 
 
 M. Grace Houseman. 
 
 11 
 
Verse 
 
 13 
 
Unforgotten 
 
 At Easter-time when south winds blow, 
 And life with beauty blends, 
 
 My heart awakes, and thrills anew 
 With love for old-time friends. 
 
 15 
 
The Yesterdays 
 
 Where are the yesterdays? gone, gone forever! 
 
 Freighted with gladness, with sorrow and sin; 
 And if we could, we would not live them over, 
 
 So marred by error the brightest have been. 
 
 Back in the yesterdays, there have been 
 
 partings — 
 
 Partings that made our hearts quiver and 
 
 bleed ; 
 
 But Gilead's balm has eased the cruel smarting, 
 
 And grace has abounded to cover our need. 
 
 Ah ! in the yesterdays, there have been shadows — 
 
 Shadows which hung o'er our way like a pall; 
 
 But Faith struggled on through the pain and 
 
 the darkness, 
 
 And Christ was our helper, our light and 
 
 our all. 
 
 Memory whispers of deeds all unholy, 
 
 Of thoughts, vile and dark, that have 
 shadowed the heart, 
 
 The Spirit's kind wooings we've rashly resisted, 
 Yet, wondrous mercy — He did not depart! 
 
 17 
 
The Yesterdays, too, had their measure of 
 gladness; 
 The light was made brighter because of the 
 shade ; 
 The love of our Father-God crowned all the 
 journey; 
 Smooth, by His hand, the rough places were 
 made. 
 
 Under the cross we would put the mixed record ; 
 
 Washed in the blood, gracious Lord, may it be ; 
 And grant that today and our coming tomorrows 
 
 Be better and purer, devoted to Thee. 
 
 18 
 
The Old Year 
 
 Twelve months ago, from God, 
 
 In unstained purity, 
 Began the year which now has gone 
 
 Back to eternity. 
 Oh, precious solemn loan! 
 
 By the great Father lent — 
 A year of opportunities, 
 
 With treasures all unspent. 
 
 Filled with — we knew not what, 
 
 Its sorrows or its cheer — 
 What victories or weak defeats 
 
 Should fill the coming year. 
 'Tis registered in Heaven, 
 
 What record does it bear? 
 Its thoughts and words and deeds will all 
 
 One day confront us there. 
 
 Its new-made graves we mourn, 
 
 Yet Faith our doubting stills ; 
 We'll not forget; but help us, Lord, 
 
 To feel that Mercy wills. 
 Gather the trailing love 
 
 By earth's rude tempests riven, 
 Train it around Thine own dear cross 
 
 That it may bloom in Heaven. 
 
 19 
 
We claim Thee for our guide ; 
 
 Led by Thy blood-stained hand, 
 Love makes the rugged way grow smooth, 
 
 Bloom fills the desert land. 
 Just at this new year's dawn, 
 
 O God, Thy Spirit give, 
 For in the coming years, we would 
 
 Unto Thy glory live. 
 
 When our last year is spent, 
 
 And from that land unknown 
 Our summons comes to leave this world, 
 
 To stand before God's throne, — 
 Laden with ripened sheaves, 
 
 May our glad spirits rise, 
 And know, with Christ's crowned workers 
 there, 
 
 "Who winneth souls is wise." 
 
 20 
 
A Beautiful Hand 
 
 Is it a hand all soft and fair, 
 
 That ne'er goes gloveless in the air? 
 
 With tapering fingers, decked with rings, 
 
 Too frail to touch life's common things? 
 
 Too fair to make a loaf of bread, 
 
 Or soothe a sufferer's aching head? 
 
 Too small to do its share of good, 
 
 Or earn an honest livelihood? 
 
 That shrinks, as from the direst doom, 
 
 From dish-cloth, scrubbing-brush or broom? 
 
 If such, a pretty hand must be, 
 
 Why, then, a plainer one for me! 
 
 Although quite brown it may be found, 
 Or scarred may grow in duty's round, 
 The useful hand, where'er it be, 
 Is very beautiful to me : 
 The hand that weeping widows press ; 
 The hand that sobbing orphans bless ; 
 The hand that strives with all its might 
 To crush the wrong — to aid the right; 
 That points the erring to the skies, 
 Moved to each act by the All-Wise, 
 Who treasures in His heaven above 
 Each sacrifice and deed of love. 
 
 21 
 
My Country Home 
 
 My dear country home, of my childhood a part, 
 Thy mem'ries are fondly enshrined in my heart! 
 I love the tall trees with their wide-spreading 
 
 boughs, 
 The old-fashioned barn with its plentiful mows. 
 
 The meadow, the spring-house, the strawberry 
 
 bed, 
 The orchard where apples hung luscious and red, 
 The long, shady lane and the cool, mossy brook, 
 The violets hid in some dark, sheltered nook, 
 
 The hill near the schoolhouse where quickly 
 
 we sped 
 On cold winter days, armed with coaster and sled. 
 When lessons were ended, what laughter and fun ! 
 We scarcely could wait till our school-tasks were 
 
 done! 
 
 Ah! yes, I have left thee, my dear country 
 
 home, — 
 The years bear me onward, but though I should 
 
 roam 
 Amid lawns and gardens embellished by art, 
 They cannot obliterate thee from my heart. 
 
 22 
 
"My dear country home, of my childhood a part, 
 Thy memories are fondly enshrined in my heart!" 
 
My dear cou -i my child 
 
 mdly enshrined in 
 I love the tall 
 boughs, 
 
 Th' 
 
 Thf 
 
 Tlv urdwhei 
 
 The brook, 
 
 The I nook, 
 
 iped 
 
 Amid lawr 
 
 

Though others may think them surpassingly 
 
 fair, 
 To me, with thy rude scenes they cannot 
 
 compare ; 
 A feeling of sadness steals over my soul — 
 A flood of home-sickness I cannot control. 
 
 For memory pictures the home scenes within, 
 The true, loyal hearts that were nearest of kin, — 
 My father, who seemed like a king in his might, 
 So strong to protect us, so firm for the right, 
 
 And mother! dear mother, so gentle and sweet, 
 Her life with devotion and service replete! 
 We children, so care-free, who played round 
 
 that hearth, 
 Look back to those days as the brightest on 
 
 earth. 
 
 23 
 
The New Preacher 
 
 At a pleasant country station, 
 Full of eager expectation, 
 Sat a waiting congregation 
 At church one Sabbath morn. 
 
 The sun poured in a flood of light, 
 Which fell on heads by time made white ; 
 On sunny curls and faces bright, 
 That lovely Sabbath morn. 
 
 There sat the young and beautiful, 
 There sat the good and dutiful, 
 The aged and the sorrowful, 
 That Christian Sabbath morn. 
 
 There for the first, with form and 
 
 feature 
 Resembling much a fellow creature, 
 Within the pulpit their new preacher 
 Appeared that Sabbath morn. 
 
 / 1 \VA He spoke with freedom, zeal and 
 ^i U* power; 
 
 To him it was a blissful hour; 
 Twelve — tolled the bell in the 
 old tower 
 That did the church adorn. 
 
 24 
 
Some lingered at the close of meeting, 
 To give the brethren friendly greeting ; 
 I've not the power of repeating 
 All that was said that morn. 
 
 For butcher, baker, lawyer, teacher — 
 People of every trade and feature, 
 All criticised the humble preacher, 
 Whom they had heard that morn. 
 
 The lawyer said: " He'll not suit me — 
 No flowery strains, no fluency, 
 No logic nor philosophy, 
 His sermon did adorn." 
 
 The farmer said : " He is too mild ; 
 He seems as gentle as a child ; 
 The Bishop surely must be wild 
 To send us such a man!" 
 
 An old man said: "He spoke too low — 
 My hearing is not good, you know; 
 Besides, he read too much, and so 
 I cannot like the man." 
 
 A sister said: "He is too tall, 
 His hands too large — his eyes too small, 
 I do not like his looks at all ; 
 They sent us the wrong man. 
 
 25 
 
"And then his wife, depend upon it, 
 She'll not suit here with that gay bonnet; 
 I'm sure she had a flower on it, 
 And she our preacher's wife!" 
 
 Another pious soul sincere, 
 Who gave full fifty cents a year, 
 Said to his consort fair: "My dear, 
 I never in my life 
 
 "Did go to church to criticise, 
 But this vain man" (he wiped his eyes, 
 And paused to give vent to his sighs,) 
 "I never will support.' ' 
 
 But there were some both wise and good, 
 A blessing to the neighborhood, 
 Who spoke as good -folk always should, 
 With Christian charity. 
 
 Oh ! could the wind have overheard 
 Each idle, criticising word, 
 "The servant's not above his Lord — " 
 It must have sadly moaned. 
 
 Useless attempt to please mankind ! 
 Fault-finders you will always find, 
 Though all the virtues be combined 
 In any great divine. 
 
 26 
 
I'd Give If I Had More 
 
 The heavy hand of poverty, 
 Upon my heart weighs heavily ; 
 'Twould be the greatest joy to me 
 To give, if I had more. 
 
 At my complaints, some people scoff; 
 ('Tis true, this year, I'm better off,) 
 But I am troubled with a cough 
 And ought to lay up store. 
 
 Fate has been pretty good to me — 
 This week my uncle died in B., 
 He left me quite a legacy — 
 I need the money sore. 
 
 A pale-faced widow called today 
 For help, — her rent she could not pay; 
 It pained me so to turn away — 
 Fd give, if I had more. 
 
 My house is plain — the walls are bare — 
 I want a picture here and there — 
 I should have these — it is but fair, 
 And then I'll help the poor. 
 
 The child of my departed friend 
 Asks alms — my liberal heart 'twill rend ! 
 I'm building, so, of course, must send 
 The poor child from my door. 
 
 27 
 
I heard a sermon yesternight — 
 The subject was the widow's mite; 
 I liked it well, it was just right — 
 'Twould suit some three or four. 
 
 A worthy widow that I know, 
 (Improvident a trifle, though,) 
 If taxes ever should get low 
 I'd help, for Fd have more. 
 
 Bank-stocks are up, I understand — 
 My agent made some on my land, 
 And higher rents I shall demand 
 To swell my scanty store. 
 
 Yes, Providence is good to me! 
 A faithful steward I will be ; 
 The world shall see my charity, 
 When I've a little more. 
 
 That pale-faced widow's dead, O dear! 
 Ah ! many a charitable tear 
 Fell in my kerchief, as the bier 
 Was carried past my door. 
 
 A thin-clad orphan, sobbing low, 
 Followed the corpse — O world of woe ! 
 Fd give that child a home, I know, 
 If Fd a little more. 
 
 28 
 
The world says I'm a millionaire; 
 They ask assistance everywhere 
 
 Dear me! I've nothing more to spare 
 Now, than I had before. 
 
 It costs so much to live in style, 
 That I am stinted all the while, 
 (Though some incredulously smile,) 
 I'd give, if I had more. 
 
 If I am always bothered so, 
 Ere to my grave I'm called to go, 
 I'll make a will that all may know 
 How much I love the poor ! 
 
 Fair Charity her wings did fold 
 And wept his folly to behold — 
 Amidst his stores of ill-used gold 
 The poor intestate died. 
 
 29 
 
The Message of the Shadows 
 
 The lengthening shadows crept stealthily down, 
 And flung their dark mantle o'er city and town, 
 Till work-a-day folk — their daily tasks o'er, 
 Went hurrying homeward from office and store. 
 
 Through alley and street as they eagerly sped, 
 The pavements re-echoed their myriad tread — 
 The graceful, the awkward, the short and the tall ; 
 The deepening twilight enfolded them all. 
 
 The coming of darkness far over the hill 
 Soon silenced the whirr of the great, busy mill; 
 It brought to the toilers a gladsome release, 
 And brooded o'er all with its message of peace. 
 
 O'er the fields gently waving with tall, tasselled 
 
 grain; 
 And where cattle were browsing on hillside and 
 
 plain, 
 Until through the bars they were eager to come, 
 While harvesters merrily whistled of home. 
 
 At the schoolhouse the shadows crept in through 
 
 the door, 
 While the children's glad eyes watched them 
 
 stretch o'er the floor; 
 And the teacher saw, too, for to tired nerve and 
 
 brain 
 The cool, restful shadows were welcome again. 
 
 30 
 
And so with us all, when our life's day is o'er, 
 When death's darker shadow shall fall at our 
 
 door, 
 May we, unafraid, greet the summons to come, 
 And welcome the shadows that beckon us Home ! 
 
 31 
 
Lines Written to 
 Rev. George Bickley Houseman on his 
 Birthday, when in Scottsdale, Arizona, 
 
 December, 1899. 
 
 Far over the hills on the prairies 
 
 Stands a cottage, wide-spreading but low, 
 
 Where the orange- trees nod at the windows, 
 And ever the summer winds blow. 
 
 There lingers my nephew beloved, — 
 
 A king at the door of his tent, 
 With a heart that is broad as the ocean, 
 
 And a will that on goodness is bent. 
 
 The same moon that beams on our village 
 Keeps watch o'er that far-distant cot, 
 
 While the teasing stars wink at the distance 
 That keeps us so far from the spot. 
 
 west winds, our sad hearts go with thee! 
 They wander away and away — 
 
 They follow the sun in his journey, 
 
 For he shines on our loved one each day. 
 
 Now old Father Time, ever busy, 
 That up-building, down-tearing sage, 
 
 1 believe, on the tenth of December, 
 
 Has tampered again with your age. 
 
 32 
 
Rev. George Bicklev Houseman 
 
R 
 
 Birthday, when 
 
 Decern] 
 
 i 
 
 
 U^YUVoW ^Kfcftft $t$85 ^M 
 
I've been reading a sweet little poem 
 That mentions some great ones of earth 
 
 Whose wealth could not purchase affection, — 
 True love is of such priceless worth. 
 
 Many kings whose crowns glittered with jewels, 
 Whose coffers were swollen with gold, 
 
 While false courtiers fawningly served them, 
 Have found the world empty and cold. 
 
 And they've envied the honest man's portion, — 
 
 A purpose in life true and high, 
 And a heart brimming o'er with love's bounty, 
 
 Too noble for money to buy. 
 
 Though fate with rough hand from your 
 pathway 
 
 May things highly valued withhold, 
 You are rich both on earth and in Heaven 
 
 In treasure not purchased with gold. 
 
 Not vainly you've wrought in life's struggle; 
 
 Despite its disaster and tears, 
 You've garnered a plentiful harvest 
 
 Of love in these twenty-eight years ! 
 
 33 
 
In Memory of John C. Burns, M. D, 
 
 Who Died on Tuesday, March 22, 
 1887, in His Twenty-fourth Year 
 
 Farewell, beloved one, farewell! 
 Eternity alone can tell 
 Why one so pure, so fond yet brave 
 Should go, so early, to the grave. 
 
 We listen for thy welcome call, 
 Thy manly step along the hall ; 
 We grieve to see thy empty chair- 
 Darling, we miss thee everywhere! 
 
 We go into thy vacant room 
 With aching hearts, and look with gloom 
 Upon the work thy hands have wrought, 
 In years of careful toil and thought. 
 
 From childhood's hours to manhood's days, 
 We watched with pride thy noble ways — 
 Thy character so true and rare, 
 Fulfillment of a mother's prayer. 
 
 We're glad that in the heavenly land 
 There are no wrecks upon the strand — 
 No broken hearts — like ours tonight, 
 In that blest home of joy and light. 
 
 34 
 
O, Lord! 'neath thy afflicting hand 
 
 We bow, nor can we understand ; 
 
 Let not our faith trail in the dust — 
 
 For, though Thou slayest, we would trust! 
 
 35 
 
Beyond 
 
 When trials o'erwhelm us, 
 When sinking with care, 
 
 Faith whispers of light, 
 
 Help, and love waiting there, 
 
 For in that fair city, 
 
 Beyond all the strife, 
 The turmoil and sorrow 
 
 Of this blighted life, 
 
 There's waiting a welcome — 
 Heaven's gate will unclose 
 
 To earth's tired pilgrims 
 A wealth of repose. 
 
 The journey is measured ; 
 
 The soul's rest will come, 
 When the arms of the Infinite 
 
 Gather us home. 
 
 36 
 
Hymn, Church of Our Savior 
 Tune — St. Catharine 
 
 Church of our Savior ! guiding star 
 Through clouds of sin, in this dark world, 
 Thy blessed radiance gleams afar ; 
 Thy glorious banners are unfurled. 
 Church of our Savior, guiding star, 
 How wonderful thy triumphs are ! 
 
 Church of our Savior! mercy's shrine, 
 Where contrite sinners welcome find, 
 Thy holy prayers and hymns divine 
 Around our hearts are closely twined. 
 Church of our Savior, mercy's shrine, 
 What sacred ministries are thine ! 
 
 Church of our fathers ! school of grace ! 
 How many holy men of might 
 Have at thine altars seen the face 
 Of Him who is of life the Light ! 
 Church of our Savior! school of grace! 
 Fling wide thy doors to all our race ! 
 
 37 
 
Hymn for Mother's Day 
 
 Tune — St. Hilda 
 
 As childhood's cares were fleeter, 
 
 Soothed by a mother's grace, 
 And infant slumbers sweeter 
 
 Beneath her bending face, 
 So all our joys were dearer — 
 
 She charmed our griefs away; 
 Her prayers made duty clearer, 
 
 In manhood's sterner day. 
 
 She rose with us in power, 
 
 She gloried in our gain, 
 And in affliction's hour 
 
 She suffered with our pain. 
 Ah, sweet domestic charmer! 
 
 Though often did we rove, 
 About us was this armor — 
 
 Undying mother-love ! 
 
 Unshrinking friend in danger, 
 
 Sweet comforter in loss, 
 Most tender at the manger, 
 
 Most loyal at the cross ! 
 O Love, in hearts maternal 
 
 We but thy shadow see ! 
 Thy heights and depths eternal, 
 
 Behold on Calvary! 
 
 38 
 
Mother's Day Hymn 
 
 Tune — Spohr 
 
 Accept today our grateful praise, 
 
 Thou blessed Lord above, 
 For that sweet token of Thy grace, 
 
 The gift of mother-love ; 
 For that dear friend, whose tender care 
 
 Encompassed all our years, 
 Whose sweet and holy cradle songs, 
 
 Allayed our infant fears. 
 
 Her hand upon our childish heads 
 
 In benedictions lay; 
 We flew for refuge to her breast 
 
 In sorrow's darkest day. 
 And still, when battling with the world, 
 
 We miss that safe retreat — 
 That never failing sympathy 
 
 In triumph and defeat. 
 
 Alas ! the best of earthly love 
 
 Is but a flick'ring fire. 
 The limits of humanity 
 
 Restrain its fond desire. 
 O, Thou who are omnipotent, 
 
 Enthroned in power above, 
 Our weakness cover with Thy strength ! 
 
 Enfold us with Thy love ! 
 
 39 
 
Prose 
 Selections 
 
 & 
 
 41 
 
J 
 
 The Autobiography of A Cane 
 
 DO not imagine I will give you my 
 whole history. These few pages 
 would not begin to hold it, and if I would, 
 from my memory have faded many events 
 of my long and varied life. Trees 
 have a broad, free existence. They 
 are full of Nature's secrets; full of 
 beauty and poetry. They tremble 
 beneath 
 
 "The ghostly shadows of the 
 night's high moon." 
 
 They laugh when daybreak says, 
 
 11 Unto the forest, ' Shout ! 
 // Hang all your leafy banners 
 
 W out/ " 
 
 The great old poet Isaiah knew 
 
 U? about them when he wrote, "The 
 
 mountains and the hills shall break 
 
 forth before you into singing, and all the 
 
 trees of the fields shall clap their hands.' ' 
 
 I am proud of my ancestry. The 
 
 Walnuts are no mean family. As trees, 
 
 we have long been loved and honored by 
 
 the great and gifted. Quayle, in "God's 
 
 Out-of-Doors M says: "A walnut tree is 
 
 43 
 
very beautiful. Its corrugations of bark, 
 dark almost to blackness, are always 
 possessed of witchery to the eye. I see 
 through the tree as if it were dusky 
 amber, the black tawniness of walnut 
 wood." No wonder that through centu- 
 ries walnut has been favored wood; for 
 who that hath eyes to see can but love it? 
 Does not Ovid refer to my grandfather as 
 "The towering tree of Jove?" By the 
 Greeks, we were dedicated to Diana, and 
 her festivals were held beneath our boughs. 
 I am a branch of a modest Pennsyl- 
 vania family. The boys and girls, young 
 men and maidens, and older people who 
 have played and rested in my shade are 
 too American to care much for birth 
 distinctions. In my rural native place 
 there were no millionaires, and our pretty, 
 happy country girls had no dreams of 
 counts and dukes. Any prince, fairy or 
 poet might have envied my birthplace. 
 The old world has no fairer scenery than 
 the green hill where I was born, just a 
 little back from the shady roadside. A 
 silvery brook washed my foundations. 
 Crossing the stream just beyond me was 
 
 44 
 
a rustic bridge, for which one of my 
 distant relatives, the Oak, gave its large, 
 strong boughs. Birds sang above me; 
 squirrels frisked about my leaves, and 
 my companions were the winds, the dew 
 and the sunshine. Summer warmth and 
 gentle rains gave me beauty. Defying 
 the cold blasts of winter gave me strength. 
 
 ''Beautiful even tho stripped and bare, 
 Are the trees that are planted everywhere ; 
 They bravely stand in the silent wood, 
 Like a patient life that is nobly good." 
 
 My budding infancy is an indistinct 
 recollection. I was always slender, and 
 grew low on the great, dark trunk. My 
 brothers and sisters looked down on me 
 for this, for I was the lowest of them all. 
 I did not mind that. I enjoyed a common 
 fellowship, and there were many things I 
 saw and heard which they, in their more 
 lofty positions, never knew. I could see 
 the sweet, upturned faces of the children 
 as they passed on their way to school; I 
 became familiar with the older boys and 
 girls; I fanned the cheek of the aged who 
 sometimes rested beneath me. I knew 
 more about the ways of life than did my 
 
 45 
 
brothers with their heads in the clouds. 
 The rustic lads of that day had a habit 
 of removing the bark and tracing initials 
 on the tree. I learned enough to fill out 
 the omitted letters. My home was a 
 trysting-place. 
 
 "O, those happy days! Those near, yet 
 far-off, days, 
 Paged with dear legends, winsome with 
 
 sweet ways, 
 When spendthrift hearts all went a 
 
 gypsying: 
 Cared naught for form or statute, laws 
 or king!" 
 
 A rosy-cheeked youth, with auburn 
 locks and brave, brown eyes, one dreamy 
 summer afternoon, cut just below me 
 with his penknife, the letters "R. W." I 
 was not long in conjecturing that name. 
 Trees are romantic, and their association 
 makes them keen to appreciate the fair 
 and lovable. I knew Rose White, or 
 ''White Rose," as Carl called her. She 
 looked like my friends. Her cheeks were 
 the color of peach blossoms ; her eyes blue 
 as the sky; her laugh like the rippling 
 of the brook — and I loved " White Rose" 
 as well as Carl. 
 
 46 
 
It would not be fair to tell all I know, so 
 I will pass on to a day when I was called 
 upon to make a great sacrifice. It was 
 Carl's birthday; he was twenty-one. He 
 came to my home with redder cheeks than 
 usual. He pulled me gently toward him, 
 passing his hand caressingly over me as 
 he whispered: "This has been our trysting 
 place, and from you I will have a cane 
 made for my wedding day." O, could I 
 have spoken, I am afraid I would have 
 voiced my rebellion! Was this to be my 
 mission? A stiff, lifeless cane? Must I 
 leave my poetic, glorious life for such 
 drudgery? 
 
 I had had glimpses of such things. I 
 had seen old Father Jones, who passed 
 me on the way to church, wearing old- 
 fashioned, rusty clothes that his children 
 might go to school longer than he had 
 gone. I had noticed Mrs. Smith looking 
 worn and bent, carrying heavy burdens, 
 that her daughter might live the ideal 
 life she had missed. I had seen the 
 village preacher pass on his way to some 
 suffering one in his parish, when snow 
 and sleet were cutting his face, and I 
 
 47 
 
knew that his cheerful fireside called him 
 the other way. To my credit, it may be 
 said, that after these reflections, I bent 
 willingly, was severed, left my Paradise, 
 putting selfish joy behind me, and went 
 to live for others. 
 
 It was not all sadness. It never is. 
 There is an abiding satisfaction in the 
 drudgery of duty. I had some moonlight 
 walks with the lovers. I went to the 
 wedding. I saw the pretty little home 
 Carl built for sweet " White Rose." I often 
 passed my birthplace, and as the years 
 rolled by, I was used for a horse by 
 Carl, Jr., as he played under the shade of 
 the old walnut tree; and I watched him 
 raise his blue eyes, inherited from Rose, 
 to the dark, almost defaced letters, "R. W" 
 
 It is the old story, and I have been 
 through it all. Carl leaned heavily on 
 me one day as he headed a little proces- 
 sion to the village graveyard. After that, 
 he never walked again with " White Rose." 
 His hair grew white, and his eyes dim, 
 and I was more and more his companion. 
 
 I am a discarded thing now, up in the 
 attic. The dream is over. 
 
 48 
 
Autobiography of An Old Bible 
 
 BEING in the city of New York, in a 
 large book-store, and among many 
 volumes larger and smaller than myself, 
 are my first distinct recollections. I was 
 
 there several months; had been examined 
 by many customers, and had been re- 
 jected for my size, color, or some other 
 trifling reason, until one day in December, 
 1820, an old gentleman called, and after 
 listening to a lengthy harangue on my 
 virtues from the salesman, concluded to 
 purchase me. All light was excluded by a 
 thick brown paper; but I did not feel at 
 all alarmed, as I was carried along under 
 the old gentleman's arm. He handled 
 me so tenderly, I felt at once that we 
 were friends, and suggested my most 
 
 49 
 
loving promises to comfort and cheer the 
 dear old man. 
 
 When I was again in the light, I 
 found myself in the midst of wedding 
 festivities. I was laid on a table sur- 
 rounded by gifts, costly and beautiful; 
 but I did not feel outdone by my gay 
 companions, for my binding was the best 
 morocco, and my clasps shone brightly. 
 If I had been ever so plain, a consciousness 
 of my inward superiority would have sus- 
 tained me. They had a gay time at the 
 wedding, and I enjoyed it, for I thought, 
 "To everything there is a season, and a 
 time to every purpose under the heaven/ ' 
 
 A great many curious eyes inspected 
 the gifts, and I received several compli- 
 ments. I learned, too, from some remarks 
 made near me, that I was in the new home 
 of George and Fannie Edwards, who were 
 married that evening. They came with 
 the rest to look at us, and I at once 
 admired my manly master and bright 
 Fannie. The hand was full and fair 
 she laid caressingly on my red covers 
 (which the bloom on her cheek rivaled) 
 as she exclaimed, "This is from good 
 
 50 
 
Uncle John!" There were just a few 
 things I wanted to say on this first day 
 in the new home ; but the clasps were over 
 my mouth, and I was obliged to be quiet. 
 
 Fannie was an active housekeeper, and 
 in a few days I had a place assigned me, 
 while peace and order seemed to reign in 
 the cottage. I confess my disappoint- 
 ment at being placed in the front parlor, 
 on an out-of-the-way table, all alone. I 
 felt cold and isolated as my side pressed 
 the chilly marble on the stand; besides, I 
 had some advice for these people, and 
 I felt hurt that I was not consulted. I 
 wanted them to be as noble as the Bereans 
 and I whispered "Search the Scriptures, 
 for in them ye think ye have eternal life," 
 but no one heard me. 
 
 I soon found that the front parlor 
 was only used for company; all we 
 heard was but the echo of the home 
 life. Fannie came nearly every morn- 
 ing to open the windows, and often 
 dusted me, but I felt mortified to know 
 that I was no more attractive than the 
 table on which I lay. She appeared 
 happy; and I longed to tell her I con- 
 
 51 
 
tained a talisman that would always keep 
 her so — for I feared the dark days sin 
 thrusts into every life — but I was a 
 captive. 
 
 One evening the parlor was filled with 
 guests. I thought that George, in his 
 strength and manliness, and Fannie, in 
 her grace and beauty, excelled them all. 
 I had learned to love them, and I was 
 troubled to think we were not friends. 
 During the evening, among other refresh- 
 ments, wine was brought in. Was ever a 
 friend more perplexed? Oh! I groaned 
 in spirit, "Who hath woe?" but no sound 
 could issue from my closed lids. George 
 drank freely, and not until a late hour 
 was the parlor deserted. It was the 
 saddest night I ever spent. 
 
 It was late the next day when the 
 windows were opened. Fannie had a 
 tired look, and she did not sing any. She 
 sat down by the table where I lay, and 
 leaned her head on me. It was hot and 
 I knew it ached badly. "Alas!" I 
 thought, "So near, and yet so far away." 
 Why could not I tell her, "Whoso 
 hearkeneth unto me shall dwell safely," 
 
 52 
 
and "Great peace have they who love 
 Thy law?" There were many evenings 
 like that I have described; and many 
 mornings when Fannie looked heart-sick. 
 George threw himself wearily on the sofa, 
 while I repeated to myself, "Wherefore 
 do ye spend money for that which is not 
 bread, and your labor for that which 
 satisfieth not?" I could not tell them, 
 "The blessing of the Lord, it maketh 
 rich; and He addeth no sorrow with it." 
 
 Five years passed away — I was still in 
 the parlor. One day Fannie came in, 
 and after arranging the furniture, picked 
 me up, exclaiming, " How you have faded ; 
 in such a short time, too!" If I had been 
 more sensitive about my appearance, I 
 might have cared for this remark; but 
 I knew the beauty of truth was imperish- 
 able, so it did not trouble me any — 
 indeed, I was glad, for the result of her 
 examination was, that I should be taken 
 to the sitting-room and kept in the 
 bookcase. 
 
 How I wished she would let me fall, 
 or that Willie, who was pulling at her 
 dress, would reach me — anything to have 
 
 53 
 
my mouth loosed — I wanted to speak so 
 badly ! I knew I should have spoken long 
 before. She had needed me sorely these 
 five years. Her face was faded quite as 
 much as mine, and I thought I read pain 
 in the quick heart-throbs against my 
 covers on our way to the sitting-room. 
 Disappointed, I reached the book-case in 
 safety. "Alas!" I thought, "My people 
 will not consider." For my comfort, I 
 repeated, "So shall my word be that 
 goeth forth out of my mouth : it shall not 
 return unto me void." 
 
 I was pleased to notice that the 
 doors of my new home were glass, and 
 elevated as I was, on the top shelf, 
 I could see all that was going on. 
 There were toys lying on the floor, a low 
 rocking-chair by the fire, and directly op- 
 posite the book-case, a sofa. I thought the 
 furniture looked as worn as I did myself. 
 There used to be a servant; but I discov- 
 ered there was none now. By Fannie's deft 
 fingers the room was soon put in order, 
 then, picking up Willie, she sat down in 
 the low rocking-chair to sing him to 
 sleep. His yellow curls hung over her 
 
 54 
 
arm, while with one dimpled hand he 
 smoothed her face. At last, charmed by 
 the low songs, the hand dropped, and 
 Willie was very lovingly laid on the sofa. 
 I knew that he was dearer to her than all 
 the world beside, yet there was no prayer 
 breathed over that couch for his safety. 
 The afternoon wore away, Willie awoke, 
 and Fannie prepared supper. Then I 
 noticed she glanced nervously from the 
 clock to the door, again and again. How 
 I wished I could climb down from the 
 shelf and go over and keep her company! 
 I tired of the tea-kettle's song before I 
 heard George's step. Willie looked up 
 fearfully when he did come, and Fannie 
 seemed relieved. I knew there was a 
 shadow on this home — and imagined I 
 saw it stretching darkly back to the first 
 evening when they had wine at the party. 
 If I could have warned them that night! 
 The meal was not passed very pleasantly. 
 I thought, "Better is a dinner on herbs 
 where love is." After supper George 
 went out, and Fannie and Willie were 
 alone again. The click of the needle and 
 hum of the toys sounded drearily to me. 
 
 55 
 
When Willie grew tired and crept up on 
 his mother's lap, I saw teardrops shining 
 on the yellow curls, and the little head 
 nestled closer as if to comfort her: when 
 it grew very late, the two went lonely 
 and scared upstairs. 
 
 Poor Fannie! I had a treasury of 
 sympathy for her, but I could not 
 repeat one word to the troubled heart. 
 Late in the night, I heard George's 
 unsteady step. Alas! for the manliness 
 that was once my boast! Intemperance 
 was fast crushing it. This was the idol in 
 which Fannie had reposed her trust. I 
 sighed, "Put not your trust in princes, 
 nor in the son of man, in whom there is no 
 help. ,, I was learning rapidly in the book- 
 case, and all that night I mourned my 
 captivity more than ever. 
 
 There were times when the cloud that 
 shadowed the cottage seemed broken, and 
 let the sunshine of a few pleasant days 
 through; but the contrast made the 
 darker ones more wretched. One dark 
 day I shall never forget. Supper was 
 ready; twilight had come on, but George 
 had not gotten home. It was storming, 
 
 56 
 
fearfully, and the rain beat against the 
 window-panes, then trickled down like 
 tears. Before the sofa kneeled Fannie, — 
 her spirit in a greater tempest than there 
 was outside. All blighted by disease lay 
 the one idolized flower of this home. 
 
 On the sofa Willie was tossing with a 
 burning fever. Fannie had tried, in a 
 husky voice, all the songs she knew to 
 woo him to sleep. I knew so many 
 beautiful psalms — if she had known only 
 one — if from her heart she could have 
 sung my ninety-first, it would have 
 helped her so; but her soul was houseless 
 in the tempest. It was nearly midnight 
 when George got home, and, though 
 slightly intoxicated, his suffering child 
 and pale, tired wife seemed to arouse him. 
 They carried Willie upstairs, while I sat 
 staring at the flickering firelight, un- 
 touched supper and deserted sofa. 
 
 Three days passed and I had not seen 
 Willie. I was just thinking on what must 
 have happened, when some one passed 
 through with a little coffin — then I knew 
 all and it was very hard to keep quiet. 
 In the afternoon, Willie was carried once 
 
 " 57 
 
more through the sitting-room. I just 
 caught a glimpse of the white, quiet face 
 and yellow hair. I knew they took him 
 into my old home, the front parlor, and 
 I longed to follow him, that I might look 
 at him a little longer. My meditations 
 were interrupted by the clergyman, who 
 opened the book-case and took me down. 
 Now I knew that I could speak, and 
 while he unfastened my clasps (which had 
 actually grown rusty) I looked around on 
 my audience. The room was nearly full, 
 and I felt that I must warn them, so I 
 began: "All flesh is grass, and all the 
 godliness thereof is as the flower of the 
 field: The grass wi there th, the flower 
 fadeth." But when I heard Fannie's 
 bitter cry, and then looked at the pale 
 lips that had so often kissed away his 
 mother's sorrow, and the still hands that 
 had smoothed away vexatious lines from 
 her face; I said, as tenderly as I could, 
 " Suffer little children, and forbid them 
 not to come unto me, for of such is the 
 kingdom of Heaven/ ' Fannie paused to 
 listen, and even George gave me an ap- 
 proving glance. Then I was laid in the 
 
 58 
 
window, while they carried out the light 
 of our home. 
 
 I watched as long as I could that 
 dark hearse and line of carriages. It 
 was dark when I heard them come 
 back; and the next day I knew things 
 were going on as usual, only there 
 was no comfort in anything. During 
 the morning Fannie came in, very deso- 
 late looking, picked me up and went out 
 to the low rocking chair. I would not 
 look where the toys used to be, but every- 
 thing was a reminder — even the hand that 
 held me. How sorry I felt as the hot tears 
 fell on my side ! Fannie looked round to see 
 that no one was near — I knew she would 
 be ashamed to be seen in my company. 
 She began turning over the leaves, and 
 I helped her find what I was sure she was 
 looking for, and through sad, tear-dimmed 
 eyes she looked at me while I again 
 repeated, "Suffer little children to come 
 unto me." 
 
 I told her many precious things; 
 she shook her head, saying that they 
 were all for Willie but none for her, 
 and she cried, "We shall never meet 
 
 59 
 
again!" I talked of the dear Savior who 
 forgives seventy times seven, and told 
 her, " Though your sins are as scarlet, 
 they shall be as white as snow; though 
 they be red like crimson, they shall be as 
 wool. ,, She was not comforted, but I 
 knew she would come again. I was 
 stored away in the book-case before 
 George came home, and neither men- 
 tioned me. I whispered, "The fear of 
 man bringeth a snare.' ' George soon left 
 to gather comfort somewhere else. When 
 it grew very late, the time seemed in- 
 supportable to Fannie. Almost in de- 
 spair, she drew me down. 
 
 I pitied her so I scarcely knew what 
 to tell her first. How glad I was 
 that my treasury was so rich! That 
 I had such precious promises from 
 our beloved Lord! I said, "As one 
 whom his mother comforteth, so will I 
 comfort you." "Like as a father 
 pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth." 
 I talked of the "lost," the "chief of 
 sinners," the "prodigal son," and the 
 "Friend of publicans;" gave examples of 
 prayers offered in faith that had prevailed, 
 
 60 
 
until she too cried into that willing, 
 listening ear, "Be merciful to me a sinner/ ' 
 All heaven rejoiced, for the " heavy 
 laden' ' found rest. Willie was dead and 
 George was not there — but my friends 
 were. David and Solomon sang for her. 
 Isaiah said, "The Lord hath anointed 
 me to preach good tidings unto the meek : 
 He hath sent me to bind up the broken 
 hearted — to appoint unto them that 
 mourn, beauty for ashes, the oil of joy 
 for mourning, the garment of praise for 
 the spirit of heaviness/ ' In the midst 
 of our rejoicing, George came home. He 
 did not see anyone, only Fannie and the 
 big, faded Bible, and when she tried to 
 tell him (for she was not ashamed of me 
 now) he smiled incredulously, and turned 
 away. I whispered, "The secret of the 
 Lord is with them who fear him/ ' My med- 
 itations were very pleasant that night ; my 
 lids were closed, but I did not sleep any. 
 This is 1873, — fifty-three years since I 
 went with Uncle John to the wedding. 
 Those who knew me then, would scarcely 
 know me now. I have lost my clasps, 
 and the gilt letters are effaced from my 
 
 61 
 
back (which you never would think had 
 been red), but I am a very happy old 
 book; a great deal happier than when I 
 was a parlor ornament. My life has been 
 a success after all. Poor Fannie ! There is 
 another grave by Willie's. I had to talk 
 at another gathering in the little front 
 parlor. It would have been a dreadful 
 task if I had not known so much about 
 the other, better world, where all tears 
 are wiped from off all faces. My 
 friend, John, had a glimpse through the 
 pearly gates; and we talked about it 
 together. 
 
 When I looked at the form that I loved 
 with all the truth of a Bible, I kept 
 repeating for my comfort, "I am the 
 resurrection and the life : he that believeth 
 in me, though he were dead, yet shall he 
 live." Fannie and I were true friends 
 for the few years she stayed with us after 
 Willie died, and as long as she ^needed 
 me, I was "a lamp to her feet." I gave 
 these words for her tombstone: "Under 
 the shadow of the Almighty/ ' George 
 is an old man now; his hair is white, and 
 his brow furrowed. The prayer of his 
 
 62 
 
dying wife has been answered: "Sanctify 
 them through thy truth: thy word is 
 truth/ ' We live together in the greatest 
 harmony. His gratitude to Him who 
 accepted him in the eleventh hour is 
 unbounded: forgiven much, he loves 
 much. On my fly leaf he has written, 
 "Thy testimonies are wonderful: there- 
 fore does my soul keep them." 
 
 Nowhere can you find two happier 
 friends than George and Uncle John's 
 bridal gift. 
 
 63 
 
Our Paper 
 
 Written for the initial number of The Central Record 
 
 THERE are a few old things that are 
 considered better than new — old 
 
 wine, old associations, old friends; but as a 
 
 general thing the new are more attractive. 
 
 The New Year! How 
 gladly we hail it! No sin 
 in it — no heartache. Even 
 the aged shake off the shack- 
 les of the past, and a gleam 
 of youthful light sparkles 
 in the dim eye as they look 
 forward to it. The old year 
 was not what we expected. 
 In it there were hurts of 
 different kinds — broken 
 
 plans, unfaithful friends, and graves. 
 
 The old days are a part of forever. 
 
 "Let them go since we cannot retrieve 
 them, 
 Cannot undo and cannot atone; 
 God in His mercy, receive and forgive 
 them! 
 Only the new days are our own." 
 
 Surely in the new there is some " sweet 
 hope" hidden! 
 
 64 
 
The New Worker! Experience has 
 never hidden his faith, nor disappoint- 
 ment crushed his hope, nor criticism 
 chilled his zeal. With head erect and 
 spring-time vigor, he enters on his work, 
 full of expectant triumph. 
 
 The New Convert! The first love of 
 the young Christian! 
 
 Is there a higher, holier joy in all 
 eternity? 
 
 Our New Paper! The first number 
 you will receive today. It comes to greet 
 you, full of faith and hope. The hands 
 reached out to receive it are all friendly, 
 for it has no enemies. It has never 
 recorded a slander, a sarcasm, nor re- 
 proach; it has caused no cheek to burn 
 with shame, anger, or grief. It is untried 
 — like the new year, the new worker, and 
 the new convert. Keep it pure by your 
 prayers, happy by your charity, intelli- 
 gent by careful effort, and as on Sunday 
 it is carried from God's house to yours, 
 may it link the two together — a sort of 
 family tie, binding us to the Church and 
 to our common Father-God. 
 
 65 
 
A Stone's Story 
 
 MY existence began about six thou- 
 sand years ago — at least, so I 
 believe. Science teaches a great deal about 
 " Periods' ' and changes that I cannot 
 understand. The "Recent Period' ' is all 
 I can grasp, but then I know that I am 
 thick-headed. 
 
 My early home was in a 
 dark, damp quarry. The 
 inside of the earth is like 
 the outside — busy. The 
 Stone family is old and dis- 
 tinguished. A great many 
 of its members were brought 
 into prominence in the 
 Eastern Continent, while I 
 lay in obscurity in the 
 earth. A sort of cousin of 
 mine supported the head of 
 he saw that wonderful 
 ladder reaching up to Heaven. About 
 1400 B. C. twelve of my relatives did 
 Joshua pitch in Gilgal as a memorial, 
 saying to the children of Israel, "When 
 your children shall ask their fathers in 
 
 Jacob when 
 
 66 
 

 ^ '--^fffl 
 
 Central M. E. Church, Frankford 
 

 iVr exi 
 
 JL^JL sand 
 
 thou- 
 ut 
 
 in a 
 
 The 
 
 th is like 
 
 
 ;Ut 
 
 iid 
 hen 
 
 W\4u*V\ f iVnwAO .'& Ah Wv^v^ , m 
 
 
time to come, saying, 'What mean these 
 stones?' Then ye shall let your children 
 know, saying, 'Israel came over this 
 Jordan on dry land/ " 
 
 We number in our family the mighty 
 pyramids, "those sharp tents of stone 
 pitched against the blue sky of Egypt/ ' 
 the majestic colossi at Thebes, the Great 
 Sphinx, and the wonderful obelisks, one 
 of which has come over to my part of the 
 world. We formed an important part 
 of the beautiful temple of Jerusalem and 
 the magnificent buildings of Rome and 
 Greece. 
 
 Progress with rapid strides came over 
 to our lands, drove the dark-faced Indians, 
 with their weird costumes, away from 
 their wild, free home, and civilization 
 with magic hands adorned our hills with 
 noisy cities, and our valleys with well- 
 tilled farms. I was found in my obscurity, 
 brought out into the fresh air and bright 
 sunshine and was given a place in the 
 Central Church tower. How glad I am 
 to be a part of such a house! I would 
 rather roll down and away to my old, 
 lonely quarry and hide my face in the dirt 
 
 67 
 
until the destruction of the world, than 
 to help build a liquor saloon or any 
 other building to draw men away from 
 God. I am no " rolling stone" — our 
 financial report will show that; nor am 
 I the " Philosopher's Stone, " which turned 
 everything it touched to gold; though if 
 the precepts are followed which are 
 taught in our church, "The blessing of 
 the Lord, it maketh rich, and he addeth 
 no sorrow with it." 
 
 A distant cousin of mine, in David's 
 time, went on a missionary tour and for 
 the protection of Israel killed a mighty 
 giant. I am a home missionary and with 
 my fellows am trying to protect Israel of 
 today from the giants of sin. 
 
 I pity the great pyramids, holding 
 their dead kings in their stony hearts. 
 In the warm heart of the church is the 
 living King of kings with love and power 
 to bless the world. 
 
 Sometimes in passing, our tower may 
 remind you of the mighty Memnon, 
 which gave forth a long musical sound 
 when the first rays of the morning sun 
 fell upon it. When the beams of the Sun 
 
 68 
 
of righteousness fall upon the hearts of the 
 worshippers in our auditorium, my home 
 echoes with songs of praise — none sweeter 
 than: 
 
 "Rock of ages, cleft for me, 
 Let me hide myself in thee." 
 
 And there are wonderful texts about the 
 " chief corner-stone" and "The stone that 
 smote the image that became a great 
 mountain, and filled the whole earth/ ' 
 
 My history is not finished, for I am just 
 in the prime of life and expect to be useful 
 long after my readers are resting in the 
 earth from which I came. "Ye also, as 
 lively stones, are built up a spiritual 
 house.' ' "He that hath an ear, let him 
 hear what the Spirit saith unto the 
 churches; to him that overcometh will 
 I give to eat of the hidden manna, and 
 I will give him a white stone, and in the 
 stone a new name written, which no 
 man knoweth saving he that receive th it." 
 
 69 
 
Story of a Collection Basket 
 
 DO not imagine that I will give you 
 my whole history. This paper would 
 not begin to hold it. 
 
 I belong to an old family. If you have 
 read or travelled much, you have surely 
 heard of us. "Willow" is our name. I 
 
 -r>~ESsga 
 
 think we were distantly related to the 
 Willows of Babylon, on which the poor 
 homesick Israelites hung their harps, and 
 we are willing now, as then, to do a good 
 turn for God's Israel in a strange land. 
 Any fairy or poet might have envied 
 my birthplace. No site along the 
 Hudson can compare with the fair, green 
 meadow where I was born. A merry 
 brook washed the foundations of my 
 home. Birds sang above me, and my 
 companions were the winds, the dew and 
 the sunshine, while sweet wild flowers 
 grew in my shadow. No wonder I am a 
 poetical creature! 
 
 70 
 
I am glad, as I am capable of being, 
 that the old blind man, of whom I have 
 not time to tell you, formed me into a 
 church basket. I am just as glad, too, 
 that Methodists bought me and carried 
 me to Central, for after the free, bright 
 life I led among the Willows, I am afraid 
 that the other churches, good and true 
 as they are, might have been a little 
 formal for me. I love good, old-fashioned 
 Methodist singing; then, too, Methodists 
 love "collection baskets," and "love 
 begets love," so we get along very nicely 
 together. 
 
 I form an important part of the service. 
 I am the subject of many a pun, and 
 songs grow full of joy as I grow full of 
 money. 
 
 Several times on Sunday, in a dignified 
 manner, I pass up and down the aisle, 
 paying a friendly visit to each pew, the 
 ushers stepping lightest when I am 
 heaviest, thus giving an opportunity to 
 any basket having good eyesight to 
 become acquainted with the members of 
 the congregation. Of course, time, and 
 the spring and autumn fashions make 
 
 71 
 
some changes in their appearance, but 
 we have no fault to find with suitable 
 changes; for as Willows, in summer we 
 were green, and in winter, brown; and as 
 money receivers, Jehoida, the priest, had 
 a chest, and we a basket. And slight 
 changes do not keep us from recognizing 
 our members. 
 
 I live most of the time under a chair 
 in the pulpit, within hearing of "Line 
 upon line and precept upon precept," 
 and when our Pastor grows eloquent over 
 the dear old story of the cross, the house 
 resounds with shouts until over in my 
 hiding place I tremble. If some glad 
 Sunday morning I hold enough to pay 
 for our new parsonage, look for the coins 
 to jingle and the envelopes to quiver for 
 joy, for do not think me entirely insen- 
 sate! My grandparents were trees, and 
 does not the Psalmist say: " Praise ye 
 the Lord, mountains and all hills, fruit- 
 ful trees and all cedars/ ! And does not 
 Isaiah say: "The mountains and the hills 
 shall break forth before you into singing, 
 and all the trees of the field shall clap 
 their hands ?" 
 
 72 
 
Written at the Request of the Ladies' 
 
 Aid Society, on the Retirement of 
 
 Mr. Wm. Rodgers 
 
 HAVE you ever, at the breaking up of 
 a home, when the old folks have 
 gone to Heaven, searched in the attic and 
 brought to light old things stored away 
 through the years? How you pause and 
 dream! For joy and sorrow, failure and 
 success, hurts and comforts are brought 
 out like moving pictures in your memory, 
 till the shabby, wornout things seem 
 living and sacred! 
 
 As I turned over the pages of the first 
 book of our Mite Society, it was like 
 opening the shutters of a long-closed 
 room. Facts, things and people gradually 
 became clear to my mental vision — 
 pictures of our unfinished church — the 
 new floor, in which men and women were 
 ambitious to drive a nail; the new furni- 
 ture; our brand new carpet; our first 
 organ; first Bible and hymn book; our 
 first congregation; the earnest, anxious 
 old faces; the hopeful, happy young ones; 
 the optimists and pessimists; the indif- 
 
 73 
 
ferent and the curious who came to look 
 on our struggle and lastly on our triumph 
 — all these were brought back by the 
 old book. 
 
 Our Mite Society was born of necessity, 
 cradled in enthusiasm, nurtured in zeal 
 and sustained by Providence. 
 
 At our first meeting, held May 11, 
 1876, we sang from the old hymn-book 
 the 150th hymn, beginning, "A charge 
 to keep I have," and sang earnestly, 
 feeling the responsibility of the charge. 
 
 The list of members and officers has 
 been sifted. Here and there, as }^ou read 
 the record, one has dropped out; but in 
 every picture memory reveals, we see 
 the form of Mr. Rodgers. More erect in 
 that first year of voluntary service, his 
 face wearing fewer lines of care — yet the 
 same kindly, interested countenance with 
 which he greets us today. 
 
 There was a Centennial Tea Party and 
 a Centennial Supper (our people took ad- 
 vantage of '76) ; there were fairs, dinners, 
 festivals — a little of everything, in fact 
 (continued up to 1909), and Brother 
 Rodgers figured in them all. 
 
 74 
 
When on Sunday morning we slept a 
 little later, and at our ease went to church, 
 we found it heated, aired and dusted. 
 How seldom have we given a thought to 
 the early worker! Who in the last thirty- 
 three years was in greater demand than 
 he? How many (hundreds, I believe!) 
 have asked him for odd gloves, overshoes, 
 handkerchiefs, umbrellas and pocket- 
 books? 
 
 How grateful we should be to him for 
 lessons in tidiness, when in our Sunday- 
 school room he occasionally hid our 
 song-books, which we carelessly left lying 
 around in the dust! How often, in our 
 early evening devotions, have we seen 
 him coming in with that menacing gas- 
 lighter! He has been called on for every- 
 thing, even to breaking open the organ! 
 As we have learned to love Central, we 
 have learned to love him, too, for he 
 seems a part of it. The highest calling 
 is not to be ministered unto, but to 
 minister. 
 
 He arranged our church for its gayest 
 occasions — our glad Easter days, church 
 and sacred communion suppers; and we 
 
 75 
 
appreciate his reverent touches when our 
 beloved dead lay at her altars. I believe 
 every Pastor has carried away some 
 loving memory of Mr. Rodgers. 
 
 Tonight our Ladies Aid Society gladly 
 adds its word in appreciation of our ever 
 willing helper. 
 
 76 
 
Twelve Visitors 
 
 WHEN our first visitor came, the 
 world sang with Tennyson, "Ring 
 out, wild bells to the wild sky!" The 
 streets were noisy with expectant people. 
 Tramping of feet and firing of 
 guns indicated a world awake 
 at midnight. We waited for 
 him with watching and prayer. 
 Companies of Christians were 
 kneeling at church altars when 
 he came in softly. They trem- 
 bled with fear of contaminat- 
 ing him, for he was pure and 
 young, and some of them were 
 old and sin-laden. But the 
 impression wore away as they 
 scattered to their homes and 
 rushed on again with life's 
 activities. He was not long 
 in becoming acclimated with 
 the old sinful world. He bit 
 the toes and fingers of children 
 scantily clad, and made old 
 folks shiver and bend, and the poor look 
 anxiously at their coal bins. Still he 
 
 77 
 
brought to the young skating and sleigh- 
 ing, and fireside joys for us all. 
 
 He was followed by a dark, short youth. 
 The world was too frozen up to make 
 much of his coming. Cupid tried to make 
 a little diversion for him about the four- 
 teenth. He boasted of some historical 
 prestige, which was celebrated on the 
 twenty-second. One cloudy day he was 
 carried off in a gale and we have not 
 heard of him since. 
 
 That same gale brought our third. 
 The bare trees shivered and shutters 
 slammed at his approach. It was Mon- 
 day, and the frozen clothes on the line 
 rattled a chilly welcome to the bluster- 
 ing fellow. He made a stir through- 
 out the United States four days after he 
 came, and a little later on he shook up 
 the Methodist Conference. No matter 
 how the wind blew, the preachers' wives 
 cleaned house, and numberless books 
 were tumbled from cozy shelves into 
 packing boxes. 
 
 Our fourth visitor was a perfect con- 
 tradiction. Laughing and crying, we 
 never became accustomed to her moods. 
 
 78 
 
But we loved her, for she brought us 
 Easter. Nature loved her too, and gave 
 her buds and early flowers — 
 
 "And domed the red-plowed hills 
 With loving blue." 
 
 The thrush and blackbirds made her 
 welcome. She brought showers, but 
 sunshine and the rainbow. 
 
 We could find no fault with our fifth 
 visitor. Her name is a synonym for all 
 that is lovely. When the poet wanted to 
 tell of a joy that was independent of 
 circumstances, he said, " December's as 
 pleasant as May." Her welcome was 
 universal. The sun shone brighter. The 
 trees hung with blossoms. Flowers and 
 green grass sprang up at her tread. The 
 birds shook their wings for joy and sang 
 their sweetest songs. Old and young 
 rejoiced in her coming. 
 
 Her sister came after her. Her heart 
 was warm, her tread was soft, and her 
 arms were full of roses. She scattered 
 them everywhere. The gardens looked 
 like Eden. The bees scented them and 
 hummed happily. She threw wild ones 
 
 79 
 
along the roadside — choice ones in the 
 hot-houses. She dashed them against 
 cottage windows — such lovely colors! 
 Red, white, pink and yellow! She made 
 the world look beautiful, so that teachers 
 and children could not keep their eyes 
 on their books, being only black and 
 white, and they shut up the schools and 
 took a long holiday. 
 
 Our next two visitors wore light, 
 shimmering garments. Their hot breath 
 turned the harvest fields yellow and made 
 the people tired. Sun umbrellas, ther- 
 mometers and the price of fans went up. 
 The city folks began to think. They 
 remembered the big, cool ocean, the 
 breezy mountain and their dear country 
 relations. But our visitors were far from 
 useless. They perfected fruits, grains and 
 vegetables. While half the world had a 
 holiday, the other half stored away the 
 good things. 
 
 Their departure was followed by a busy 
 little plodder who loudly rang the church 
 and school bells. As rapidly as train 
 and boat could bring them from all di- 
 rections, the folks came home. Many a 
 
 80 
 
tired one looked refreshed, and pale cheeks 
 were reddened. Even the leaves caught a 
 little of the reflection, which was deep- 
 ened by our next visitor — a perfect artist, 
 who made the woods look glorious ! 
 
 A gloomy fellow followed, who threw 
 "cold water' ' over everything — a regular 
 old Puritan! He redeemed himself by 
 giving a grand holiday. Nearly every 
 dinner was a feast. He reminded the 
 people of all their mercies, and they 
 bowed their heads and thanked God. 
 
 Our last friend is just about leaving us. 
 Everybody loves him. He brought the 
 happiest day on the calendar. 
 
 I have not told you all. The twelve 
 brought failures and poverty; crime and 
 punishment; bereavement and sorrow. 
 They brought opportunities and success; 
 purity and reward; life and joy. They 
 are coming again to some of us. It lies 
 in our power to make them a blessing 
 or a curse. 
 
 11 Shake hands before you die, 
 Old year, we'll dearly rue for you. 
 What is it we can do for you? 
 Speak out before you die." 
 
 81 
 
Thanksgiving 
 
 SOME one has said, " October is the 
 afternoon month of the year, with its 
 golden lights and velvet shadows and its 
 undertone of repose." November might 
 be called the twilight, the time for reflec- 
 tion — a fitting place in the calendar for 
 Thanksgiving! But where shall our grati- 
 tude begin? 
 
 "The world is so full of a number of 
 things, 
 I'm sure we should all be as happy as 
 kings." 
 
 We thank God for the earth on which 
 we live. We love her sky, her mountains 
 and her seas, her broad prairies and lonely 
 deserts. We love her great cities, throb- 
 bing with restless life, and her country 
 homes nestling among the hills and by 
 
 82 
 
the running streams. We love the quiet 
 places where our beloved dead await the 
 resurrection. 
 
 " Somewhere, I know not where, there 
 
 waits a spot 
 In the still bosom of dear Mother Earth, 
 Where I, life's sorrows ended and its 
 
 mirth, 
 Shall lay me down as child upon its cot, 
 To rest and sleep, all vexing cares forgot.' ' 
 
 We are grateful for the seasons — beau- 
 tiful spring, warm, restful summer and 
 
 " Autumn, Lord of fruits and flowers, 
 God's almoner to all the tribes of men." 
 
 We are thankful for the fireside joys 
 of winter — 
 
 "Blow, blow, ye winds! 
 Not all the winds that blow 
 Can quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow!" 
 
 What a desert the world would be 
 without books ! How thankful we are for 
 the Book of books, our light and comfort 
 that uplifts our aims and gives us a 
 glimpse of life eternal ! For Sabbath days 
 and church homes we are thankful, for 
 all moral victories for ourselves and those 
 we love. The Lord has been "round 
 
 83 
 
about His people, as the mountains are 
 round about Jerusalem/ ' We can rest 
 in safety, for 
 
 " God's in His Heaven — 
 All's right with the world." 
 
 Emerson says, U A friend may well be 
 reckoned the masterpiece of nature." We 
 thank God for friendship — the Ruths 
 and Jonathans we have found along life's 
 way. We are thankful for love, the 
 father and mother love that sheltered our 
 childhood. ' ' There is an enduring tender- 
 ness in the love of a mother — it is neither 
 to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted 
 by danger, nor weakened by worthless- 
 ness, nor stifled by ingratitude/ ' 
 
 Clara Louisa Burnham says of love, 
 "Oh, chillen, my pore tongue can't tell 
 you of the beauty and goodness of the 
 fairy Love ! She's the messenger of a great 
 King, and spends her whole time a-bles- 
 sin' folks. Her hair shines with the gold 
 of the sun ; her eyes send out soft beams ; 
 her gown is white, and when she moves, 
 'tis as if forget-me-nots and violets was 
 runnin' in little streams among its folds. 
 
 84 
 
Ah, chillen, she's the blessin' o' the world! 
 Her soft arms are stretched out to 
 gather in and comfort every sorrowin' 
 heart." 
 
 " Greater love hath no man than this, 
 that a man lay down his life for his 
 friends/ ' We are thankful for Jesus. 
 "For God so loved the world, that He 
 gave His only begotten Son that whoso- 
 ever believeth on Him shall have ever- 
 lasting life." We are thankful for such 
 a God. 
 
 85 
 
Birthdays 
 
 THE baby's birthday, — what a happy 
 event ! How father and mother, uncle 
 and aunt, all join to do her honor! Some 
 one for whom she was named sends a ring. 
 Was there ever a prettier finger or sweeter 
 hand? As the soft, dimpled, fairy-like 
 thing spreads out in your palm, who can 
 refrain from kissing it? Happy, love- 
 surrounded baby, one year old! 
 
 Thirteen birthdays have come and gone. 
 She is quite a girl now — almost ready for 
 the high school. She was a lovely baby, 
 but was there ever any one more inter- 
 esting than an up-to-date school-girl? 
 Her mother thinks not, as in the morning 
 she helps her don the golf cape, and gives 
 her rosy lips fourteen kisses for her 
 birthday. 
 
 Six more years have slipped away so 
 quickly you can scarcely believe it. The 
 finger that held the baby ring has long 
 outgrown it. It is a pretty hand still, 
 young and fresh. On the third finger is 
 another ring, and she has found another 
 friend. Although she looks back as she 
 
 86 
 
leaves the old, true home-lovers, yet 
 she goes, and is happy, too. 
 
 Twenty-five added birthdays! O life, 
 not so quickly! Yet, in the noonday our 
 heroine is surrounded by joys. Not the 
 old, careless ones, but real joys after all. 
 Earthly love still makes the fireside the 
 happiest place on earth and she is con- 
 tent. O Time, rest awhile! 
 
 "Swifter than a weaver's shuttle," 
 thirty-five more birthdays come and go. 
 Where is the pet of the household, born 
 eighty years ago? Come with me — 
 tread softly. She is dozing in the great 
 arm-chair, before the silent hearth. She 
 is dreaming of the past and of the graves 
 in which her loved ones are sleeping. 
 Her hands are folded. The left is on top. 
 There is the golden band — only so thin! 
 Surely this is not the baby hand once so 
 fondly caressed — this withered, bony 
 thing on which the veins stand like ropes. 
 These sunken, bloodless lips cannot be 
 the rosy mouth her mother kissed back 
 in the years. Is this the beautiful, love- 
 wooed maiden who, at twenty, laughingly 
 left the old home? She could not tell 
 
 87 
 
you clearly herself. So many sorrows 
 have troubled her heart and brain, the 
 latter refuses to give events in their order. 
 When her dim eyes look out she feels what 
 she cannot express — "I know, where'er I 
 go, that there hath passed away a glory 
 from the earth/ ' Time is as cruel as he 
 is generous. He gives and he blights. 
 The old gray head is lifted. Light 
 breaks over the saddened face. Listen! 
 It is Christmas morning, the Savior's 
 birthday. She hears the carols just 
 outside the window: 
 
 11 Peace on earth, good will toward men." 
 
 Because the Savior had a birthday, 
 grandmother has one abiding joy after 
 all. Old Time is destroying her earthly 
 tabernacle, but she has a peace he cannot 
 touch, of which the carol singers remind 
 her — Peace that bridges over the river 
 of death and leads to immortality. "Not 
 as the world giveth." A joy beginning in 
 infancy and lasting eternally. 
 
 We thank Thee, our Father, for Thy 
 precious Christmas gift. 
 
 88 
 
Vacation 
 
 EACH month has its peculiar attrac- 
 tions. June reminds us of roses, 
 beauty, sunshine, commencements and 
 vacation. Just beyond, the hot months 
 are waiting, and busy brains begin to 
 plan for rest and change. 
 
 If we have had no special losses through 
 the year and duty releases us, we look 
 around and ask, "Where shall we go?" 
 There is inspiration in the mountain, the 
 sea, great rivers and grand cities. There 
 is beckoning rest in the quiet farmhouse, 
 in the woods and meadows, and by the 
 side of bubbling springs and running 
 brooks. 
 
 Some cannot go, but are ever held by 
 the unceasing round of an unchanging 
 duty. Did not our Master spend the 
 first thirty years of His life in the same 
 way, among common people, in common 
 places? 
 
 We are travelers; life is a journey. If 
 we go by parlor car or stage coach, the 
 destination is the same. Some stop at 
 grander hotels than others, but there are 
 
 89 
 
beautiful things common to us all. The 
 heavens in their varied beauty give 
 pictures to everybody. The wild flowers 
 are for all God's children. 
 
 " There is no price set on the lavish 
 
 summer 
 And June may be had by the poorest 
 
 comer.' ' 
 
 Honesty, truth and love cannot be 
 bought, and he who possesses them must 
 have a song in his heart by day, and rest 
 by night. There is a dignity in self- 
 mastery and conscious integrity, more 
 beautiful than any outward adorning. 
 
 Toward the end of our journey we 
 meet at one common gateway. It is so 
 narrow, earthly distinctions must be left 
 this side. Spirits of queens and peasants, 
 kings and beggars, sin-laden and blood- 
 w^ashed go through that short valley alike 
 and just on the other side, God's beloved 
 behold a world whose glory no mortal can 
 imagine. One moment's view will more 
 than pay for all the roughness of the 
 journey. 
 
 They shall see the King in his beauty, 
 and enter into rest eternal. 
 
 90 
 
A Costly Sacrifice 
 
 IN Alice Cary's "Order for a Picture," 
 she could describe the little old home- 
 stead, the woods and cornfields, the roses 
 and the children, but, when it came to one 
 face, she turned to the artist saying: 
 
 "One word tells you all I would say, 
 She is my mother ! you will agree 
 That all the rest may be thrown away." 
 
 And my pen seems feeble and expres- 
 sionless as I try to write of a mother's 
 love. 
 
 Appeal to your own hearts, as, like 
 stars coming out on the face of the night, 
 in your memories rise clusters of deeds 
 beautiful and numberless — the prayers, 
 the songs, the cheering words, the birth- 
 day surprises, the sick days, when the 
 very air of your room seemed freighted 
 with tenderness and every touch was a 
 benediction! Such untold economy and 
 self-sacrifice! Oh! the ocean is empty 
 compared to the fullness of a mother's 
 love! 
 
 It spans continents, bridges chasms 
 and levels mountains. Like a halo of 
 
 91 
 
glory it hovers over the cradle of her boy, 
 it rings in the low lullabies, it falls like the 
 dew of heaven in her kisses, till his an- 
 swering smiles, like refreshed morning 
 flowers, brighten her heart. Through 
 his youth her loving counsels have gone 
 before like a pillar of fire lighting his 
 way, or like a pillar in the cloud, shielding 
 from the magnifying eyes of the world 
 the imperfections of his conduct. Her 
 hope, like the morning sun, gilds all his 
 future with golden beauty. 
 
 There comes a night in some mother's 
 history when the step whose echo was 
 her joy has an uncertain sound; the eye 
 that moves her soul is wildly bright with 
 a strange fire; the confidence that was 
 her delight is withheld and an unnamed 
 dread creeps over her. 
 
 She would not share her doubt with 
 another, she would not expose her boy, — 
 she would rather empty her heart out in 
 the light of the world than reveal his 
 shortcomings. When intemperance, (for 
 this is the prowling beast that is destroy- 
 ing her home nest,) has more surely en- 
 slaved its victim, her evenings are a 
 
 92 
 
succession of loneliness and wretchedness. 
 The mountains of unpaid affection loom 
 up before her and every memory is a 
 sword piercing her heart. Her spirit, like 
 an angel with a drooping wing, hovers 
 round the haunts of folly — would she be 
 unwomanly should she go there in person? 
 Oh! pitying Jesus, there are still Cal- 
 varies on earth upon which mothers are 
 being crucified upon crosses of intem- 
 perance, with swords of ingratitude in the 
 hands of sons. 
 
 93 
 
Father Time's Visit 
 
 IT was the last evening of December. 
 Being somewhat tired after the Christ- 
 mas festivities, I drew my chair up to the 
 fireplace and soon fell asleep. It must 
 have been a dream, but I'll tell you what 
 I saw — Old Father Time walking off with 
 a big bundle. Of course, during the last 
 few days I had handled bundles of differ- 
 ent sizes, which may have had something 
 to do with it. This special bundle had a 
 mysterious look and, being of a curious 
 turn of mind, I called after him, begging 
 for a glimpse of the inside, and, would you 
 believe it? he paused, broke the string 
 which bound it, and dropped at my feet 
 the packages it contained. 
 
 There were three hundred and sixty-five. 
 As I stared, they assumed a familiar air. 
 Each package represented a day. They 
 were marked by sorrow and joy; pain and 
 comfort; defeat and victory; sin, and some 
 feeble triumphs through grace. As they 
 passed through my fingers, I experienced 
 a heart-sinking disappointment. There 
 were bereavements, too, but God's hand 
 
 94 
 
was in them and they did not hurt like 
 the willful acts. Fine opportunities had 
 been passed unnoticed. For some trifling 
 cause, old friendships had been dropped. 
 Some I threw down hastily — they were 
 marred by anger, pride and want of self- 
 control. A whole year, and so little 
 accomplished! I thought of what Long- 
 fellow had written about the storm-wind 
 howling from the forest, sweeping the 
 red leaves away — 
 
 " Would the sins that thou abhorest, 
 O soul ! could thus decay, 
 And be swept away!" 
 
 There was not a perfect day in the 
 whole number — yet, some were not all 
 dark. There were penitent prayers, a few 
 quiet deeds of mercy, attempts at loyalty 
 to duty and a hunger of the soul for better 
 things — then, there was the cross, its 
 shadow softening the hardest lines. 
 
 The clock was striking twelve when, 
 with a sweep of his great hands, Father 
 Time put them out of sight; but wdiispered 
 as he turned away: "You'll face them all 
 again some day." 
 
 95 
 
The firing of guns and the clanging of 
 bells awoke me and I realized the old 
 year was gone and the new year ushered 
 in — so are we hurried on by time. 
 
 "The battle of our life is brief, 
 The alarm — the struggle — the relief, 
 Then sleep we side by side." 
 
 96 
 
Lettie Hackman Banton 
 
 An Appreciation 
 
 THERE are some spirits God lends 
 to earth that reveal to us what He 
 intends men and women to be — noble, 
 gentle, gifted and pure. Such a one was 
 our young friend, Mrs. Lettie Banton, 
 from her childhood till our Father called 
 her back to a more congenial clime. Her 
 unselfishness and bright intellect won our 
 admiration, and her beauty and purity 
 our love. To graces of body and mind 
 were added the grace of God, and her 
 last sojourn among us was a delight 
 and benediction. 
 
 Graduating at the age of eighteen and 
 marrying soon after, her commencement 
 and bridal gown were one. Fidelity 
 characterized each place she was called 
 upon to fill — daughter, scholar, wife and 
 mother. The death of her mother to 
 such a sensitive, loving spirit was a sore 
 affliction; but trial touched her like the 
 
 97 
 
shadows in a picture, more clearly re- 
 vealing the loveliness of her character. 
 For the world she had a smiling face, 
 living out our Savior's thought, "When 
 thou fastest, anoint thine head and 
 wash thy face." 
 
 The only mention she made of death 
 during her last illness was in reference 
 to her little six-year-old son: "If I pass 
 away in this sickness, what will become 
 of Durward?" All other preparation 
 was made. She was so like the inhabitants 
 of Heaven, it was simply going home. 
 She loved everything beautiful. Music 
 was her soul's special delight. 
 
 "With Chopin the strands of life were 
 often taut to the breaking point, but ere 
 they snapped, their vibrations gave forth 
 to us some exquisite harmonies." Mrs. 
 Banton somewhat resembled him. We 
 shall never forget her last visit east. We 
 could almost imagine the aureole above 
 the sweet, pale face among the singers in 
 the choir-loft on Sunday morning, and, 
 as her gifted fingers drew the bow over 
 the loved Cremona violin, we were re- 
 minded of Faber's words: 
 
 98 
 
"My soul seems floating forever 
 
 In an orb of ravishing sounds, 
 Through faint-falling echoes of Heaven, 
 
 'Mid beautiful earths without bounds; 
 Now sighing as zephyrs in summer, 
 
 The concords glide on like a stream, 
 With a sound that is almost a silence 
 
 Or the soundless sounds in a dream/ ' 
 
 When she ended with the sweet melody : 
 
 " Prepare me, my Savior! 
 For Heaven, my home." 
 
 "The gulf narrowed to a threadlike 
 mere," so near seemed 
 "The calm Land beyond the sea." 
 
 Her " passing away" was like a glorious 
 sunset, leaving behind a stream of golden 
 memories to cheer her loved ones, and 
 drawing their hearts after her through 
 the golden gates. 
 
 99 
 
Life's Day 
 
 "My days are like a shadow that declineth." — Ps. 102, 11. 
 
 1IFE is a day, " swifter than a weaver's 
 -^ shuttle/' Infancy is the early dawn 
 and youth the bright morning, full of hope 
 and promise. To the boy how far away 
 are the western hills, and how very long 
 the time seems to the sunset! Like the 
 untried soldier starting out with firm step, 
 new uniform and bright armor, he dreams 
 only of conquest. The dew of youth is on 
 his brow and his eye beams with energy. 
 There are hard, stony hills to climb and 
 battles to be fought before noon, but what 
 are hills and battles to young manhood? 
 Only an impetus to his ambition. Are 
 there not also shady valleys and crowns 
 for the victors? 
 
 Mothers, take care of the dawn. Youths, 
 take care of the morning. You have but 
 one. Keep the sin-stains off. With a 
 pure earnest purpose fill it with noble 
 preparation and work. The morning neg- 
 lected can never be retrieved. Noon will 
 bring its own duties. You will need hoard- 
 ed strength and tried power to stand 
 
 100 
 
firmly with the earnest workers beneath 
 the scorching mid-day sun. Would you 
 have a perfect day, watch every step. 
 There are enemies along the road. They 
 will trip you if they can. Determine 
 never to fall, but if you should (what 
 mortal does not?) do not let the afternoon 
 find you down. Sure of promised help, 
 exclaim, "Rejoice not against me, O mine 
 enemy; when I fall, I shall arise/ ' 
 
 Some battles end in victory, but the 
 soldier must endure dust and smoke, fire 
 and wounds. Life's afternoon brings to 
 some, faded blue, a broken sword and an 
 empty sleeve — and some never reach 
 afternoon. The sun goes down while it is 
 yet day. 
 
 But, " behind the dim unknown, 
 
 Standeth God within the shadow, 
 Keeping watch above His own." 
 
 There is a record of your life's day. 
 There is a crown for the faithful common 
 soldier as well as the general. Be sure 
 to win it. Too many, like Samson, in 
 dangerous ease, sleep away their oppor- 
 tunities and awake crying, "Woe unto 
 
 101 
 
us, for the day goeth away, for the 
 shadows of the evening are stretched out." 
 
 In the afternoon our feet stumble over 
 graves; the way becomes lonely. Foes 
 laugh at our falls and we grow tired, for 
 even the grasshopper is a burden. Loved 
 ones are gone who made the way pleasant 
 and we look toward the sunset with less 
 reluctance. 
 
 Life's day leads down "to the valley 
 of the shadow of death," but just the 
 other side we shall be at home "in the 
 house of the Lord forever.' ' 
 
 102