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SECOND COPY, 
 
 !6b9. 
 
Copyrighted, 1899. 
 
 
/ 
 
 LAY SERMONS, 
 
 BY HOWARD W/TILTON. 
 
 (^QwJ 
 

 t* 
 
 24654 
 
 "Some said, 'John, print it,' others said 'Not so,' 
 Some said 'It mig-ht do good,' others said 'No.' " 
 
 — BUNYAN. 
 
 • £- 
 
 
 PRESS OF 
 
 NEW NONPAREIL CO. 
 
 COUNCIL BLUFFS 
 
Y-i O THOSE kind friends in the great congregation of truth- 
 seekers who have so kindly expressed their appreciation of 
 the efforts of one "not of the cloth" to preach the gospel of happi- 
 ness and helpfulness, and who by their words of encouragement 
 have given to the lay preacher inspiration for his work, this little 
 volume is affectionate^ tendered in compliance with their 
 expressed desire to have some of these Lay Sermons in more 
 permanent form than in the columns of "The Sunday Nonpareil," 
 in which they have originally appeared from week to week, and 
 with the hope that in complying with this friendly request other 
 children of the great famil} r who look to the loving Father for 
 strength and guidance ma3 r gather from these crumbs some food. 
 HOWARD W. TILTON, 
 
 Editor of "The Daily Nonpareil." 
 Council Bluffs, Iowa. 
 
TOMMY AND HIS TEACHER. 
 
 WANTED— A RELIGION, SUITABLE FOR 
 all places and all persons; one which can be 
 worn every day, will stand wear and tear, and 
 that won't fade or shrink. Address. The Great 
 World. 
 
 Anybody can get all the religion he needs. Any- 
 body needs all the religion he can get. Nobody knows 
 how mnch religion he needs. Xobody knows how 
 much religion he can get. 
 
 If man is "a" mystery, his religion is "the" mys- 
 tery. He can tell you to what church he belongs, but 
 he stammers and stutters when you ask him to what 
 religion he belongs, for he can't tell. He can recite his 
 creed, but he can't recite his religion. His church has 
 a steeple, his creed has words, but his religion has 
 neither. 
 
 Yet he is ever seeking to put a steeple to it taller 
 than his neighbors'; is ever trying to crowd it into a 
 prayer book, whose flexible binding, golden edges and 
 delicate paper will excite the admiration of those in 
 the next pew. But when in the shadowed recess of his 
 own solitude he is alone with him in whose image he 
 
 was created, the tall spire shrinks to that of the toy 
 house, and the prayer book is as a picture book of 
 
8 TOMMY AND HIS TEACHEK. 
 
 the nursery, and he then knows his religion is neither 
 church nor creed. He cannot tell you what it is, but 
 he feels his soul swinging between the mysteries of the 
 finite and the infinite, as the censer of true worship, 
 and from the rising incense he knows there is the truer 
 religion of his life. 
 
 A man can fool himself easier than he can fool the 
 world. He can put fresh starch in his white tie, still 
 more starch in his face, can stand before the glass of 
 his own judgment and primp and putter until he deems 
 himself most proper, but he cannot walk a block down 
 the street of daily activity without the passers-by see- 
 ing that it is only starch and primp, a mere make-up, 
 the awkward playing of a part. When in the heated 
 struggle that white tie becomes crumpled, when those 
 proper pantaloons get the Sunday crease out of them, 
 when the shine is off the shoes, and the high silk hat 
 is laid aside for the greasy cap of the shop, his religion 
 is gone, and the world knows it. One may fool him- 
 self, but not his neighbor. That neighbor knows 
 whether one's religion comes out of the clothes-press 
 or out of the heart. 
 
 The interest excited by Ian Maclaren's sermons in 
 stories has caused much discussion of the Drum- 
 tochty gospel which he preaches. He has gathered up 
 
TOMMY AND HIS TEACHER. L J 
 
 his belief and teaching in a creed which has met with 
 endorsement of Jew and Gentile, and of all shades of 
 theological belief, and yet has been attacked with the 
 greatest bitterness by an equally varied opposition. It 
 reads : 
 
 "I believe in the Fatherhood of God. I believe 
 in the words of Jesus. I believe in the clean heart. I 
 believe in the service of love. I believe in the un- 
 worldly life. I believe in the beatitudes. I promise 
 to trust God and follow Christ, to forgive my enemies 
 and to seek after the righteousness of God." 
 
 Such is what has been given out as the "Life Creed," 
 an attempt of the warmest love and the clearest thought 
 of the age to put into words the expression of religious 
 faith and life, and yet crowded as it is with humanitar- 
 ianism, void as it is of theological technicalities, it is 
 championed and opposed with a fierceness of struggle 
 evincing a spirit which has anything in it but religion. 
 
 Tommy was the worst schoolboy in one of the 
 worst wards of the great city. His teacher was both 
 discouraged and angered. She rushed him into the 
 hall for the merited punishment. One, two, three 
 stinging blows, and then there stole into the teach- 
 er's heart the thought of the loveless home-life of that 
 orphaned boy, and at the sight of his frail little body, 
 that worn and faded jacket, the starving soul and the 
 
10 TOMMY AND HIS TEACHER. 
 
 hungry heart, poor, ill-fed, unloved little fellow — what 
 show had he had for his life? The raised hand 
 dropped, and she burst into tears, turned her face from 
 the sad picture of abused, misused humanity, and 
 sobbed as though his grief was her own. The scowl 
 disappeared from the dirty face, and there was more 
 than the hint of a tear in the lad's great brown eyes, 
 and as the teacher stood with turned face, leaning sob- 
 bingly against the wall, she felt that grimy little hand 
 tugging at her skirt and there was a bashful pleading: 
 
 "Don't cry!" 
 
 She turned to find that tears had taken the place 
 of defiance in that boyish face, and she stooped and 
 kissed those dirty checks, and threw her arms about 
 the ragged form. 
 
 She had found religion. He had found religion. 
 What cared he, what cared she, whether it was worded 
 according to the Apostles' creed or the Drumtochty 
 gospel? What need of creed at all? 
 
 That Christmas there was found on that teacher's 
 desk a bit of cardboard with some pictures pasted on it. 
 There was a smearing of flour-paste, there were fin- 
 ger-marks, there was little art, but of all the gifts of 
 that glad time it was the most precious, for it came 
 from the best pupil in her school. It was more than 
 a gift. It was Tommy's confession of faith, his sacra- 
 
TOMMY AND HIS TEACHER. 11 
 
 mental vow, his holy orders, the proof that he had 
 passed from death unto life. Only a dauby, home- 
 made picture card? Ah, sometime when we are no 
 longer blindly groping we shall look up and see a 
 crown on that teacher's brow, and the brightest gem 
 in the cluster the crystalizing of the love pictured so 
 crudely in Tommy's crumpled, grimy card which lay 
 on that teacher's desk at Christmas-time. 
 
 How often we have to be taken into the hallway. 
 We feel the blows. We grow defiant. Why cannot 
 we see that the great Teacher is sobbing in sympathy 
 at our orphanage, our waywardness? It is not until 
 we hear the sobs, not until love drives defiance out of 
 the heart, not until we reach out the pleading hand, 
 not until we yield, that we feel the kiss of reconcilia- 
 tion, the loving arms of protection, and know what 
 religion is. 
 
 Then we may seek to frame our creeds. We may 
 cut out a picture here and one there. We may trim 
 and paste, but at the best there will be finger-marks, 
 there will be smearings — not much of a work of art. 
 Better than nothing, though, for it is the best we can 
 do. It isn't religion, though. 
 
 Xo, religion is that unseen, unuttered, mysterious 
 something, which changes Tommy from the worst to 
 the best bov in the school. What if you can't tell what 
 
12 TOMMY AND HIS TEACHER. 
 
 it is? You know what it does. That is enough. The 
 picture card, crude as it is, is precious, but it is prec- 
 ious only because of the daily faithfulness at the task, 
 the willing obedience to duty, the loving enthusiasm 
 of service — precious because it tells that both teacher 
 and Tommy have the same religion, though they don't 
 belong to the same church. 
 
THE GRAND OLD MAN. 
 
 ki From toil he wins his spirit light, 
 From busj T day the peaceful nig-ht/' 
 
 Only a little picture which might have found its 
 way into the waste basket together with the news- 
 paper in which it was printed had not a sudden whim 
 rescued it with a pair of scissors and stuck it up over 
 the table of the busy worker. The art critic wouldn't 
 have given it a second look, and would have seen in 
 it no better use than to build a fire, but the busy 
 worker saw in it the building of a better fire, one which 
 would warm the heart instead of the body, one which 
 would take the chill off of life not one day, but every 
 day, and so it was pasted up, simple and crude, only 
 a combination of black ink and cheap paper, and yet 
 as full of inspiration as the vision of an angel. 
 
 Only an old man, bending over his desk, sur- 
 rounded by books and papers, the locks thin arid 
 white, the brow knitted in thought deeper even than 
 the wrinkles, the lips pursed with a determination 
 which marks the heroic effort battling against physi- 
 cal weakness, the old, old hand holding the old, old 
 
14 THE GRAND OLD MAN. 
 
 pen and trying to write out the answer to the old, old 
 problem. 
 
 A grand old man. 
 
 Yes, "the" grand old man. 
 
 Still working away, though the clock had long 
 since struck the allotted three-score years and ten and 
 the hands were long past bedtime. Working for what? 
 Honor? One of the greatest nations on earth had al- 
 ready given him all that it had to give, and the whole 
 world had clapped its hands and cheered until its voice 
 was hoarse and his ear weary. Wealth? With a purse 
 heavy enough to meet his every need, what cared he 
 for more? Learning? With frosted head towering- 
 above the scholars of earth, he dwelt beyond the 
 clouds, and problems and philosophies which racked 
 the brains of others w T ere to him as simple as the mul- 
 tiplication table, and yet there was the same bending 
 over the desk, the same wrinkling of the brow, the 
 same pursing of the lips, the same holding of the pen, 
 still working on, not for honor, not for wealth, not for 
 learning, but for the love of the work. 
 
 Nowadays, when there is such a rush and grab 
 for a soft job, it is an inspiration to catch sight of the 
 form of the grand old man hunting for a hard job. In 
 the midst of the din and tumult, where is heard the re- 
 peated cry of "Give me something easy," it is inspiring 
 
THE GRAND OLD MAX. 15 
 
 to hear the clarion shout of the grand old man, "Give 
 me something hard/' 
 
 There is no hanging about the throne asking for 
 jingling gew-gaws to be pinned to his breast because 
 he was the son of his father. And so he became the 
 grand old man. 
 
 The dawdling young fellow whose only vision of 
 life is bounded by toothpick toes and a high collar, 
 who is ready to quit the struggle before he has begun 
 it, ought to study the picture of the old man working 
 on for the love of his work — study it until he has 
 caught its inspiration and its secret. The picture is 
 in many a home, not a scrap of paper rudely scissored 
 out and hastily pasted up, but a living picture, throb- 
 bing with love and earnestness, wrought in God's own 
 studio, and despite the dust and the marring, one can 
 still see the name of the divine artist if he will but 
 look. Yet the hand of youth, fearing that its lily white- 
 ness may be soiled and its linked cuffs rumpled, 
 shrinks from the work which has made of the old man 
 a grand old man, and he turns the picture to the wall. 
 
 But to the weary worker the glimpse of such a 
 picture framed in real life is like a quaff from the 
 fountain of eternal joy and strength. Tired? Feel like 
 quitting? Discouraged? Take a look at the picture 
 
16 THE GRAND OLD MAN. 
 
 of the grand old man, and bend to the task again 
 and you will find it easier. Soon you will begin to 
 fall in love with your work. You will soon be wooing 
 it, and then you will be winning it. 
 
 Ah, you say, there is so little chance to win wealth, 
 honor, learning. When the work is done and the tired 
 head rests on the pillow no one will even notice that 
 "He sleeps at last/' The wires will not quiver with 
 grief, the bells will not toll, the worn garment will not 
 be treasured in Westminster, then why work on? 
 Look again at the picture of the grand old man and 
 catch the inspiration of its teaching that the richest 
 reward is the thrill which comes from w r orking for the 
 love of the work. Bend over the face of the grand 
 old man as he feels himself falling to sleep and catch 
 his whispered — "No flowers." 
 
A BANG UP' DAY.' - 
 
 •"Busted all my shootin" crackers. 
 
 Shot off all my rockets, too: 
 Roman candles, devil chasers. 
 
 Burnt my face "ith powder — blue! 
 Got a flnerer blistered orful. 
 
 Got one eye closed, some old way, 
 "X my hair is all swinged off me — 
 
 But I had a bang up day!*" 
 
 The homeliest poets often tell the greatest truths. 
 Those famous friends of the muses who sit among the 
 clouds and sing to us of the heavens do not get near 
 enough to earth to see what is going on and so it 
 takes some clumsy rhymester, who is shuffling about 
 in the dusty highways where the common folks are 
 sweltering and struggling, to chant the real psalm of 
 real life. 
 
 "But I had a 'bang up 5 day." 
 
 That was about all the boy got out of the Fourth 
 of July. At least he thought so then, and although he 
 has now become a gray-haired man, perhaps he thinks 
 so still, but as Ave looked at him the other night stand- 
 ing in the crowd listening to the Marine band playing 
 "The Star Spangled Banner," we fancied he got more 
 
18 "a 'bang up' day." 
 
 out of that Fourth of July so long ago than he knew 
 then,, or realizes now. As he stood with uncovered 
 head, listening to the old, old tune, and watching the 
 great flag as it was suddenly unfurled from the top of 
 the band stand when the music struck up, and while 
 the crowd was yelling itself hoarse, and fair hands 
 were waving handkerchiefs, we saw him glance up at 
 the old colors, and then wipe away the tears. 
 
 Weak and silly? The little button which he wore 
 in the lapel of his coat gave the lie to such a thought, 
 for it told the story of four years of such heroism as 
 the world had never seen before, and which the world 
 will never cease to honor. The little button spoke of 
 fearless facing of shot and shell, of weary marches, of 
 starlit sleeping on the hard ground, of hunger and 
 thirst, of wounds and of pains, of the longing for home, 
 and all borne like a Spartan — no, the little button gave 
 proof that there was no weakness nor silliness in the 
 hand that wiped away the tear as the old flag was un- 
 furled and the band struck up the old tune. One would 
 hardly recognize in him the boy who so many years 
 ago fancied that all there was in a Fourth of July was 
 a hurrah and an explosion and whose recollection of 
 the celebration all crowded into the thought — 
 
 "But I had a 'bang up' day." 
 
"A 'bang up 1 day." 19 
 
 The fellow who figures on the amount of gun- 
 powder wasted and the human misery caused by what 
 seems to him a needless celebration of the Fourth is 
 always on earth. When he isn't figuring on this his 
 pencil is busy proving that more money is spent for 
 chewing gum every year than for missions, and that 
 the fizz of the soda fountain would pay off the national 
 debt. He is an adept in figuring out losses, but when 
 it comes to profits the point breaks off his pencil and 
 his slate is cracked. There are no tables of weights 
 and measures in his arithmetic by which he can tell 
 how T far the flutter of a flag reaches, how fast the sound 
 of a firecracker travels, nor what the distance is be- 
 tween the gray-haired veteran who stands listening to 
 the old tune, looking at the old flag and wiping away 
 the tear, and the patriotic little urchin who forgets his 
 burns and blisters in the thought — 
 
 "But I had a 'bang up' day." 
 
 Is the money spent for fireworks a mere waste? 
 
 Yes, if all there is to life is to make money and 
 save it. If this is to be the rule of action, then let there 
 be bare floors in the home, let there be no toys in 
 the nursery, no music at the fireside, no pictures on the 
 wall, no flowers in the vase, no ring on the finger; 
 smash the stained windows of the cathedral, hush the 
 chimes of bells, pull down the cross on the spire, and 
 
20 fc% A 'bang up' day." 
 
 let us huddle in a wigwam and grind our food with a 
 stone. 
 
 Isn't it well once in a while to stop and listen to 
 the sweet music of that voice which spoke as never 
 man spoke, and to learn the simple wisdom that we 
 are not to live by bread alone? Plighted love might 
 be just as true, and the union of the two hearts just 
 as close, even if the wine for the feast was wanting, 
 but the Master recognized the desire and so he smiled 
 upon the water, causing it to blush. When he gath- 
 ered about him the few and bid them "as often as ye 
 do this do it in remembrance of me;' he saw in the com- 
 ing years that the few would be the many, and by 
 symbols and ceremonies their hearts would be made 
 to beat quicker and their memories to paint more vivid 
 pictures. The simple blossom pinned to the lapel, the 
 little golden curl laid away in the drawer, the ring 
 slipped on the finger, the flag fluttering above the roof, 
 the cross surmounting the spire, each has its mission, 
 each whispers memories of the past, and inspires 
 hopes for the future. 
 
 A waste of money? 
 
 Influences cannot be weighed in the scales. Life 
 cannot be expressed in dollars and cents. Manhood 
 cannot be measured by the yardstick. The hand 
 
"a 'bang up' day." 21 
 
 which today plays with the firecracker may 
 tomorrow hold the sword. The voice which today 
 yells with boyish delight may tomorrow ring out 
 the inspiring command of a leader. There is more 
 to the noisy celebration than the noise. The few dimes 
 spent for firecrackers are not wasted. They are 
 dropped into the great treasure house from which 
 patriotism may draw at will its wealth of inspiration 
 and of strength when the need shall come. 
 
THE OLD FAMILY BIBLE. 
 
 WANTED— A FAMILY BIBLE: NO RE- 
 vised edition, Woman's Bible or any other 
 new fang-led kind need apply. Address, The 
 Great World. . 
 
 "I wouldn't take $1,000 for that old family Bible." 
 As he sat in the home corner he didn't seem like the 
 same stern-faced, quick-spoken man of the world, 
 whom you had watched tearing open telegrams, dic- 
 tating to his stenographer, sharply bidding one to go, 
 another to come, too busy to relight the half-burned 
 cigar with which his lips were nervously playing — no, 
 he didn't seem the same, lounging in his library chair 
 as when at his desk, but he was. 
 
 If you want to see the real man you must wait 
 until he hangs up his business coat and puts on his 
 smoking jacket. 
 
 This man wasn't a preacher, nor a deacon, and not 
 even a church member, and yet — 
 
 "I wouldn't take $1,000 for that old family Bible. " 
 
 Why did this man of the world want a family 
 Bible? 
 
 As memory turned back the pages he didn't need to 
 put on his glasses to note the dotting of every "i" and 
 
THE OLD FAMILY BIBLE. 26 
 
 the crossing, of every "t" of the family record, for he 
 could read much more than was written on that page 
 of "Births'' and which contained the names of twelve. 
 He was again living in the days when motherhood 
 was still in fashion and when fatherhood counted its 
 wealth by the number of its children. 
 
 As he shifted the old book to the other knee the 
 rheumatic twinge told him that many years had passed 
 since, as the baby of the twelve, that knee had bent so 
 nimbly and thoughtlessly in the family prayer service. 
 That old family Bible then rested on another and 
 worthier knee, while mother leaned lovingly over the 
 page to read with father, and each in the loving circle 
 in turn read a verse from one of the twelve smaller 
 Bibles which at the close of the service were carefully 
 piled on top of the old family Bible to await the next 
 call of the angelus. 
 
 He had learned his very letters from the same old 
 book, as they were pointed out to him by father's 
 horn-handled knife, which often tempted his boyish 
 envy to gaze more upon its wonders than upon the 
 teachings of holy writ. He little thought then that 
 the opening of the family Bible was the opening of the 
 door for him to enter into the world's great parliament 
 of religion and into the library of all ages. 
 
24 THE OLD FAMILY BIBLE. 
 
 There was a good-bye, and even the old door 
 seemed to add a sad creak to the household lament as 
 the eldest son stepped out into the world, and though he 
 left his little Bible piled up with the others on top 
 of the big family one, who knows how much of it he 
 took with him? Only God and the angels. Then the 
 others followed, one by one, until there came the first 
 of the many lonesome hours when the wrinkled hands 
 lifted tenderly one after another of the twelve little 
 books from off the old family Bible and two gray 
 heads bent lovingly together over its open pages, and 
 two bent forms bow r ed to ask a blessing on the absent 
 ones. Then the old family Bible was put in its place, 
 and the tw T elve little ones were piled up upon it, each 
 serving as a reminder of a dear one, for there were 
 the marks on the covers of little teeth which at prayer 
 time had found more entertainment in nibbling than 
 in devotion, and there were the boyish scrawlings of 
 names upon the fly leaves, and the marks of dirty 
 fingers on the pages. The long years seemed shorter, 
 the absent ones seemed nearer, the visits more frequent 
 because of the daily touch of the twelve little Bibles 
 no longer needed in the family prayer circle which had 
 narrowed to the two who found all their wants sup- 
 plied in the pages of the old book. 
 
 Then as this man of the world turned the leaf, 
 
THE OLD FAMILY BIBLE. 25 
 
 some of the ashes from his cigar dropped upon the 
 page, and he hurriedly brushed them away, and yet 
 why not let them stay? ''Deaths" — how the list had 
 grown, and whose name shall be next written? How 
 well he remembers the sad family reunion when those 
 still living sought to comfort father while those who 
 had gone before were welcoming mother. As they 
 stepped from the carriages and for the first time 
 entered into the silent gloom of a home without a 
 mother, how brave father tried to be as he lifted off 
 one after another of the little books and then opening 
 their old family Bible made the sad record of his grief, 
 and then turning to him, no longer the baby boy of 
 the household, said: 
 
 "My son, I fear that you will have to write the next 
 record in the old family Bible.'' 
 
 And so he had, and the old home was gone. 
 
 Doesn't the busy man of the world need the old 
 family Bible to link memories with hopes, and isn't he 
 all the better for their gentle whisperings to the angel 
 of his better self? If he was going to buy a new Bible 
 he wouldn't get one like this for the binding is old- 
 fashioned, the paper not of the best, and there are not 
 the maps and side notes and indexes and tables and 
 all those essentials to the modern Bible, and yet the 
 latest Oxford with its flexible cover and its delicate 
 
26 THE OLD FAMILY BIBLE. 
 
 rice paper could never take the place of the old family 
 Bible. The modern church, the higher criticism, the 
 new creed, are all well enough, but there are sacred 
 ties still binding to the past, which cannot be ruth- 
 lessly snapped. Like the old family Bible, we may lay 
 the old creed reverently on the shelf, and place with 
 it the theological notions for which we have no further 
 use, like the twelve little Bibles, to serve simply as 
 memorials, yet still they are too sacred to be thrown 
 into the furnace room. 
 
 We have learned to read better than when we 
 stumbled over letters pointed out by father's horn- 
 handled knife, but there are the same great truths to 
 spell out, and there is the same recording of births 
 and deaths, and the same strange questioning as to 
 whose name shall next be penned and by whom? 
 
 And there's ever the need of the old familv Bible. 
 
THE BOGY AT THE TRUNDLE-BED. 
 
 '•If I should die before I wake. 
 I pray the Lord my soul to take." 
 
 Then the tired little head snuggles down into the 
 pillow and thinks of the lump of sugar sneaked from 
 the table and the raisins filched from the cupboard, 
 the whisper in school, and all the other hideous crimes 
 of the day, and the curtains of night are not thick 
 enough nor drawn close enough to shut out the 
 thought of fear lest death is lurking in the darkness. 
 The poor little sinner trembles at the bar of a guilty 
 conscience until tired nature, which is the tenderest 
 of mothers, touches the long lashes with its gentle 
 hand and whispers to the troubled little soul, "Peace, 
 be still." 
 
 The little trundle-bed prayer seems almost too 
 sacred to be touched by the critic, for it brings back 
 father's kindly good-night and mother's loving kiss, 
 and one feels that it should be handled with as gentle 
 reverence as the lock of hair folded in the old yellow 
 letter which brings back the sacred love whispered in 
 the moonlight so long ago. But after all, the prayer 
 is man-made, and not God-made, like that other famil- 
 
28 THE BOGY AT THE TRUNDLE-BED. 
 
 iar prayer given by the elder brother, who, gathering 
 about him all the children of the great family, taught 
 them to say "Our Father." Blundering man would 
 have said "Our King" and would have prayed for 
 dying grace instead of living grace. The man-made 
 prayer is for night when the curtains are drawn, with 
 the somber thought, 
 
 "If I should die before I wake." 
 
 The God-made prayer causes the fingers of love to 
 pull aside the draperies of gloom that fear may flee 
 w r ith the shadows of the departing night, as the in- 
 pouring sunshine of hope causes the heart to ask the 
 Father to "give us this day our daily bread." 
 
 It is human to fear. It is divine to hope, so being 
 human we go all the w r ay from the trundle-bed to the 
 tomb with a trembling step. We people the air with 
 microbes and freight the breezes witn infection. We 
 are constantly warning the children against eating this 
 or that and we lean over the fence every morning to 
 exchange symptoms and ailments with the neighbors. 
 Physically, mentally and morally we are always warn- 
 ing instead of winning. We are forever picturing 
 bogies instead of fairies. We string danger signals 
 all along the roadway and are forever tooting the ter- 
 rifying whistle and the journey is one of constant 
 anxiety. We are ever in the shadow wondering, 
 
THE BOGY AT THE TRUNDLE-BED. 29 
 
 "If I should die before I wake," 
 instead of hopefully looking into the loving face of the 
 Father and asking, 
 
 "Give us this day our daily bread/' 
 
 We warn the rollicking boy that he is going to the 
 bad instead of winning him to go to tne good. We 
 sneer at the story of George Washington and his 
 hatchet and yet it has done more to inspire truthful- 
 ness than the story of Ananias. The fear of the bears 
 rushing out to eat up little children who do not show 
 proper respect to the bald-headed prophet has never 
 caused such true respect to be shown to one's elders 
 and superiors as the manifestation of such true merit 
 as wins respect even when no bears are in sight. 
 
 Did you ever try walking for the sake of health? 
 You start out with no special place in view, no mission 
 to perform, no purpose to accomplish, but simply to 
 keep from being sick, and every block seems the 
 length of two and your heart is soon as heavy as your 
 feet. But when you are hurrying to catch the smile 
 of a loving face, the distance to a trystmg place is cov- 
 ered by light feet to which the heart of joy gives wings, 
 and healthy, happy exercise gives beauty to age and 
 changes wrinkles to dimples. 
 
30 THE BOGY AT THE TRUNDLE-BED. 
 
 The sight of a narrow chest and the sound of a 
 hectic cough do not drive the lad to play foot ball. 
 The charm of the healthy, happy flush of triumph, the 
 music of the boisterous but victorious yell, the v%or 
 of brawn, the flash of eye, the hurrah, the battle won, 
 pride of achievement, all these win him to the field of 
 helpful activity when the warnings of frailty, the feeble 
 footstep, the wheezy breath, the pinched face would be 
 all in vain. 
 
 If the kindergarten training does nothing more for 
 the world than to emphasize the superiority of winning 
 over warning it has accomplished a needed mission. 
 The rod may not be spared, but it is, after all, the lov- 
 ing hand which leads more easily than the rod can 
 drive. The artist gathers inspiration for his touch by 
 gazing upon a rainbow 7 instead of a crazy-quilt. One 
 may gain language by studying the demerits of the 
 stump speaker that he may avoid them, but far more 
 by studying the merits of the true orator that he may 
 imitate them. The pen which sets the copy in the 
 writing book should do it gracefully, that beauty may 
 be patterned after, rather than blunderingly, that de- 
 formity may be avoided. 
 
 Poor, wabbling humanity, when it succeeds in 
 climbing up the mountain side and seeks to speak to 
 
THE BOGY AT THE TRUNDLE-BED. 31 
 
 its fellows, opens its mouth and teaches them, saying: 
 "Cursed are the impure in heart; for they shall not 
 
 see God/' 
 
 But the Great Teacher had greater wisdom and 
 
 tenderer love and he wooed the heart of the world and 
 
 won it with the promise : 
 
 "Blessed are the pure in heart; for they shall see 
 
 God." 
 
 When shall we who seek to teach at fireside and in 
 forum, learn how to teach? 
 
 Are we to be forever spending our time wandering 
 through the marshes repainting the signs, "No bot- 
 tom here/' or shall we fill the king's highway with 
 such enticing music and sunshiny companionship that 
 we shall woo instead of warn and be drawn instead of 
 be driven? 
 
 As we go to the Father to tell him our mistakes 
 and to show him our needs, shall w T e tremblingly bury 
 our heads in the darkness with the shivering thought — 
 
 "If I should die before I wake?'' 
 or shall we look hopefully out- upon the dawning light 
 of a sunshiny day and confidentlyask — 
 
 "Give us this dav our dailv bread." 
 
ROSES AND THORNS. 
 
 ••Men grumble because God put thorns on roses. 
 Wouldn't it be better to thank God that he put 
 roses on thorns?" 
 
 The one who wrote that text got $500 for it, that 
 being the prize offered by Evangelist Moody for the 
 "best thougfit" in a competition. Anyone who will 
 preach the right kind of a sermon from that text can 
 get more than $500 — not a sermon delivered from the 
 pulpit — not one either spoken or written — for such 
 sermons are easy to preach and are often worth but 
 little after they have been preached. No, the sermon 
 which one must preach from that text in order to win 
 the big prize must be one which needs no louder voice 
 than that of a heart-throb, no language but that of a 
 smile, no schooling but that of love, no listeners save 
 the stars, no pulpit but God's footstool. 
 
 A pretty sentiment, you say? Yes, not only pretty, 
 but practical. No sentiment is really pretty that isn't 
 practical. The rose has its mission as truly as the 
 thorn, but we turn from the beauty and fragrance of 
 the one to give thought to the discomfort and pain of 
 
ROSES OX THORNS. 33 
 
 the other. The flower smiles with cheery greeting and 
 we scowl back because the thumb has been pricked. 
 We think more of the bandage than of the bouton- 
 niere, more of the pain than the joy, and are forever 
 reminding ourselves that there is no rose without a 
 thorn, and never think that there is no thorn without 
 a rose. 
 
 We are forever on the search for happiness, and 
 yet we search in such a way that we are forever find- 
 ing anything but happiness. We think of the thorn 
 too much and of the rose too little. The rain breaks 
 ap the picnic and spoils the races and we grunt and 
 grumble without a thought of how the thirsty earth is 
 joyously drinking it in that its parched lips may again 
 smile with the joy of harvest. We grumble because 
 the head tosses on a restless pillow and forget how soft 
 and cuddling that pillow is and how sweet it is to be 
 under the protecting shelter of home, with the hand 
 of love ready to respond to the softest whisper of need. 
 We worry because of the waywardness of that boy and 
 wonder whether he will ever be a comfort to old age 
 and forget that he is a comfort now, with all of his 
 awkward, rollicking ways, and that if he should go 
 out. of the home there would be heartache in the wait- 
 ing and listening for the returning footstep never to 
 be heard again. But no, there's the mud he has care- 
 
34 ROSES ON THORNS. 
 
 lessly tracked in, and he's so noisy, and he is late to 
 his meals, and forgets the chores, and — we see only the 
 thorns, and make ourselves unhappy and him, too. 
 
 We ruin our digestion by watching every mouthful 
 to see if it isn't going to cause us trouble. We greet 
 our friends in the morning with an inquiry as to their 
 aches and ailments and part with them at night with 
 a hope that they will be able to sleep well, expressed as 
 though it was hoping against hope. The invigorating 
 approach of winter causes one to think only of the 
 shivering and not of the glowing, and the resurrection 
 of spring is robbed of its charms in the thought of that 
 tired feeling. We forget that God's roses bloom in 
 all seasons and breathe forth their fragrance in the 
 darkness as well as in the light. 
 
 The glories of the victory are forgotten as we figure 
 up the cost. The sight of the wan face and the empty 
 sleeve causes the welcoming love to forget to thank 
 God that the lips are still warm and the heart still 
 beats. We would be so much happier if we would but 
 press in the book of remembrance the rose leaf, that 
 as the pages are turned it might remind us of the bless- 
 ing of its beauty and cause us to forget the pain of its 
 thorn. 
 
ROSES OX THORXS. OO 
 
 One can carry so much more sunshine clown the 
 street by pointing to the rose in the buttonhole instead 
 of to the thorn in the thumb. Even your friend does 
 not care to see that sore thumb but once, but he will 
 look again and again at your rose, and smile each time 
 it smiles at him. The world wants more bonbons and 
 fewer bandages, more shouts and fewer sighs, mere 
 laughter and less lamentation, and the heart which can 
 thus gather and give cheer is the one which thanks the 
 Father for putting roses on thorns. 
 
 The church which has such a creed will woo and 
 win the world to helpfulness and happiness. The great 
 congregation of humanity is tired of the preacher, as 
 well as of the politician, who never opens his mouth 
 without declaring: "We view with alarm." The ear 
 is weary listening to those who have only apologies 
 and explanations to offer because God moves in such 
 a mysterious way and because he sends such tribula- 
 tions and trials to his children. There is a longing of 
 the heart to see the rose leaves scattered through the 
 pages of life, to breathe in the fragrance of blessing, 
 to forget the thorn and think of the flower. The world 
 has tired of the picturings of punishment, and needs 
 to be cheered by the promises of reward. It would 
 be so much happier, if instead of having only one 
 thanksgiving day in the year and 364 days of grum- 
 
36 ROSES OX THORNS. 
 
 bling, it could make every day one of thanking God 
 for putting roses on thorns and none for complaining 
 because God put thorns on roses. 
 
 It is all wrong to prize the music most after it is 
 hushed, to love the face most after it has vanished, to 
 cherish the flower most after it is faded. The Father 
 loves to have his children happy while the harmony is 
 still thrilling the air, while the smile is still on the face, 
 and the beauty still on the blossom. That child of his 
 who by happy living can thus preach to his fellows a 
 daily sermon can win a greater prize for himself and 
 for the world than the one who wrote the text. He 
 cannot rid the world of thorns, but he can cause hearts 
 to forget their aches, smiles to chase away tears, sun- 
 shine to drive shadow from the pathway, and in thus 
 doing he will be doing the work of the Father who 
 lovingly placed roses on thorns. 
 
BRINGING UP A HUSBAND. 
 
 "Remember that 3-011 are raising- 3-our ben' to 
 be some woman's husband." ' 
 
 The motto which a western woman's club has on 
 its wall should be placed in living letters over every 
 fireside. In almost every old storeroom and garret 
 there may be found the faded and frayed crocheting 
 of the old motto, "God Bless Our Home." It long 
 since served its purpose, and yet it seemed almost 
 sacrilegious to throw it on the rubbish pile, and so 
 it has been given a place beside the old hair trunk, 
 containing the yellow letters and the ambrotypes, 
 baby's first shoes and the little faded frock of the one 
 whose laughter is now only an echo. The old motto 
 belongs among the things which we still keep simply 
 to remind us of what we have outgrown and what we 
 have lost. It is well that the broader religion of today 
 should revise the old time saying of grace by which 
 the blessing was asked for "me and my wife, my son 
 John and his wife," and that the old motto should be 
 laid aside and that there should be put in the place of 
 
 "God bless our home," 
 
 "God bless another home." 
 
38 BRINGING UP A HUSBAND. 
 
 It is well that the text should be found in a 
 woman's heart and the sermon preached by a woman's 
 life. None knows better than the mother what sort of 
 a man her boy must be in order to be a worthy hus- 
 band of some other woman. She knows how provok- 
 ing it is to have the mud tracked in, the newspapers 
 thrown on the floor, and the cigar ashes scattered on 
 the dresser cover. She has waited meals and heard 
 the grumbling at the breakfast table, and she knows 
 just what sort of an ideal husband she would like to 
 have, and just what sort of a man her boy should be 
 in order to be the ideal husband for some other woman. 
 But there are many things which that boy needs to be 
 taught besides wiping his feet on the rug, and being 
 on time to his meals, and they can be taught by a 
 woman only, for only a woman knows. She remem- 
 bers when in the long ago she timidly placed her fin- 
 gers in the strong and loving hand of him to whom 
 in all the coming years .she was to look for care and 
 protection. Those were days of moonlight and music, 
 and the world seemed a fairy land in which her lover 
 was the chivalrous knight. That strong hand was 
 always then extended in thoughtful gentleness to place 
 the wrap about her shoulders, to assist her into the 
 carriage, to hold the umbrella, get a cooling drink, to 
 pick up her fan and provide her with caramels, and 
 yet he loves her more even than he did then, would 
 
BRINGING UP A HUSBAND. 6 L J 
 
 sacrifice more for her, would do more for her — but 
 he doesn't think of the wrap, the carriage, the glass of 
 water, the fan, and the caramels. He doesn't realize 
 how much these things mean to a woman, not because 
 of the things themselves, for she can throw on her own 
 wrap, pick up her own fan, get her own glass of water 
 and buy her own caramels, but the thoughtfulness is 
 what she misses, for the smaller the service the greater 
 seems the thoughtfulness which inspires it. Life has 
 become so hum-drum. There are no more of those 
 cosy little visits in the shadows of the vine, and love 
 no longer is a duet but a solo. It's shop and kitchen, 
 and the clock is always striking the hour to go to 
 work or the hour to go to sleep. There's no more time 
 for dawdling with the flowers and caramels of life. 
 Courtesy seems well enough for lovers, but with old 
 married people everything is business. The little foxes 
 go on with their destroying of the vines unnoticed, 
 and soon there is nothing but the bare trellis, its charm 
 gone, and there are none of the old enticements for the 
 cosy whisperings of confidences and the interchang- 
 ing of little experiences of the day — so trifling — so un- 
 important — yet which make up so much of the life of 
 the busy wife and weary mother. 
 
 The work of raising a boy to be some other 
 woman's husband will not succeed very well until the 
 
40 BRINGING UP A HUSBAND. 
 
 mother of that boy learns the secret of how to control 
 the husband who was raised for her. In the home 
 where everything is left for father to decide, where 
 the paternal rod is ever kept in pickle, and the boy is 
 forever being threatened with "Just wait until your 
 father comes home/' where mother's wishes are ig- 
 nored, and she is looked upon as too feeble to think 
 and too weak to act, because she is only a woman, 
 where the only thought of the cape is to place it upon 
 the shoulders of a visitor, and the only picking up of 
 the fan is when it is dropped by a stranger, the boy 
 who is being raised for some other woman's husband 
 will be much the kind of a husband which his father 
 has been. He may see that the grocery bills are paid, 
 that the roof doesn't leak, and that the lawn is mowed, 
 but there will be the same old feeling that because he 
 holds the purse and runs the store that he is the head 
 of the house, and everything must first pay tribute to 
 him, and it is for him to do all the thinking for the 
 family and let the wife do all the washing. 
 
 It isn't altogether the fault of the husband that he 
 fails to be the ideal which would prove so helpful an 
 example in the raising of that boy to be the husband 
 of some other woman. He doesn't realize how much 
 the heart of the tired little housewife misses the twi- 
 light visit about the seeming nothings, how she looks 
 
BRINGING UP A HUSBAND. 41 
 
 back with a sigh to the evenings when he alone was 
 company enough, and one other would have made it 
 too crowded, how she misses the compliment and the 
 smile, and how as she sits alone on the porch and sees 
 her boy starting out for the lake with the sweetest of 
 summer girls, and hears their merry laughter and 
 chatter, happy in the blowing of the bright bubbles 
 of life, she thinks of the white dress, now yellowed 
 with age, the straw hat, the lover's knot of whose band 
 was long since loosened, and how she wishes and won- 
 ders. Alan is so clumsy and so thoughtless that he 
 doesn't realize that it makes such a difference to her 
 whether he goes up town after supper, and he would 
 be as surprised to find that she would like to have him 
 take her to the lake,' as he would be to find himself 
 going there. 
 
 His fault, you say? If she hadn't taken the little 
 attentions so much for granted, if she had been as 
 quick to reward him with a loving smile and a sweet 
 word for his picking up of the fan dropped after mar- 
 riage as in courtship, he might have noticed now that 
 she has dropped it again. Had she shown as much 
 surprise and pleasure at his thoughtfulness of the flow- 
 ers which he had gathered for her from the dusty 
 street and stuffy office in which he had been so busy 
 and so weary, as of those brought from the green- 
 
42 BRINGING UP A HUSBAND. 
 
 houses of the clays of romance and of youth, he might 
 have kept on bringing flowers. 
 
 ''Remember that you are raising your boy to be 
 some woman's husband." 
 
 Yes, but remember that in doing so there must be 
 first the teaching of the teacher. The home of the 
 boy must be filled with the sunshine of love, there 
 must be the purity of influence, the enticement of 
 charming example, the close entwining of the affec- 
 tions of father and mother, the constant holding up 
 before that boy's eyes the mirror in which his love 
 can see the ideal husband which he is to make when 
 he takes that little maiden in white to his home instead 
 of to the lake. 
 
ONLY A BUD. 
 
 WANTED— A LITTLE GIRL TO GATHER 
 and scatter sunshine: must be useful as well 
 as ornamental. Address in vour own smile. The 
 Great World. 
 
 Of all those flowers in mother's hand, that little 
 bud is the sweetest, and so she tenderly pins it in 
 father's buttonhole as he starts out for another day's 
 battling for home and love. Into the smoke of the 
 shop and the dust of the mart he carries it with him 
 as a cheer and an inspiration. Ah, the heart is more 
 than the coat which covers it, but has it a bud pinned 
 to it? It needs it more than the coat. Wanted — a lit- 
 tle girl. 
 
 Father needs her for his home-coming. He brings 
 home to loving wife the burden of care which he has 
 gathered during the day, and what has wife to offer 
 in exchange? Only another burden of care which she 
 has gathered from nursery and kitchen. He brings 
 home, too, some picture cards for little darling, and 
 what has she to offer in exchange? Picture for pic- 
 ture, brightness for brightness. In the busiest hour 
 of the day he had happened to glance from the bud 
 
44 ONLY A BUD. 
 
 pinned on the lapel to that resting on the heart be- 
 neath, and instead of throwing those advertising cards 
 into the waste-basket, he had carefully placed them 
 in the pocket of his shaggy coat, smiling as he thought 
 of how that little hand would with its eager expect- 
 ancy make its usual search of what she had long since 
 learned was to her a treasure house in which love had 
 always something for her. Some of the investments 
 of the day had gone wrong. Some of his work and 
 his worry had been wasted. But the investment in 
 those advertising cards paid a thousand per cent, and 
 paid it in the golden coin of the realm of heaven. 
 
 That little bud was pinned to his heart with a good- 
 bye kiss in the morning, and as from time to time dur- 
 ing the noisy hours he had glanced down at it he had 
 worked more and sinned less because of it. He never 
 stopped, perhaps, to think what that bud meant to him, 
 but just as w r hen the coat bears a boutonniere one feels 
 rebuked at letting the dust gather, or the spots remain, 
 and hastens to brush off the one and sponge off the 
 other, so he who wears a bud on his heart is a little 
 more careful to avoid the dust and the spots. The bud 
 is a rebuke, and one feels ashamed. 
 
 God pity the man who has no such bud pinned to 
 his heart. 
 
ONLY A BUD. 45 
 
 Mother needs that little girl as much as she needs 
 a hand-glass. There is a more faithful reflection of 
 her every smile and frown. Mother did not realize 
 how fretty she was getting, didn't notice how sharp 
 she scolded, until she heard that little voice in like 
 word and like tone trying to regulate the domestic 
 affairs of her play-house. Mother didn't think how- 
 she had got into the habit of constant whining until 
 in a few minutes' rest in the rocking chair she over- 
 heard that mimic mother confiding her imaginary 
 aches and pains to her own doll-child. 
 
 Mother spoke harshly and thoughtlessly of her 
 neighbor, and when the innocent prattler faithfully re- 
 peated what she oughtn't to, and friendship no longer 
 run in by the back door, mother was provoked at the 
 glib little tongue which had caused all this trouble, 
 but her truer self whispered the truth that it was better 
 not only to always speak kindly, but to think kindly, 
 of others. She felt the rebuke voiced by innocence, 
 and became a better woman. 
 
 God pity the woman who has no such little hand- 
 glass. 
 
 Mother needs that little girl just as one needs a 
 pupil in order to become himself the better scholar. 
 Xo hand ever touched a flower in loving care without 
 becoming itself the more graceful. Xo mother ever 
 
46 ONLY A BUD. 
 
 lifted a little soul that it might take hold of the ideal 
 without hearing the whispering of, "Be ye also per- 
 fect/' The boy gets close to mother's heart. Ihe girl 
 stays close to it. There is that peculiar intimacy 
 which begins with the first learning of the over-hand 
 stitch, and which lasts until young womanhood blush- 
 ingly stammers the secret of another heart and another 
 home, and mother sees that she has lost her little girl. 
 God pity the mother who has no such pupil, no 
 such flower. 
 
 The boy needs that little girl. He will tease her, 
 of course — tease her until the grief of her little heart 
 tells itself in the tear — just as the cruel wound causes 
 the forming of the pearl, and yet he doesn't mean to 
 hurt her. If any other boy had made her cry he would 
 have pounded him. He feels ashamed of himself, 
 and when a boy feels ashamed of his unman- 
 liness, he becomes a better boy. He pooh-poohs at 
 her because she's only a girl, but it is just as he pooh- 
 poohs at the flowers, which he puts in mother's hand, 
 and yet in his heart he really feels that they are the 
 sweetest things on earth. He gets that little girl to 
 playing such rough games that mother is shocked, 
 but if he teaches her to climb the fence, she teaches 
 him where to find the daisv, and the boy needs the 
 flower as much as she needs the climb. If he gets 
 
ONLY A BUD. 47 
 
 her to yell "Hello" like a boy, she teaches him to say 
 "Please" like a girl, and he needs the "Please" as 
 much as she needs the "Hello." It is the holy wed- 
 lock of the trellis and the vine of childhood, and whom 
 God hath thus joined together let no man put asunder. 
 God pity the boyish trellis which has no such vine. 
 
 That little girl should be more, though, than a 
 pretty boutonniere, a dazzling hand-glass or a grace- 
 ful vine. The world wants usefulness as well as orna- 
 mentation. The arch flung across the lofty ceiling 
 of life's cathedral may seem like the lace-weaving 
 of the fairies, but God's holy temple needs its strength 
 more than its beauty. That little girl's hand should be 
 skilled in the womanly ornamentation of music and 
 art, but no less skilled in that womanly usefulness 
 which makes the kitchen as sunshiny as the parlor. 
 She should be taught to serve as well as to be served. 
 In the coming years she will need the strength which 
 she gained in climbing the fence. That needle will no 
 longer find amusement in doll clothes, but will be 
 needed for the work on which tears may fall. The 
 feet which glide through the graces of the waltz may 
 needs weary in ministration. Let the fingers now 
 frolic with the joyful melodies, let the play-house now 
 be the whole world, let the feet now move in the ryth- 
 mic gladness of today, but let these be only the orna- 
 
48 ONLY A BUD. 
 
 mentation of that strength which will be so needed 
 on the morrow when the minor chord is touched, when 
 the world is no longer a play-house, and when the feet 
 press where the path is rugged. 
 
 Then the little girl must needs be a little woman. 
 
 Tomorrow will need the strength gained yester- 
 day. 
 
 The world wants such a little girl today as will be 
 such a little woman tomorrow. 
 
"WHEN WE HAVE COMPANY." 
 
 The late Bill X3~e was fond of telling - about a 
 party of guests who were at his dinner table, and 
 whom he was doing- his best to entertain, when 
 one of the compan\-, turning to his little girl, 
 remarked: 
 "Your father is a very funny man." 
 "Yes," responded the child, "when we have 
 compan3 T ." 
 
 What was only a joke about the Nye household 
 is no joke about many other households. 
 
 '''When we have company." 
 
 What a change there is then in the atmosphere 
 of the home. Even the little tot says "Please,'' and 
 the young ruffian, who prides himself on being "one of 
 the kids," sits as meek as a cherub and sweetly an- 
 swers, "Yes, sir," and "No, sir," instead of exploding 
 his usual "Yep" and drawling out his usual "Naw." 
 You wonder why these little hypocrites cannot have 
 their company manners on all the time. Perhaps they 
 would if you kept yours on all the time, but so long as 
 you put them on and off. as you do your company 
 clothes, you can't blame them. 
 
 "When we have company." 
 
 Yes, there are flowers on the table and clean nap- 
 
50 "when we have company." 
 
 kins. But when we're all alone, "we won't bother to 
 change the plates this noon," and "just use the same 
 spoon/' We fancy that we are making it as easy as 
 possible, when in trying to save a little time and a little 
 water we are in fact making life harder. It is all well 
 enough to save one's best dishes and one's best clothes 
 for company, but one ought not to save his best man- 
 ners for company. 
 
 In fact, one ought to have two sets of dishes and 
 two suits of clothes, but no one ought to have more 
 than one set of manners, and tnese should be used and 
 worn just the same "when we have company" and 
 wdien "it's only our own folks." Because the guest 
 should be given a clean napkin there is no reason for 
 giving our own a filthy one. Cleanliness gets as near 
 to godliness in the kitchen as in the parlor, and there 
 should be as careful manicuring for the cook table as 
 for the piano. There are birthdays which are as worthy 
 of being greeted by the happy faces of the flow r ers on 
 the table, as the feast days when the invited guests 
 gather to the banquet. There may be in the simple lit- 
 tle vase only a few blossoms gathered from one's own 
 humble flowerbed, but they will breathe sweeter fra- 
 grance of loving thoughtfulness, will give more grace- 
 ful language to tender memories, and will chase care 
 from the tired face with a sweeter smile, than the great 
 
"when we have company." 51 
 
 banks of costly exotics which grace the welcome 
 given — 
 
 "When we have company." 
 
 The old parlor, with its stiff chairs, its haircloth 
 sofa, its closed windows, and the old whatnot, the con- 
 stant cause of worry on the part of the good house- 
 wife, and of commingled curiosity and terror on the 
 part of the children, has now been thrown open to the 
 sunlight and the air, which have merrily chased away 
 the shadows and flung brighter colors across the car- 
 pet and upholstery, and there is the music of a child's 
 laugh, and the rustling of father's newspaper, and it 
 has become a part of home. When the bell rings and 
 the guest is welcomed there is no longer the stately 
 entering in to a stuffy sepulchre, where all hope and 
 heart seem long since buried, but the exchange of 
 smiling greetings, for it is now a living room and there 
 is no longer the throwing open of the parlor, but the 
 throwing open of the home — 
 
 "When we have company." 
 
 The hero of Manila is said to have twenty-eight 
 suits of clothes, and yet it matters not which he puts 
 on, he is the same Dewey. Beneath the negligee as 
 he stands in the lawn tennis field, beneath the laun- 
 dered mirror of his evening dress, as he sits at the ban- 
 
52 
 
 quet, and beneath the blue uniform as he stands amid 
 the smoke and shell, there beats the same heart and 
 its throbbings are of the same true manliness. Smaller 
 men change their feelings with their clothes and their 
 moods with their surroundings. They lay aside their 
 smiles with their shoes and put on their scowls with 
 their slippers. They snarl at the breakfast table and 
 smirk at the banquet. They make home hell when 
 there's "nobody but our own folks," and make it 
 heaven — 
 
 "When we have company." 
 
 It has been said that no man gets well enough 
 acquainted with his wife to tell what she will say 
 after the company has gone. He never knows what 
 he has done and what he has left undone until he is 
 brought before the judgment bar of her mirror. Both 
 have been playing a part, have been trying to put on 
 company manners, and manlike he, of course, is the 
 one who has been awkward and clumsy, and manlike 
 has been so stupid that he has to be told his mistakes, 
 and to be given a new lesson as to how he should do 
 the next time — 
 
 "When we have company." 
 
 If there was more of the real and less of the put-on; 
 if men sought to be honest as well as polite; if women 
 
•'when we have company." 53 
 
 tried to be genuine as well as graceful; if there was the 
 realization that slang in the woodshed is as bad as 
 slang in the parlor; If "thank you" and "please" 
 were heard at the table when there are "just our folks 
 here;" if temper was controlled as firmly when the 
 feet are in slippers as in shoes; and if the smile was 
 as sweet when wife is dressed in her morning wrapper 
 as in lace; if there was the same kind of practicing 
 that there is of preaching, there wouldn't be so much 
 trouble in making the children behave; there wouldn't 
 be so many inconsistencies in life, and not nearly so 
 much awkwardness and labored attempt to be on good 
 behavior and to appear at one's best — 
 "When we have company." 
 
THE LITTLE TIN CUP. 
 
 "Small service is true service while it lasts; 
 The daisy by the shadow that it casts, 
 Protects the lingering- dew-drop from the sun." 
 
 Only the clank of a little tin cup as it falls against 
 the hydrant. 
 
 Yet one cannot hear sweeter music nor a purer 
 gospel in any church than by listening this quiet Sun- 
 day morning to the clank of the little tin cup. 
 
 Only a battered, rusty little cup, which a thought- 
 ful hand has tied to the hydrant in front of the humble 
 cottage, so that the thirsty passer-by may step out of 
 the dust and heat and be refreshed. The feeble old 
 woman who has just let it drop from her withered hand 
 and started on toward the great cathedral, as she 
 pauses at its entrance to dip her finger in the holy 
 water will not stop to think that the water in the little 
 tin cup is holy, too. But it is, for it has been blessed 
 by a smile, and touched by love, and as the little tin 
 cup falls from her hand against the hydrant there is 
 sweeter music in its clanking than in the grand organ 
 which thrills the great cathedral from corner stone to 
 gilded cross and a more inspiring service than that 
 rendered by surpliced choir and intoning priests. 
 
THE LITTLE TIN CUP. 55 
 
 The flushed face of a robust youth next bends over 
 the little tin cup. He has just jumped from his wheel 
 to moisten his lips for the longer ride before him, and 
 which will take him far from the sound of the chime 
 and the sight of the cross. God only knows where the 
 road will lead him, or what dangers lurk for him in 
 the shadows which lie along the pathway which now 
 seems so sunny and flowery. As the aged form sits 
 in the pew saying her prayers, and the ruddy youth 
 spins along in search of pleasure, both should have 
 with them the remembrance of the music sung and 
 the sermon preached by the clanking of the battered 
 and rusty little cup as it falls against the hydrant. 
 
 For the little cup sings the hymns of a pure gospel 
 and preaches a creed older than that of the apostles. 
 Like many another humble singer, its song is only 
 heard by those who listen with the heart. It is the 
 music of the voice which is never heard in public, and 
 which would stammer to sound a note even before the 
 friendly guests in the parlor, but which has such sweet 
 melody that the tired child nestles down to listen to it 
 as to the song of an angel. Like many another hum- 
 ble preacher, rusty in appearance, battered in long 
 service, tied to a plain little pulpit, its sermon is only 
 heard by the true worshipper. Yet it is the same old 
 gospel which calls to every tired, dusty passer-by, "Ho 
 
56 THE LITTLE TIN CUP. 
 
 everyone that thirsteth," and which promises to touch 
 the rusty, battered little cup with the hand of divine 
 love and change it by magic into a crown of gold as 
 reward to him who did it unto one of the least of 
 these. 
 
 It is well enough to lay the broad stones and lift 
 the holy spires, to build hospitals and endow universi- 
 ties, to send mission ships ploughing through foreign 
 seas, to adorn the gospel with glitterings and surround 
 it with luxuriance, to give to its song the sweetest 
 charm of melody and to its speech the deepest thrill of 
 eloquence, for the gospel is worthy of them all, but 
 yet when the weary, dusty plodder along the great 
 highway feels the fevered flush and the parching thirst, 
 he gladly steps aside to seize the little rusty and bat- 
 tered tin cup which some thoughtful hand has tied to 
 the simple hydrant in front of the humble cottage. 
 
 Few of us have strength to put the great founda- 
 tion stones in place, few of us have gold with which to 
 gild the cross, few of us have art with which to fling 
 beauty upon wall and window, few T of us have voice 
 with which to fill the organ-loft with melody, few of 
 us have speech with which to move the hearts of the 
 great congregation, yet none so feeble, so poor, but 
 that he can tie to the hydrant in his front yard a little 
 
THE LITTLE TIN CUP. 57 
 
 tin cup that even the stranger may be refreshed and 
 sent on his way happier and stronger, whether that 
 way leads to the church, the workshop or the play- 
 ground. 
 
 Is the night dark and stormy? Don't pull down 
 the shades, but let the cheer of your own home glim- 
 mer into the street to touch the heart of some boy 
 whom this thought of home may send to his room in 
 the strange boarding house with a steadier step and 
 may give him a holy thought of mother. Is the one 
 you meet a stranger? Don't put your hand on your 
 pocketbook and scowl with suspicion. A smile, the 
 moving along to give him room on the car seat, the 
 offering of a match for his unlit cigar, the giving an- 
 swer to his puzzled look as to what that building is 
 you are passing, may do more to open his eyes to the 
 truth of the brotherhood of man than all your songs, 
 and collections, and prayers and sermons, and may 
 lead him to look up to catch a glimpse of the face of 
 the common Father. The stamp put on the letter 
 may carry the gospel further than the stamp put on 
 the check. The few words of sympathy for the sor- 
 rowing heart, though written with a clumsy pen, may 
 cause the sunshine to chase away the shadow. 
 
 It is well if from one's wealth of bounty he can 
 place in the great park a splendid sparkling fountain, 
 
58 THE LITTLE TIN CUP. 
 
 which all may enjoy. It is well for cities and churches 
 to set up public drinking places, but better yet if the 
 simple thoughtfulness of the loving heart would un- 
 snarl from the tangle of life a bit of string, take down 
 from the shelf of neglect the little tin cup, and tie it to 
 the hydrant so that some feeble old woman who is 
 somebody's mother and some ruddy youth who is 
 somebody's boy might taste and know T that God is 
 good and that we are all children of the one great 
 family. 
 
 Each year the pope gives a golden rose to some 
 royal lady who has distinguished herself for loyalty to 
 the church. The most cunning artificers spare neither 
 time nor money in moulding the purest metal into a 
 full blooming beauty as the center for a graceful 
 grouping of buds and leaves, all traced with most ex- 
 quisite workmanship. The gift so precious and com- 
 ing from such holy hands, may well be striven for as 
 if the sides be dented and the bottom rusted? The 
 a prize above all others, but to the heart of fair lady 
 who reaches out her lily hand to take the golden rose 
 there can come no truer joy than comes to the weary, 
 sad and dusty traveler along life's highway as he 
 reaches out his hand to take the little tin cup which 
 brings to his parching heart the water of life. What 
 thoughtfulness of a strange hand and the love of an 
 
THE LITTLE TIN CUP. 59 
 
 unknown heart have tied the little cup to the hydrant, 
 and as the tired passer-by stops for rest and refresh- 
 ment the clank of the little tin cup tells him that even 
 in a stranger he finds a brother, and that God's family 
 is getting together again. 
 
ONE CURSING, ONE PRAYING. 
 
 "The accusing- spirit which new up to heaven's 
 chancery with the oath, blushed as he g-ave it in, 
 and the recording- ang-el, as he wrote it down, 
 dropped a tear upon the word and blotted it out 
 forever." 
 
 "Lieutenant Hobson knelt down and prayed be- 
 fore he started into Santiago with the Merrimac. Cap- 
 tain Evans swore like a pirate when he started into 
 the fight. Both have come out without a scratch and 
 we are waiting for some theologian to explain which 
 is which and why which is wherefore." 
 
 Such is the comment made across the exchange 
 table by one of the paragraphers. 
 
 There is no use waiting for that theologian, for he 
 will never come. Theologians have been trying to 
 explain providence ever since there was any theology 
 and haven't succeeded yet. When Job got into such 
 trouble three of his friends waited upon him and 
 sought to explain why so good a man should have 
 boils instead of flocks. They spent a week in silent 
 thought before opening their mouths to him, and even 
 then they couldn't offer anything very satisfactory. 
 Yet there are those todav who without a moment's 
 
ONE CURSING, ONE PRAYING. 61 
 
 thought and without any aid, seek to explain all the 
 mysteries. Although in these later days they stand in 
 a broad flood of light, yet as they seek to read the 
 pages of human history they stammer and stutter 
 worse than did poor Job, who had naught but a little 
 flickering torch, and with all their books and diplomas 
 they have to ask him ever and again how he pro- 
 nounces this word and how that, as they blunderingly 
 try to spell out the divine decrees. 
 
 Yet it is foolish to think that God does not run this 
 world because one can't understand how he runs it. 
 As well might one claim that because the mighty en- 
 gine is made up of wheels and pistons, and gets its 
 power from the hissing steam, that it needs no engi- 
 neer and that the hand on the lever has nothing to do 
 with it, or that there is no hand because it is out of 
 sight. Edison when asked on the witness stand to 
 give a definition of electricity, was forced to admit 
 that he could not define it, as no living man knows 
 what it is, and yet we step onto the street car with just 
 as much confidence as though we knew all about it, 
 we pass our written message over the counter with- 
 out a question but that it will in a flash reach the ab- 
 sent friend, we shout < 'hello ,, and press the button, and 
 go right on with the activities of life, using the mys- 
 terious force in a thousand helpful ways. We don't 
 
62 ONE CURSING, ONE PRAYING. 
 
 stop to doubt and deny because sometimes two differ- 
 ent cars are going in the same direction and some- 
 times two cars which are alike are going opposite 
 ways. It is only when we begin to puzzle ourselves 
 about theological questions that w T e become impracti- 
 cal and foolishly conclude that a power which we can't 
 understand is no power. 
 
 It is hard for the little curlyhead to understand why 
 she cannot have meat for supper when she has been 
 just as good as good could be all day; but it is plain 
 enough to the anxious mother who has watched the 
 flushed cheek of the troubled little dreamer tossing on 
 a restless pillow and ever and anon breaking the still- 
 ness of the night with a cry. Her big, romping 
 brother, who has given father and mother no ena of 
 trouble all day, had meat for his supper. He didn't 
 deserve it as much as she, and she can't understand 
 it. Poor, puzzled little one! She'll be more puzzled 
 yet when the coming years place in her arms the 
 sweetest babe on earth and just as she begins to give 
 loving cuddle to it a strange hand takes it from her 
 and leaves her alone in the darkness. On the curbing 
 sits a little waif, who knows no mother's breast save 
 that of the earth and no father's smile save that of the 
 sky. Why didn't that strange hand lead her away 
 beyond the mysterious horizon where mother's breast 
 
ONE CURSING, ONE PRAYING. 60 
 
 and father's smile meet at the entrance to the eternal 
 home? Why leave her home without a child and 
 leave that child without a home? The little curly head 
 which bends over the puzzling problem at the tea table 
 will be still more sorely troubled with the mystery 
 when by and by it bends over the sweet face in the 
 casket and then looks out at the ragged little form on 
 the curbing. 
 
 Two brave heroes, one praying, one cursing, yet 
 the outstretched wing of infinite love protected both 
 and the rain of iron death did not touch them, lie- 
 cause we cannot understand shall we say there is no 
 sheltering wing? We do not understand the human, 
 how can we understand the superhuman? We catch 
 the words of the curse as they fall from the lips, but 
 we do not hear the prayer rising from the heart. 
 ''Fighting Bob" himself says that "the victory was 
 won because God and the cannon were on our side." 
 Yet we think only of his reckless appeal to the boys to 
 "Give them hell," and wonder that the Father can 
 protect such a wayward child. We forget that under- 
 neath that rugged form there is a heart as tender as 
 it is brave, and that when "Fighting Bob" in his rough 
 way places God first, and the cannon next, there is as 
 much sincerity in the Te Deum being chanted in the 
 chapel of his soul as in that intoned by surpliced priests 
 
64 ONK CURSING, ONE PRAYING. 
 
 in the great cathedral. How much incense of prayer 
 went up from the altar of his better self to mingle with 
 the great smoke of battle none but the Father knows ; 
 but certain it is that the Slightest whispering of faith 
 by his honest heart was heard above the thunder of 
 the iron throat of war, and that both "God and the 
 cannon were on our side." 
 
 Doesn't it make any difference, then, whether one 
 swears or prays? Hobson and Evans are both heroes, 
 both win victory and honor, and yet the one is young 
 and vigorous, the other twice as old, scarred and limp- 
 ing. Doesn't it make any difference, therefore, 
 whether one has many years before him or but few, 
 and whether one has perfect form or crippled limb? 
 The mother loves her child though he is a shut-in, and 
 yet she wishes he could join with playmates in the 
 sports of wood and field. The wayward boy causes 
 the anxious heart to listen wakefully for his footstep 
 and to count the striking of every hour during the long 
 night. Doesn't it make any difference to him whether 
 he is out in the cold and darkness or beneath the shel- 
 ter of warmth and love? We can thus pick out from 
 the tangled skein of human loves and passions a few 
 of the simple threads. Is it not possible that the great 
 weaver can do better than we children who are only 
 playing about the loom? We cannot understand how 
 
ONE CURSING, ONE PRAYING. 65 
 
 the pattern is being worked out, nor why the threads 
 are not all of one color, and yet we know that each 
 thread is being watched and cared for, and that if 
 helps to add brightness or shadow to the mysterious 
 design being thus worked out. We know that it does 
 make a difference whether a thread snaps or not. 
 What matters it if we children as we play about the 
 loom cannot tell how or why? 
 
SANTA CLAUS' MASK. 
 
 "We are such stuff as dreams are made on, 
 And our little life is rounded with a sleep." 
 
 Little Bright-Eyes in her investigating tour of the 
 house the next morning after Christmas, stumbled 
 across, in a corner of the closet, a furry coat, a string 
 of bells, and the mask worn by Santa Claus. Of 
 course her dream was broken. The face which had 
 beamed so jollily at her from among the branches of 
 the tree lay there at her feet, a crumpled bit of paste- 
 board, those long, white whiskers proved to be only a 
 shaggly tangle of cotton and horse-hair, the great lov- 
 ing eyes were only ghastly holes, the voice of laugh- 
 ter was gone, the whole thing was lifeless. No more 
 of the Santa Claus. 
 
 It was a sudden awakening from a fairy dream, 
 and it seemed at first as though there could never be 
 another real Christmas. The very light of holiday joy 
 cast such a dark shadow. Poor Santa was gone. 
 
 But it was not a cruel awakening, because it was 
 a natural awakening, and an awakening which comes 
 sooner or later to all. Xo harsh voice had aroused 
 
SANTA CLAUS' MASK. 67 
 
 childhood from its dream, no rude hand has broken 
 the magic branches, no cruel fate had blurred the pic- 
 ture. No, it was one of kindly Mother Nature's own 
 gentle touches which had pushed aside the curtain of 
 mystery, and given the vision of the larger truth. 
 
 We all have our dreams and traditions. They are 
 constantly being broken, and each day we are being- 
 awakened and are awakening others. But how and 
 to what? 
 
 The loving father might have long ago called Little 
 Bright-Eyes to him, and, as she snuggled so cling- 
 inly in his arms to talk with him about Christmas, 
 might have told her in words as sharp and crispy as 
 the clear, frosty winter air outside, that there was no 
 such thing as Santa Claus, and that the Christmas tree 
 was not a real tree, but only a dead thing with no root 
 to it, and that this was not the real birthday of that 
 wonderful babe born so many years ago. but an old 
 heathen festival dug out of the ruins of the past and 
 brightened up by the touch of Christian thought. He 
 might have told her there were no such things as 
 angels, and that the stars had no voices and so it was 
 all nonsense to say that they ever sang together for 
 joy. But what would be the good? He might suc- 
 ceed in convincing the childish reason and sad- 
 dening the childish heart, but in pathetic won- 
 
68 SANTA CLAUS' MASK. 
 
 derment that little soul would be still listening- in 
 the hope of catching some stray note from the song of 
 the stars, and her far-away look would be still toward 
 the heaven to get a glimpse of angel wing, and her 
 chubby hand would still be feeling amid the shadows 
 for the touch of fairy fingers. 
 
 The breaking of a dream, the awakening from 
 sleep, is not sad, if natural. When the time for arous- 
 ing comes, when the soft rays of a new day touch the 
 long lashes and bid them open to new scenes, the 
 change is not cruel. Life is a series of awakenings, 
 from that which w T e call birth to that which we call 
 death. From the cradle in the nursery to the couch in 
 the sick chamber, throughout the long years, dreams 
 are being broken, but even in both birth and death the 
 awakening to newer and larger visions of truth brings 
 sadness and pain only when man's sinfulness or ignor- 
 ance rudely seeks to push aside the mysterious drap- 
 eries. Divine nature tinges the dawn of each new 
 truth with joy-beams, and only man casts a shadow. 
 
 It is cruel to ruthlessly break dreams, just as surely 
 as it is cruel to break the thread of life. We cry out 
 against murder and against suicide, and yet how many 
 dreams are murdered and how many hopes commit 
 suicide? How many fond beliefs are tortured by those 
 
SANTA CLAUS' MASK. 69 
 
 who justify their cruelty by the same conscientious 
 plea which has made the most awful crimes to be 
 committed in the holy name of religion? 
 
 Advanced thought, progressive scholarship, scien- 
 tific investigation, seem to feel that their chief mission 
 is to go about thrusting the stiletto into the old faiths 
 and smashing old traditions with the iron hammer. 
 
 Then shall they let the world dream on, and sleep 
 itself away, with not a thought of the new light? No, 
 indeed, but let them gently open the curtains, let the 
 divine light of the new truth do the awakening. Let 
 them step to one side, and not cast the shadow of their 
 personality and their creeds between the dreamer and 
 the sunlight. 
 
 But when one does awaken from the dream, when 
 one finds the tradition broken, shall there be sadness? 
 Shall one, on stumbling over the mask of Santa Claus, 
 sit down in the ashes like a mourning Cinderella? 
 Shall one weep over a shattered creed like a child 
 whose toy is broken? Because some great light in the 
 chancel has gone out shall one forget that the night 
 of sorrow will soon disappear in the greater joy of the 
 morning when, if one will but look up, not down, there 
 will be seen the more glorious sunlight tipping with 
 renewed inspiration the cross on the spire? 
 
70 
 
 No, let the investigators rummage through all the 
 closets, let them find their old Santa Claus' masks, 
 let them tumble over the jingling creeds of yesterday, 
 let them smash the myths into fragments, but let them 
 not feel sad about it. What if the face of old Santa 
 Claus proves to be but pasteboard and paint, with a 
 tangle of cotton and horse-hair? When it is pulled 
 off there will be seen the face of the real Santa Claus, 
 warmer, more loving, and more lasting. Santa Claus 
 is not gone, but he simply shows more of himself. 
 
 The mask has had its use. Let the old doctrine, 
 the old statement of truth, the old commentary be kept 
 so long as there is any use for them, but when the 
 dream is broken, the tradition shattered, and the new 
 vision of truth presents itself in a clearer light, let it be 
 greeted with that joy which makes the stars sing 
 together at the coming of the morning of a new day, 
 though the sunlight robs them of their seeming glory 
 in the eyes of men. 
 
 Little Bright-Eyes need not be sad because a real 
 Santa Claus has taken the place of the make-believe. 
 
 She finds the same old love, only with another 
 face. 
 
 That other face is sweeter. 
 
WHAT IS A MAN? 
 
 WANTED— A MAX: XOT PARTICULAR 
 as to age, size or nativity: no references re- 
 quired. Apply at any hour, day or night, to The 
 Great World. 
 
 What is a man? Everybody knows and yet no- 
 body can tell. We turn into the library, and though 
 its shelves bend with the weight of philosophy and 
 science, on no page can be found written the secret 
 which everybody knows, and which no one has yet 
 been able to pen. We look at the mists of the morn of 
 creation, and the clouds seem to wreath themselves 
 into letters from which we spell out the words: "So 
 God created man in his own image,'' but the rest of the 
 sentence is hidden in the blue of the heaven above, 
 and we cannot spell out what that image is. Then 
 we turn to man himself and ask him what he is. He 
 knows, but cannot tell. He has spent centuries in try- 
 ing to draw a picture of himself, only to wipe it from 
 the slate to give room to a new attempt. He- 
 brew poetry tried to sing the secret, but flung down 
 its harp in despair, and sighed: "What is man that 
 thou art mindful of him?'' Greek philosophy placed 
 its ideal on the cold, polished pedestal of its marbled 
 
72 WHAT IS A MAN? 
 
 fame, and declared man to be only a little lower than 
 the angels, and then the ideal and the pedestal crum- 
 bled and fell. Materialism has nodded assent to Plato's 
 picturing of a man as a two-legged animal without 
 feathers, and then as Diogenes has plucked the 
 feathers from a rooster and set that up as a man, the 
 world has seen that man has wider differences from 
 other creations than those of his animal form and cov- 
 ering. Evolution has painted him as the grandson of 
 a monkey, and theosophy as a drifting bit of cloud- 
 life. Man has thought of himself as only an animal, 
 and then as he caught the sound of dust falling to 
 dust from the hand of the passing year, and as he has 
 had a glimpse of the smiling face of an angel mother, 
 hope has whispered to his heart that he, too, is im- 
 mortal, and he has seized the pen of prophecy and 
 written another volume to place on the shelves. Yes, 
 the library is crowded with what man has done, and 
 what man has hoped, but. read through all the books, 
 and read between the lines, -and nowhere is the secret 
 told of what man is. 
 
 Then we turn from the library into the noisy street 
 of daily activity, and ask the busy world what a man 
 is. The world gives answer — "I cannot tell you, but 
 I know a man when I see one. I can tell one way up 
 the street, long before he gets near enough for me to 
 
WHAT IS A MAX? 73 
 
 see whether he carries on his shoulder an epaulet or a 
 spade. I don't bother myself in defining man, but in 
 using him." Then the world rushes on to give glad 
 welcome to the coming man, and leaves the questioner 
 still standing in the shadow of the great mystery, 
 "What is a man?" 
 
 It doesn't ask his age, for the passing of childhood 
 into manhood, and the passing of manhood into child- 
 hood again, are not told by the shadow on the dial. 
 As "life is a noise between two silences," so the man- 
 hood to which the world beckons is that which stands 
 between two childhoods. Its activity is that between 
 the helplessness of the one and the restfulness of the 
 other. It is the man of most activity and not of most 
 years whom the world wants. A real man is never too 
 young, nor too old, to be of use to the world. 
 
 It doesn't make any difference what the size of the 
 man is so long as he is a man. There are places in 
 which the smallest man is of as much use to the world 
 as the man who is so great as to be worthy of having 
 his name written in the golden book of Venice. The 
 foundation stone, out of sight, is as needful a part of 
 the cathedral as its glittering cross. Each man makes 
 his own stature, and his stature is not to be measured 
 bv the shadow he casts, but bv the sunshine he sheds. 
 
74 WHAT IS A MAN? 
 
 As in Emerson's famous fable the squirrel said to the 
 mountain: "You can carry great forests on your back, 
 but you cannot crack a nut/' so the smallest man can 
 do some things for the world which the greatest 
 among men cannot do, and things which the world 
 needs done. The pigmy becomes a giant by the faith- 
 ful performance of a duty, while the giant shrinks into 
 a pigmy by its neglect. 
 
 It makes no difference where or how the man was 
 born. The manger may bring forth a king, the throne 
 produce a fool. The bean comes up with its father 
 bean on its back, but it does not become a real bean 
 until it shoots forth for itself. The boy never becomes 
 a man so long as his dependence is upon parental 
 strength and pedigree. The world does not want a 
 man who is waiting for the opening of father's will, 
 nor one whose record ended when his ancestors felt 
 the keel of the Mayflower grating on the new shore. 
 The world wants a man — not his money, his titles, his 
 genealogy — but a man, and it is so anxious to find one 
 that it often hurries past the palace to rap loudly at 
 the door of the cabin and ask if there is a man inside. 
 It matters not whether there is any paint on the old- 
 fashioned cradle. The world does not want the cradle. 
 It wants the man. 
 
WHAT IS A max: 75 
 
 Never mind showing your references. It is well 
 enough to have them if they have been won and not 
 merely given. It doesn't matter so much what you 
 have done, as what you can do. It matters little what 
 others say you are. It matters much what you 
 really are. The world has no time to spend 
 in coddling past achievement. Let that take its well- 
 earned leisure and rest, and not bother present activity 
 by its crying out for attention. The hired man who 
 helped in last year's harvesting must help in this year's, 
 too, if he would win new wages. The world pays as it 
 goes, pays for what a man is, not for what he was, nor 
 for what he promises to be. Put your references back 
 into your pocket and show what you can do and the 
 world will soon decide whether it wants you or not. 
 
 Apply at any time. The door of opportunity is 
 open. Step inside without stopping to wipe your feet 
 or to knock. There is a job waiting for you. It may 
 not be just what you are looking for. If the desired 
 scepter is not in sight pick up that spade. In the 
 hands of honest effort it will serve you better than a 
 scepter for opening in the dark earth an entrance to 
 the treasure house of the world. There may be no 
 blare of herald and triumphant march for you, but you 
 will find more royal music in your own merry whistle 
 as you trudge back and forth with the swinging din- 
 
76 WHAT IS A MAN? 
 
 ner bucket, and will feel that after all it is better to be 
 crowned a man than to be crowned a king. The world 
 is waiting for you. "Get thy spindle and thy distaff 
 ready, and God will send thee flax." 
 
 
LOVING THE DEVIL. 
 
 "Mamma, do you love the devil?" 
 
 "Of course not. my child." 
 
 "Does papa love the devil?*" 
 
 "Of course not.** 
 
 '•Doesn't God love the devil?" 
 
 "No, no: nobody loves so wicked a thing- as the 
 devil." 
 
 "Well, then, mamma, if nobody loves him. I 
 don't see how he can help being- wicked." 
 
 Childhood as it stands watching the hands of the 
 musician run up and down the keyboard and listens 
 to the same old, set music of life, often puts out its 
 dimpled and untaught finger to touch a neglected note. 
 We call it a discord, and give sharp chiding for the 
 rude interruption, and send her back to her dolls and 
 playhouse, for we don't want to be bothered any more. 
 We forget that the sweetest song of earth swells from 
 the feathered throat of the little warbler who knows 
 nothing and cares less about the distinguished com- 
 poser whose hand places the sheet of music on the 
 rack and with a wave of his baton bids the world sing 
 it as he says it should be sung. What does he know 
 about music? He never was a member of the chorus 
 in the tree top, he never watched nature beating time 
 with the little green bou^h for a baton, he never heard 
 
78 LOVING THE DEVIL. 
 
 the sweet whisperings of the leaves, nor caught the in- 
 spiration of the summer breeze, but in his stuffy room 
 has tried to teach the world about music. We follow 
 him and forget the bird, and when the dimpled finger 
 reaches out to touch the neglected note it sounds like 
 a discord. 
 
 It shocks us to hear prattling innocence voicing 
 sympathy for the poor devil, and it seems almost like 
 profanity. Those who have written the theological 
 score for us to follow didn't provide for the touching 
 of this deep, bass note, which the little dimpled finger 
 has so thoughtlessly sounded, and yet wouldn't it have 
 been better if they had? Wouldn't the church chimes 
 sound sweeter this morning, if they voiced more of 
 the cheerful wooing and less of the solemn warning? 
 If there was more ecclesiastical coaxing and less 
 ecclesiastical clubbing wouldn't there be more wor- 
 shippers in the pews this morning, and more repent- 
 ants at the altar? 
 
 It is easy, though, to tell what the preachers and 
 church members should say and do, and to point out 
 the great mistake they make in not showing more 
 love and sympathy for the wayward and fallen, but not 
 so easy to realize that one cannot by staying out of 
 the church shirk the same responsibility which rests 
 on them. "A man's a man for a' that," whether he 
 
LOVING THE DEVIL. 79 
 
 has taken the sacramental vows or not, and he has a 
 man's duty to perform toward the other members of 
 the great family whether his name is on the church 
 roll or not. He cannot excuse himself because those 
 who profess better things do worse than he. The 
 piece of music on the piano is by a human composer 
 and like the human creed and human service, is for 
 the few who can understand and enjoy it, but the 
 rain and the sunshine are for the just and the unjust, 
 the warbler in the tree-top is almost bursting its little 
 feathered throat that every ear may catch the sweet 
 song of nature's joy, and when childhood, standing 
 at the keyboard, touches the neglected note it should 
 cause every heart to give answer to the prattler's ques- 
 tion — 
 
 u Do you love the devil?" 
 
 One good mother was once rallied by her daugh- 
 ter because of her habit of always seeing some good 
 in every one. 
 
 "Mother, I believe you'd even have a good word 
 to say for the devil?" 
 
 "Well, I must confess that I admire his persever- 
 ance." 
 
 There isn't much possibility of converting the devil 
 by love and there's very little to commend in his char- 
 acter, vet there are few in the world who have sunk 
 
80 LOVING THE DEVIL. 
 
 to his degradation. If there is anything to commend 
 and encourage in him there are surely many things in 
 those poor, weak humans who have simply wandered 
 off from the king's highway. But we look at the one 
 great fault and forget the many virtues. It matters 
 not how or why the prison stripes have once been 
 placed on a man, he is forever after a convict and 
 never a man. Even after he has paid the penalty of 
 his crime society keeps punishing him. It is easy for 
 us to believe that a man has recovered from the delir- 
 ium of fever, that he has been cured of the drink habit, 
 that he has quit lying or swearing, but it is hard for 
 us to believe that a man who has once stolen is not 
 forever to be looked upon as a thief. We — not merely 
 the church people — but we, saints and sinners alike, 
 continue to shun him and hate him and then we won- 
 der that he steals again, and give a knowing wink and 
 say, "I expected it." 
 
 We need to listen to the bird and not to the com- 
 poser, to hear the neglected note sounded by the 
 dimpled finger, to forget the pianist and listen to the 
 music of the prattler's voice: 
 
 "Well, mamma, if nobody loves him, I don't see 
 how he can help being wicked." 
 
 "Milady" in her carriage turns her eyes the other 
 way as she sees the flaunting creature of vice passing 
 
LOVING THE DEVIL. 81 
 
 on the sidewalk, and is disgusted with the face which 
 seeks to mask its brazenness under the daubed colors 
 of virtue. She fails to recognize in the features and 
 form the one who but a few years ago entered her 
 kitchen as an innocent country girl, unused to city 
 ways,, ready to believe the whispered love in which 
 cunning lust tempts with the holiest of words, with no 
 loving voice of warning since mother died, with no 
 protection save a roof, and that the roof of a house 
 and not of a home, with no guidance save the harsh 
 directions as to how she should perform her domestic 
 duties, with no care save the supplying of food and 
 lodging and the weekly placing in her tired hand the 
 amount of her scanty earnings — the old, old story, 
 which might never have been told had there been 
 given her just a little thoughtfulness, just a few smiles, 
 some kindly warnings, a bit of loving advice, an occa- 
 sional word of encouragement, for she was somebody's 
 daughter. But the misstep was taken and the girl's 
 dream of a loving protector all her own, and of a shel- 
 tering home in which she should be queen, was cruelly 
 broken by a shattered promise. The world turned its 
 back and refused to allow her to do even its menial 
 work, and — 
 
 "Well, mamma, if nobody loves her, I don't see 
 how she can help being wicked.''' 
 
82 LOVING THE DEVIL. 
 
 Frightful are the wounds of sin, but love can heal 
 them. It cannot take away the scar, but it can cover 
 it with the tenderness of protection and prevent the 
 needless probing of the old wound. It isn't the mis- 
 sion of the church alone to help lift fallen humanity, 
 but the duty of every member of God's great family. 
 
 There's a frightened outcry and the heart turns 
 sick, for the man in trying to board the moving car 
 has slipped and the cruel wheels have passed over him. 
 Strange hands show the eagerness of those of love to 
 raise the sufferer and care for his needs, and willing 
 service offers to nurse him back to life. He knew he 
 should have waited for the car to stop for him, but 
 he was in a hurry, he wanted to get a seat, there was 
 a crowd. He has no one but himself to blame for hav- 
 ing lost a limb, but all these things are overlooked in 
 the great sympathy with which the heart of the world 
 beats for him in his misfortune. True, he must go 
 through life as a cripple, but the sight even of his 
 crutch will awaken the sympathy of the passer-by, 
 though a stranger, and if his foot should slip and he 
 should fall there will be all the more readiness in the 
 offer of kindly help because he is a cripple. 
 
 But when there is that other startled cry and a man 
 guided by folly and prompted by selfishness falls be- 
 
LOVING THE DEVIL. »3 
 
 neath those iron wheels which crush not limb, but 
 heart, how many strange hands are then outstretched 
 with loving eagerness to rescue him? After he has 
 lost what is dearer than limb and is obliged to go 
 through life a moral cripple, how many are there who 
 are ready to sympathize with his misfortune instead 
 of chiding him for his waywardness? If he seeks to 
 steady his steps by some crutch of a new resolution 
 and his foot slips, how many are there to give all the 
 readier help in lifting him again because he is a 
 cripple? 
 
 "Well, then, mamma, if nobody loves him, I don't 
 see how he can help being wicked/' 
 
 Hasn't the dimpled finger in touching the key- 
 board sounded a neglected note? 
 
STOP YOUR PRAYING. 
 
 "He prayeth well, who loveth well, 
 Both man and bird and beast." 
 
 "Let us pray" — hold on, old man, just a minute, 
 for you're not ready to pray yet. You are on your 
 knees all right and you ought to stay on them for a 
 while, but there's a good bit of repentance to be done 
 before you are in real good condition to lead in the 
 family prayers this Sunday morning. Stay right where 
 you are and do a little thinking, anyway. 
 
 How did you get up this morning? God's cheeriest 
 angel of the heaven sent a sunshiny smile into your 
 bedroom window to gladly welcome your return from 
 fairy dreamland, and you angrily yanked down the 
 curtain to shut it out, and commenced the day with a 
 scowl which hasn't yet left your face. You couldn't 
 find but one of your slippers and because your little 
 girl's puppy playmate had dragged it into the other 
 room in a frolicsome chase, you kicked the dog and 
 gave the innocent prattler a brutal blow, not with your 
 fist — you were too cowardly to do that, for fear of the 
 
STOP YOUR PRAYING. 85 
 
 neighbors — but you struck the child with that cruel 
 tongue of yours, and the little heart was made sad, 
 there were tears in those great brown eyes, and — now 
 don't you feel like a brute? 
 
 "Let us pray" — not yet — a little more repentance. 
 Breakfast was a little late this morning and as you 
 looked across the table at the sweet-faced madonna 
 of the tea tray was there any good morning greeting, 
 wreathed in a loving smile, to send cheer to the tired 
 little woman who had done as hard a week's work as 
 you, and who had sacrificed her needed Sunday morn- 
 ing nap to wrestle with the obstinacy of a smoky 
 stove, to get a clean towel for one child, to hunt up 
 a missing stocking for another, to untie the knot in 
 the perverse shoestring, to pin and to button, and at 
 the same time keep the steak from burning on and the 
 coffee from boiling over? What reward was there for 
 her? A snappy chiding, a scowl because the steak had 
 got cold while waiting for you to put on a clean Sun- 
 day collar so that you would look all right in the dea- 
 con's pew, a frown because the cakes were a little 
 burned in the eagerness to comply with your "hurry 
 up, now/ 5 a snatching up of the morning paper and 
 a selfish devouring of the news, while the others about 
 the board maintained a deathlike silence lest they 
 should disturb "papa.'' 
 
86 STOP YOUR PKAYING. 
 
 "Let us pray" — wait a minute. When you took 
 from the table the big family Bible, and selfishly seated 
 yourself in the only rocking chair in the room, you 
 were mad — yes, you were — because wife kept you 
 waiting a minute while she put on some water for the 
 dishes, so that it could be heating while that long 
 prayer of yours was being said. That rollicking boy 
 who had rather be in purgatory than in a chair, 
 couldn't resist the temptation to take a peep at the 
 new top which was just sticking out of his jacket 
 pocket, and you damned him. Oh, no, you didn't do it 
 with your tongue, you didn't put your cursing into 
 English, you are too pious for that, but you damned 
 him just the same and in a language which the boy 
 learned to understand long before he learned to talk. 
 
 "Let us pray" — just a minute more. Open that 
 family Bible again and look at the page headed "Mar- 
 riages and Births." You've taken great pains to fill 
 it out, and it is the most sacred page in the book. You 
 say that's your writing? Not a bit of it. You simply 
 held the pen, and dipped it in the ink-bottle. God did 
 the writing. "Married," — did you write that? Not a 
 bit of it. Don't you remember as she leaned on your 
 arm as you walked down the carpeted steps of her old 
 home and you placed her so gently in the carriage 
 in which you were to take her to the new home, you 
 
STOP YOUR PRAYING. 87 
 
 never saw such beauty of brown eyes, you never felt 
 such wealth of chestnut tresses, you never had such 
 pride of strength and protection for the trembling, 
 clinging form of grace and loveliness. 
 
 "Married" — do you still think you wrote it? Don't 
 you hear those words, "Whom God hath joined to- 
 gether?" Who is the man who dares put asunder? 
 Look up at the mirror over the grate. You will see 
 him. It's the same face that smiled in loving protec- 
 tion twenty years ago, when God put that pen in your 
 hand and bade you write in the new family Bible 
 "Married/' It's the same face that frowned so this 
 morning because the cakes were scorched. It is the 
 face of the man who dares put asunder. 
 
 "Born?" Did you write that? Xot a bit of it. 
 Don't you remember that morning when that beauty 
 of brown eyes was hidden by the modest drooping of 
 the long lashes and that wealth of chestnut tresses 
 rested on your shoulder as heaven's most loving secret 
 was whispered in your ear by the lips of the angel to 
 whom it was first told? That secret was by and by 
 told to your friends, and as you proudly held that little 
 bundle of frilled and flounced robes in your arms, and 
 listened to these friends as they told you it was the fin- 
 est boy in the world, you thought they didn't put it 
 
88 vSTOP YOUR PRAYING. 
 
 half strong enough. That precious bundle is larger 
 now, and wears a jacket, and sits on the chair with 
 every coltish nerve quivering with activity, and when 
 he just takes a peep at that new top, you, — well, we 
 won't say more. 
 
 "Let us pray/'— yes, but just begin where it says, 
 "Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who 
 trespass against us." There, that will do. Have you 
 forgiven those who trespassed against you? How 
 about the tired little wife and her scorched cakes? 
 How about the slipper and the little girl and her puppy 
 playmate? How about that boy and his top? For- 
 given? You smile. 
 
 "Let us pray," — yes, pray, pray all day, if you want 
 to. Long or short, your prayer will be heard now. 
 
A WORD TO THE SISTERS. 
 
 "Then gently scan your brother man. 
 Still g-entler sister woman, 
 Thoug-h the}* may grang- a kennin' \vrang\ 
 To step aside is human. "' 
 
 It has come to the ears of the preacher that some 
 of the sisters have been doing more preaching of last 
 Sunday's sermon than the brethren have been doing 
 practicing and the brethren are not happy. One good 
 deacon has been almost driven from home by the good 
 wife constantly reminding him of his duty to always 
 wear an ear-to-ear smile, even when that off corn has 
 just been stepped on by that rollicking boy. The 
 good wife, with a reckless abandon, has placed doughy 
 cakes, cold coffee and scorched steak before him, and 
 because he did not partake with the usual heartiness, 
 she has burst into tears and declared that she wishes 
 she had never left mamma to come and live with an 
 old brute whose only idea of life seems to be — "Let 
 us pray." 
 
 The sisters need preaching to as well as the breth- 
 ren. It isn't fair to expect the old man to supply all 
 the religion, as well as all the groceries, for the whole 
 
90 A WORD TO THE SISTERS. 
 
 family, nor should he be expected to do all the smiling 
 and furnish all the sunshine for the home. He has 
 been out all day, wrangling and wrestling with 
 sharp competition, working against odds which test 
 every bit of heroism in his blood, meeting disappoint- 
 ments and reverses which leave their record in the 
 wrinkled brow and the whitening hair, toiling and 
 struggling, for what? That he might get something 
 for self? Xo; that hand-me-down suit with its fad- 
 ings, its rippings and its frayings, is still good enough, 
 and the old hat with its grease spot and dust will do 
 awhile longer, but all day long labor has been made 
 light by the thought of little wife and the baby, by the 
 dream of a new home some day, by the hope of some 
 little surprise which the day's wages will enable him to 
 carry home, and already he gets a glimpse of that old 
 smile and the old twinkle of joy as he pulls the pack- 
 age from under his coat, and watches the worn, tired 
 little face become transformed into the girlish counte- 
 nance of sunshiny innocence upon which he used to 
 gaze so lovingly as they stood leaning over the stile, 
 when he was the boy who had forgotten the cows in 
 this one glimpse of heaven. 
 
 His weary footstep was lightened by expectancy 
 as he crossed the threshold of home, but the vision of 
 the girlish face was hidden by the cloudy disappoint- 
 
A WORD TO THE SISTERS. 91 
 
 merit as you, fretty and tired, greeted him with a chid- 
 ing for keeping the supper waiting and making it so 
 late for you with the dishes. You listlessly took the 
 bundle as though it was a right, rather than a favor, 
 and you never noticed the eagerness which lighted 
 up that tired face, and which faded into sadness as 
 you tore off the paper and with a glance at the pattern, 
 said you never could wear that color and the figure 
 was too large, anyway. You tossed it aside and asked 
 him where he got it, and whether it couldn't be 
 changed for something else. There was in that brown 
 package the tenderest throbbings of a great, manly 
 heart, and if the figure of that dress pattern was old- 
 fashioned and ugly, every line and curve was graced 
 with the loving tracery of noble sacrifice, but your eyes 
 were so blinded with the smoke of the kitchen drudg- 
 ery that they saw not the beauty of the gift, and that 
 tired husband, whose very weariness was a tribute to 
 his love for you, found the roses turned into ashes. 
 
 You never thought to have his slippers ready. It 
 was not many years ago that your dainty fingers 
 cheerily plied the embroidery needle in rich flowerings 
 of adornment for the Christmas encasing of those feet, 
 which now tired with the toil and struggle for you and 
 the little ones, drag wearily in the hunt through the 
 darkened closet to find the scattered pair of old shoes 
 
92 A WORD TO THE SISTERS. 
 
 in which they may find some restful ease, while the 
 echo of that long-ago cheery voice of the bride bid- 
 ding "deary" take the easy chair by the grate, where 
 his slippers were already warming, is broken by the 
 rasping voice asking, "What are you doing in there?" 
 
 You've told the children to wait until father comes 
 homeland "he will attend to you," as though he was 
 a horrible bogy, and there is a flying of little feet in 
 terror at his coming, where there should be the out- 
 stretching of dimpled arms, the press of rosy cheeks 
 and the tender caress of velvety fingers to smooth 
 those wrinkles of care and to make that rough and 
 unshaven face beam with the gladness of a home-com- 
 ing. 
 
 You have been gossiping at the backdoor with the 
 neighbor, and have been planning with the dressmaker, 
 or have been sportively tossing hard-earned dollars 
 over the bargain counter, and when the tired father 
 and husband hesitates when you ask him if the par- 
 lor cannot be repapered, you think he is getting 
 stingy, and perhaps say so. You don't stop to think 
 that all the way home he has been wondering how that 
 last bill of dry goods you ordered is to be paid, and 
 that tired back seems almost to be breaking under the 
 many burdens which you have kept thoughtlessly pil- 
 
A WORD TO THE SISTERS. 93 
 
 ing upon it, and yet not one word of reproach comes 
 from between those lips, and yet you fret and scold at 
 him because those lips are not always smiling. 
 
 You never think, now-a-days, to repeat those whis- 
 perings of love, which, in earlier years, you were as 
 eager to speak as to hear. They seem silly to you 
 now. Life has become a snappy, cold reality, and all 
 the wreathings of sentiment and romance have been 
 frosted. 
 
 Your best gown and your sweetest smile are for 
 company. The faded, torn calico, the hair caught up 
 with one pin, the slovenly-heeled shoes, they do, for 
 "there is no one here but the folks." No one here? 
 Who is that sitting in the shadow, worried and wonder- 
 ing, silently struggling with the problems of life, 
 yearning for a repassing of that dream of home which 
 so gilded the hope of the young heart, but which has 
 faded into the almost forgotten by the overshadowing 
 realization that work and worry is all there is of life? 
 That form stood straighter a few years ago, and you 
 were so proud of its manly strength. Who has caused 
 the bending and the wrinkling? 
 
 Yes, the sisters need a little preaching to. 
 
CREED OF THE QUARTERDECK. 
 
 "Don't cheer, boys, those poor devils are dying-." 
 
 The Spanish admiral's ship was in flames, the hated 
 flag of yellow and red was being pulled down, and as 
 if to fill the beaker of victory to the full, a mighty ex- 
 plosion hurled the Oquendo into a seething hell. Then 
 the brave lads of the Texas shouted as only those can 
 who have won a most glorious victory for a most 
 righteous cause. 
 
 "Don't cheer, boys," shouted Captain Philip, 
 "those poor devils are dying." 
 
 The gallant officer called all hands to the quarter- 
 deck, and, with bared head, declared: 
 
 "I want to make public acknowledgement here 
 that I believe in God, the Father Almighty, and I 
 want all you officers and men to lift your hats and 
 from your hearts offer silent thanks to the Almighty." 
 
 Such prayer and such thanksgiving rising with 
 the incense of the clouds of battle and intoned by the 
 thunderings of war, must have found their way easily 
 to the throne of grace. No grander religious service 
 
CREED OF THE QUARTERDECK. 95 
 
 by the children of men ever broke upon the mysterious 
 silence of God's great cathedral, and the echoes will 
 continue to thrill its vast recesses and chapels, inspir- 
 ing honest worshippers everywhere and for all time. 
 
 The scoffer who sneers at religion because it is only 
 fitted for goody-goody men, hysterical women and 
 prattling children, stands rebuked in the presence of 
 these rugged apostles as he listens to the plain gospel 
 which they proclaim. There are no sleekly-dressed 
 deacons in the "amen" corner, but great death-belch- 
 ing guns, whose iron throats give forth such voice 
 that the whole earth trembles and smokes, and the 
 mighty waters are lashed into frenzy. Xo, it's no 
 nimby-pamby religion that can hush such voices of 
 thunder into reverent silence, and can cause such 
 heroic giants to bow their bared heads in homage. 
 Such a religion cannot be downed by a sneer. 
 
 The service did not need the garnishment of priest- 
 ly robes and starched vestments, a fretwork of cun- 
 ningly carved creeds, pulpit upholstery, a dim cathe- 
 dral light, a roof of flying arches, and an outpouring 
 of waves of harmony from the organ loft. It was 
 grandly impressive without these embellishments, be- 
 cause it was genuine and heartfelt. 
 
96 creed of the quarterdeck. 
 
 Then, too, it was the preaching of that wonderful 
 gospel, forever old, forever new. Theologians have 
 tried to tinker it, and patch it, scrape it and varnish it, 
 carve their names upon it, and twist it and mould it into 
 some new form to suit a passing fancy or fashion but 
 they have died and been forgotten, while the old, old 
 gospel lives on. None can add to its charm, and none 
 can take from it. Only when hidden under the rub- 
 bish of human prejudice and passion does it fail to at- 
 tract. When brought forth in its simplicity and 
 strength, the honest and the heroic everywhere bare 
 their heads and bow their hearts in its presence. 
 
 A simple and strong religion, and, therefore, just 
 such a one as is needed by all, whether they stand on 
 the quarterdeck, peering anxiously as the battle 
 clouds lift, to see whether victory or defeat is in wait- 
 ing, or sitting in the quiet of the eventide of life, 
 watching the sunset and wondering what of the mor- 
 row. Strong enough to give to the arm of the hero 
 sinews of steel, and gentle enough to dimple with a 
 dream-smile the cheek of the sleeping innocent. So 
 mighty as to lift to the heavens the great dome of 
 science hall, and to touch the cross on the tallest spire 
 with its finger of light, and yet so simple that the 
 white-robed little cuddler at mother's knee is taught 
 to place her chubby hand in that of the great and lov- 
 
CREED OF THE QUARTERDECK. 97 
 
 ing Father, and to trust him to lead her into the dark 
 mysteries of dreamland. 
 
 What is the creed of this wonderful religion thus 
 preached from the quarterdeck? 
 
 "Don't cheer, boys, those poor devils are dying/' 
 
 Only another way of putting the old command to 
 love thy neighbor as thyself. 
 
 "I believe in the Father Almighty." 
 
 Only another way of putting the old command to 
 love the Lord thy God with all thy heart. 
 
 It's after all the old, old gospel, which bids us lay 
 down self as a stepping stone by which our brother 
 may reach the Father. It's after all the plain, practical 
 religion which bids man to think less of himself and 
 more of his fellow, and to trust in the maker of both, 
 not alone as the Almighty, but as the Father 
 Almighty. 
 
 As there was never true knight without fair lady, 
 as war has ever received its truest inspiration from 
 love, and love its strongest protection from war, as the 
 stalwart lance is graced by the fluttering of the dainty 
 favor, so the true hero, in all the contests of life, is 
 he whose arm is strong and whose heart is gentle. 
 The religion which conquers the powers of darkness 
 must be as loving as it is brave. It must be able to 
 
98 CREED OF THE QUARTERDECK. 
 
 fight and to forgive. It must hush the shout of triumph 
 and in tearful sympathy make appeal for those de- 
 feated. 
 
 "Don't cheer, boys, those poor devils are dying." 
 
 It must have such clear vision as to see earth and 
 
 heaven as they touch and kiss at the horizon, and as 
 
 with one hand it gently lifts the fallen, with the other 
 
 it must point yonder and by its works voice its faith — 
 
 "I believe in God, the Father Almighty." 
 
UNTAUGHT WINGS. 
 
 "An idler is a watch that wants both hands: 
 As useless if it g-oes as if it stands.'' 
 
 There is now a faucet instead of a well-sweep, a 
 coal bin in place of a wood pile, a chandelier instead 
 of a candle mold, and the boy quits turning the grind- 
 stone to ride the wheel while his sister drops the 
 broom to pick up the tennis racket. The old rabbi 
 truthfully declared that "tne best book is the world 
 and the best teacher time;" but the hand of inventive 
 genius has so rapidly turned the leaves of this wonder- 
 ful book that even under the instruction of so experi- 
 enced a teacher we have skipped many an important 
 lesson. 
 
 We now employ help for our home duties instead 
 of employing home duties for our help. Because there 
 is no longer need of the boy being a hewer of wood 
 and a drawer of water we neglect to give him other 
 employment by which he may learn in the home the 
 art of helpfulness which will cause the finger of greater 
 opportunity to beckon him into the field of larger 
 achievement. Because there is no longer need of 
 
 l.cfC. 
 
100 UNTAUGHT WINGS. 
 
 trimming- greasy wicks and because it is so much 
 easier to get bread from the cart than from the oven, 
 the daughter in the home is placed among the bric-a- 
 brac, and becomes more ornamental than useful. 
 
 Mamma sees to it that the wardrobe is complete 
 from the kindergarten frock to the graduating gown. 
 Papa provides the boy with everything from his first 
 jack-knife to his latest wheel. From the penny taken 
 to Sunday school by the little tot who is too small to 
 own a pocket to put it in, on through the years until 
 the crisp bill is handed over to meet the expenses of 
 taking his best girl to the lake, the parental purse is 
 looked upon as only a source of supply, and never as 
 a cause of demand. 
 
 He is a handsome, manly looking fellow as he 
 stands on the corner glancing up and down the street 
 and wondering which way good luck will come from. 
 Father is still wearily grinding at the mill. The little 
 maiden has bloomed into an American beauty and in 
 graceful idleness awaits the coming of a loving hand 
 to pluck it. Mother sits in the shadow still weaving 
 the silver threads and lines of care as the busy shuttle 
 of her anxious thought flies from hope to fear and 
 back again. Why don't the young folks do something 
 for themselves? Why don't they make something of 
 
UNTAUGHT WINGS. 101 
 
 themselves? Shame on them — one waiting for some 
 soft job to come along; the other waiting for some 
 soft fellow. 
 
 Ah, they are not altogether at fault. The world 
 is the best book and time the best teacher, and al- 
 though we have both book and teacher love is often 
 deaf and blind, and fails to learn the lesson. If the 
 trained fingers have carelessly turned two pages at a 
 time, who shall too sharply chide the dimpled little 
 fist of childhood for its heedless crumpling of the 
 leaves? When the hydrant took the place of the bucket 
 the lad's arm should have been taught to carry other 
 burdens and the supplying of other needs of the home. 
 Now that the candle mold is tossed into the rubbish 
 pile, and the touch of a finger gives the command: 
 "Let there be light, and there is light," the hand of 
 the little maiden should be given other training to 
 develop womanly skill in helpfulness and independ- 
 ence; but, no, the boy must sacrifice ruggedness to 
 mock gentility and the beauty of maiden must be 
 robbed of its strength by the too tender protection of 
 the trellis. 
 
 What is the matter with the boys and girls now-a- 
 days? If you really want to know, ask what is the 
 matter with the fathers and mothers now-a-davs? The 
 
102 UNTAUGHT WINGS. 
 
 lad is sent away to a military school and because the 
 rules require him to get up when the bell rings, make 
 his own bed, and black his own boots, he does so, and 
 feels rather proud of his achievements. It's soldier- 
 like to be so helpful and independent and is considered 
 the proper thing, and whatever you may think of a 
 boy there is down deep in his heart a desire to do the 
 proper thing after all. But the same lad at home 
 takes another nap even after the second bell, doesn't 
 throw back the clothes to let the bed air, goes yawn- 
 ing from a room littered with crumpled shams and 
 dirty collars to a late breakfast, growls at the cold 
 coffee and then saunters down town, whistles to a 
 bootblack and spends one of his father's hard-earned 
 nickels in getting a shine. You blame the boy, and 
 he is to be blamed, but he is not the only one. There 
 is no more reason why the loving rule of home should 
 not be as effective as the military rule of school in so 
 teaching that boy what the proper thing is as to de- 
 velop in him the willingness and ability to be helpful 
 and independent. 
 
 Another of the old rabbis gave forth the precept, 
 "First learn, then teach." Those who have been try- 
 ing to teach the boy and girl have forgotten to first 
 learn the lesson that the greatest help we can give 
 
UNTAUGHT WINGS. 103 
 
 those we love is to help them so that they may be able 
 to help themselves. 
 
 Why, even the timorous twitter of the frightened 
 nestling pushed over the edge of its leafy nest by a 
 mother-love forcing the trial of its untaught wings, is 
 full of inspired wisdom. There is a time when the 
 stronger wing must shelter and the larger beak furnish 
 food, but the cuddling indulgence of the home-nest 
 is but the school of preparation and the mother bird is 
 ever looking over the edge into the blue expanse of 
 greater happiness and wider activity and planning for 
 the day when the tender wing of the loved one shall 
 gain the needed strength to speed to a higher branch 
 upon another tree on which hope already sees another 
 nest and another brood to be covered by the sheltering 
 wing of this nestling who is thus forced by love over 
 the edge of the old home — forced by love to gain con- 
 fidence even from the feeble beating of the air with 
 frightened wing — forced by love to learn the lesson of 
 self-helpfulness and happy independence. 
 
 Listen to the frightened twitter and — first learn, 
 then teach. 
 
THE FORCED TEAR. 
 
 '•Full twenty times was Peter feared. 
 For once that Peter was respected. " 
 
 "I'm sorry." 
 
 Yes, you've made the little rebel surrender and say 
 he's sorry. Aren't you proud of your victory — you, 
 a broad-shouldered, stalwart-limbed six-footer, able 
 to crush the life out of that fragile little form with the 
 grip of your one hand — aren't you proud of having 
 conquered the little rebel whose only armor is a pina- 
 fore and whose only weapon is a tear? 
 
 Conquered him? If you only had an angel's vision 
 you would see beneath the pinafore a heart beating as 
 defiantly as that of Lucifer when his eyes flash back 
 the answer of hate to the peaceful message of the stars. 
 The Teutonic father who whipped his boy for "think- 
 ing damn" had no better judgment, but he had a truer 
 philosophy. 
 
 But isn't the little fellow sorry? Certainly, but not 
 sorry because he yielded to the temptation of the for- 
 bidden jam, but because the tell-tale smear on fingers 
 
THE FORCED TEAR. 105 
 
 and on lips led to discovery. His repentance lias 
 deepened at the vision of an uplifted slipper, a dark 
 closet and a supperless bed. 
 
 Aren't the older boys and girls sorry only when 
 they have been found out, and sorry in proportion to 
 the fear of punishment? Isn't the repentance meas- 
 ured by the jam on the fingers instead of that in the 
 stomach, and isn't the promise of reform shown in the 
 trembling of the knees instead of in the throbbing of 
 the heart? How few of us are really sorry for deeds 
 and how many of us are only sorry for consequences? 
 
 But we say we. are sorry. It was a mean thing you 
 said about your neighbor, and when gossip whispered 
 it in his ear you were sorry and you summoned your 
 courage, mustered your manliness and asked his par- 
 don. Then you fitted your head to a new halo and 
 thought yourself a saint. But you thought an even 
 meaner thing about him than you said, and you never 
 felt a twinge of sorrow about that. You did him an 
 injustice and you have never repented of it because 
 he never knew it. You only feel real sorry when 
 some one detects the smear of the jam on your lips. 
 
 We veneer our piety and then try to pass it ofif for 
 solid mahogany. We are not content with trying to 
 
106 THB FORCED TEAR. 
 
 fool others, but we stupidly try to fool ourselves. We 
 join with the great congregation in repeating, "For- 
 give us our trespasses," and then fancy that we thus 
 wipe out the past as easily as the schoolboy's sponge 
 wipes from the slate the problem in which he has dis- 
 covered a mistake. Our theology teaches us that there 
 is a dark closet in the mysterious future and that our 
 disobedience will there be punished, and it is the 
 thought of this closet instead of the thought of the sin 
 which gives to the voice a little more pleading and 
 pathos as we say, "Forgive us our trespasses." We 
 gather our frightened sobs and forced prayers and 
 label them repentance and faith. 
 
 When the heart looks through tearful eyes upon 
 the loved face of one whom it would give the world 
 to arouse from the long sleep to catch the sobbing 
 whisper, "I'm sorry," then there is the true repent- 
 ance which puts to shame the veneered pretense whose 
 only purpose is to win favor or avoid penalty. But 
 why wait until the ear is heavy, and the tongue hushed, 
 and it is too late for the hearing of the sob of repent- 
 ance and too late to voice the word of forgiveness? 
 
 "I'm sorry" should not only be expressed by the 
 voice, but by the hand. Repentance is not to be meas- 
 ured alone by the number of sobs and vows. Tears 
 
THE FORCED TEAR. 107 
 
 do not wash away wrongs. Restitution is the fruitage 
 of repentance and barren, indeed, is the tree which 
 does not at least blossom with the promise of such a 
 fruitage. When the angel turns to your page in the 
 great ledger and runs up the long column on the debit 
 side and the balance is to be struck, how meager will 
 seem your proffer of settlement, if all that you have to 
 enter upon the credit side is a meaningless, forced ad- 
 mission, "I'm sorry." 
 
 But if the heart thrills as that of returned way- 
 wardness, gazing pleadingly into the face of that love 
 which casteth out all fear, wrongs will surely be made 
 right, and the angel will gently close the record whis- 
 pering, "Let it be forgiven and forgotten. " 
 
THE TWO FLAGS. 
 
 "Tears for the dead and cheers for the living-." 
 
 "I will take one of those flags, please. What is 
 the price?" 
 
 As the little woman in black placed on the counter 
 the sum asked for, and passed out of the store she 
 also passed out of the thought of the busy tradesman, 
 but not out of the thought of the accounting angel, 
 and the pen dipped in the tears of widows and orphans 
 recorded the price paid for that flag. What were the 
 paltry coins taken from the purse? The purchase of 
 that flag was not made in the store nor the price paid 
 over the counter. 
 
 Her boy had been so eager to go, and yet it was 
 so short a time since the golden chain was snapped 
 and the father link dropped out, and now — no, the 
 young patriot must yield to a mother's love and a 
 widow's grief and stay to comfort and to help. 
 
 "There are enough now, but when your country 
 needs you, my boy, you shall go." 
 
 The morning paper so eagerly scanned day by day 
 
THE TWO FLAGS. 109 
 
 soon brought the call — "Six more men needed at once 
 to fill the company." 
 
 It came to mother and boy as the call of the Great 
 Captain, and in the quiet of the little upper room, alone 
 with the memory of her husband and the love of her 
 boy she knelt before the Father and asked for wisdom 
 and strength. Her prayer was answered and through 
 her tears she could see the approving smile of the van- 
 ished face as she said: 
 
 "I will take one of those flags, please. What is 
 the price?" 
 
 God alone knows the price. 
 
 Neighbors had flags fluttering from their porches 
 in honor of those gone forth and in memory of those 
 resting yonder, but the little woman in black, so long 
 as she clung in her loneliness and love to the sacrifice 
 instead of placing it on the altar, had shrank from 
 seeming sacrilege, but now that she had given up her 
 boy, her heart thrilled with pride as the new flag over 
 her doorway waved graceful salute to the procession 
 passing with wreaths and flowers to bedeck the resting 
 places of other boys of other mothers. She had put 
 out other flags on other Memorial days, but never be- 
 fore had she a flag which was in truth her own. 
 
 She had bought it herself. 
 
 God alone knows the price. 
 
110 THE TWO FLAGS. 
 
 "What did you pay for your flag?" 
 
 Another flag, fluttering from another doorway of 
 the home of another little woman in black. The flag 
 is faded and worn, and the face which looks up to it 
 so proudly is still more faded and worn. It has been 
 many years since she won the right of hanging out the 
 flag on Memorial day. The road had been very dusty 
 and long, very lonesome and dreary, but someway she 
 had been guided and sheltered, strengthened and 
 cheered, and someway she had managed to pay the 
 price of the flag. 
 
 What did the faded old flag cost? 
 
 More than the new? 
 
 God alone knows the price. 
 
 Two fragile forms in black, standing on neighbor- 
 ing porches, watching the Memorial day procession 
 pass, the younger thinking of tomorrow, the elder 
 thinking of yesterday, and both thinking of home and 
 country. Two little flags, one fresh in hope, the other 
 faded in service, yet both catching kisses from the 
 breezes, and smiles from the skies only to toss them 
 gracefully on to the passers-by. On march citizens 
 and soldiers, cadets and veterans, teachers and chil- 
 dren — was there ever Memorial day in which future 
 and past were so linked to the present? Was ever 
 memory so quickened by hope? The wreaths and the 
 
THE TWO FLAGS. Ill 
 
 chaplets are even more generously woven and more 
 lovingly placed in honor of the heroes gone because 
 of the heroes living and the heroes to come. 
 
 The new flag and the old flag wave side by side. 
 
 Each has been bought with a price. 
 
 God alone knows what each has cost. 
 
WATCHING THE WRINKLES. 
 
 "Care to our coffin adds a nail, no doubt, 
 And ever3 T grin, so meny, draws one out." 
 
 "Look out, grandpa/' 
 
 Don't you remember how mad you were when 
 the motor-man thus cautioned you as you jumped off 
 the car? It was the first time that from the lips of a 
 stranger came the verdict that the world had begun 
 to look upon you as an old man. You knew 7 your hair 
 was getting gray, but then in these days young men 
 have gray hair. You knew your shoulders were more 
 stooped than they used to be, but then that was due 
 to your bending over the desk, and not to old age. 
 You felt that your limbs were not so supple as when 
 a boy, and you found yourself wheezing when you 
 run to catch the car, but then you were not used to 
 exercise. Old? Xo, no! Just in the prime of life, and 
 the idea of that motor-man calling out — 
 
 "Look out, grandpa." 
 
 Then the first thing you did after getting into the 
 house was to take a glance at the glass in the hat-rack 
 to see if you really were getting so old as to make folks 
 
WATCHING THE WRINKLES. 113 
 
 think you must be a grandpa. Yes, there were some 
 wrinkles and the cheeks were not quite so plump, and 
 that moustache had changed from a brownish curl to 
 a grizzled bristling. As you turned with a frown into 
 the living room an angel met you, and you looked into 
 another mirror — a face of beautiful young woman- 
 hood, a brighter, purer mirror than that in the hat- 
 rack, and the vision of the years of tender care and 
 responsive love passed before your eyes and you 
 caught the truth that you were getting "old enough to 
 be a grandpa, anyway. You paid the willing toll of 
 a greeting kiss at this tall gateway of love, and passed 
 on your way into the sitting room, and there sat a de- 
 mure little woman, whose welcoming glance came 
 through a pair of glasses, and memory held up another 
 mirror in which you saw those brown eyes dancing 
 with the girlish glee of the years gone by when she 
 met you at the door all ready for the moonlight buggy 
 ride, on the evening when love first found language, al- 
 though it stammered badly. That was long ago, and 
 as you bent to smooth her gray hair with a touch of 
 love and the wrinkles of care lightened with the im- 
 press of the home-coming kiss, you again saw in the 
 mirror of the matron, that as she was growing old, so 
 were you. 
 
 But what matters it? 
 
114 WATCHING THE WRINKLES. 
 
 The warning of the motor-man, the glance in the 
 hat-rack, the presence of a young lady daughter, the 
 reminding form of your ageing companion, the griz- 
 zled moustache, the gray hair, the bowed shoulders, 
 the faltering step, all these reminders of the fleet flight 
 of the years, do not make you old, but — 
 
 "Look out, grandpa." 
 
 There's another mirror, truer than that in the hat- 
 rack, clearer than the smiling face of maidenhood, 
 more faithful than the reminding presence of the ma- 
 ture matron, and as you seat yourself in your library 
 chair, and try to interest yourself in the headlines of 
 the evening paper, you find it falling listlessly on your 
 knee while you glance into the mirror of inner con- 
 sciousness, and look into your own heart to see if 
 you are really growing old. 
 
 Are there wrinkles on the heart? If not, you are 
 still young, even if your hair is like snow, and your 
 limbs like the shaking aspen. 
 
 Don't look at your face to see if age is creeping 
 on. Watch the heart, and beware of allowing care to 
 make crow's feet there. 
 
 Does the rollicking boy cause you to snap out a 
 petulant reproof? Are the children making too much 
 noise in the nursery? Is there no longer music in 
 laughter? "There, there; run along; don't bother 
 
WATCHING THE WKINKLES. 115 
 
 papa." Is the sound of your footfall in the doorway 
 the signal for a sepulchral hush in the home? Can 
 you no longer see any fun in a picnic? Does Christ- 
 mas bring worry and Fourth of July a headache? Are 
 you fretted when the dimpled hand pulls your paper 
 aside and the prattling invitation comes so urgently, 
 "Oh, do come, papa, and see what a nice tea party we 
 are having?" Can you no longer listen to the lisping 
 of childhood's confidence and the narration of the petty 
 trials and joys of the playground? Then you are 
 growing old, though your hair be raven, your form 
 erect, and your vigor that of boyhood. 
 
 "Look out, grandpa." 
 
 There are stumblings worse than falling from the 
 platform of a street car. There are limpings worse 
 than those of the faltering foot. There are aches and 
 pains worse than those of rheumatism. It matters 
 little how time may tarnish the casket, or use may 
 wear its hinges, so long as the jewel within keeps its 
 brilliancy. 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes summed up the philosophy 
 of life when, instead of saying, ( Tm seventy years old 
 today," he said, "I'm seventy years young today." 
 Every birthday should see a man's heart younger. The 
 
116 WATCHING THE WRINKLES. 
 
 only way to keep from growing old is to keep grow- 
 ing young. The only time to begin growing young 
 is before one begins to grow old. 
 "Look out grandpa." 
 
"PATCHES AND OLD SHOES." 
 
 "Brown is no artist. He only paints patches 
 and old shoes." 
 
 It was an art critic who spoke, and of course the 
 hearer, who had been gaping in wondering admira- 
 tion at one of Brown's pictures, felt so condemned as 
 to be half inclined to plead guilty of being a fit subject 
 for some feeble-minded institution. Of course the 
 critic knew all about art and the gazer knew nothing, 
 so he felt that he had made a fool of himself in admir- 
 ing that picture, for what did he know r about art? 
 Why, he couldn't draw a cow and get the tail on the 
 right end, or find corners enough to put the four legs 
 on. Yet here he was gaping at a picture by a man 
 who, the art critic declares, "paints only patches and 
 old shoes." 
 
 He felt as ashamed of the words of praise which 
 he had spoken about that picture as though he had 
 spilled his coffee on a host's table cloth, and yet — why, 
 of course it was only a picture of dirty bootblacks and 
 ragged newsboys — of course there were patches and 
 old shoes — but did you ever see anything so natural 
 
118 "patches and old shoes." 
 
 in your life? Why, just see that fellow trying to walk 
 on his hands while the other boys are watching him — 
 see the different expressions on their faces — such 
 showing of varied characters — and — why, you can see 
 even the dust on the bottom of the boy's bare feet as 
 they are poised in air while he is going through his 
 gymnastic performance — wonderful — and yet — 
 pshaw! It must be a daub because the art critic says 
 so, and he knows. 
 
 Then, with a mighty exertion of will, trembling 
 with fear lest some other art critic may see him ad- 
 miring this picture and look upon him as a fool, he 
 walks away to try to look pleased as he gazes into the 
 faces of the long row of madonnas, and forces a smile 
 of attempted appreciation as he stands before a 
 cracked and faded old canvas, nobody knows how 
 many years old. Then -he begins to have that tired 
 feeling, and he begins to wonder what folks find to 
 enjoy in an art gallery. Then he wishes he was an 
 art critic so as to be able to appreciate all these old 
 masterpieces and enjoy them instead of paintings of 
 patches and old shoes. 
 
 Yet when the Sunday shoes are thrown into the 
 corner and the slippered feet are resting on the fender, 
 there come back happy memories of the faces of the 
 
"patches and old shoes." 119 
 
 bootblacks and the newsboys, a touch of sympathy 
 for the patches and the old shoes, and he smiles. Then 
 the faces of the madonnas and the crackled canvas 
 of the masterpieces come back in the flickering fire- 
 light and he yawns and looks at the clock to see if 
 it is not time to go to bed. 
 
 "He paints patches and old shoes." 
 
 Good for him, so long as he paints them well. The 
 art critic is not around, and one can think what he 
 wills without being sneered at. With most of us the 
 greater part of life consists of patches and old shoes — 
 imperfections and needs — so God bless the man who 
 can touch the everyday life with the divinity of genius 
 and the genius of divinity. We feel the need of that 
 sympathy of the gifted pen or pencil which can give 
 thought to the dust on the bottom of the bare foot as 
 well as to the grandeur of the cloud crown of the 
 mountain king. Most of us are children of the dust 
 instead of monarchs of the mountains, and we like to 
 feel that some mighty brain turns from the great prob- 
 lems of state and from the great personages of court 
 to give a thought to us and to our things, even if 
 they are only patches and old shoes. 
 
 Those who want to make the world better and 
 happier must have a kindly thought and a helpful 
 
120 
 
 hand for those whose lives are made up of patches and 
 old shoes — of the common imperfections and the com- 
 mon needs. While the learned bishops give wisdom 
 of argument and eloquence of voice to the great 
 doctrines of eternity, and the philosophers and sages 
 are weighing the planets and expounding the laws of 
 the universe, the people yawn and nod, and are only 
 aroused by the whistle of the plowboy who stops to 
 speak a word of sympathy for the little field mouse or 
 to sing a song for the daisy. Then the world listens 
 and loves, although he only paints patches and old 
 shoes. 
 
 The truest creed is the simplest, the purest religion 
 the most humble, the greatest temple that of the for- 
 est, the greatest preacher he who speaks not to the 
 head but the heart. Gilmore's great army of musi- 
 cians, crowding the broad stage and vying with each 
 other in swelling the great wave of harmonies sweep- 
 ing through the spacious amphitheater seemed to be 
 filling the world with music and crow r ding out all other 
 sounds, and yet high above all w r as heard the clear, 
 sw r eet note of a canary, which had found its way into 
 the great building and perched itself among the arches 
 of the dome. The contest between art and nature 
 seemed an uneven one. Only a little bird whose life 
 could be crushed by a touch and yet its voice so clear 
 
"patches and old shoes." 121 
 
 and penetrating could be heard above all the clash of 
 cymbals, the clangor of trumpets and the beating of 
 drums, and the people turned their faces from the 
 band to the bird, and love crept into the smile, for the 
 song of nature was sweeter than the song of art. 
 
 Let the critics sneer at him who paints only patches 
 and old shoes. So long as the people love him what 
 matters it? So long as the humble folks, who know 
 little about books or easels, are made to feel the help- 
 ful, happy touch of genius, and are gently led to better, 
 brighter living, what matters it what the critics say? 
 Let them enjoy life in their way, and let us alone while 
 we get a little pleasure looking at the barefooted boy 
 trying to walk on his hands. Let us be undisturbed 
 while we feel the throb of kindly sympathy for those 
 who struggle even to win applause from fellows who, 
 like ourselves, are wearing patches and old shoes. 
 
 The critics, the bishops, the philosophers, have all 
 had to recognize the patches and old shoes in order 
 to get recognition for themselves. We children could 
 get no idea of w r hat Our Father was like until his face 
 took on the features of a man. The church tried to 
 tell us about God, but we kept stumbling through the 
 prayer-book and tremblingly fearing lest we should 
 get near to God or God should get near to us. Then 
 
122 
 
 the church called art to its aid and genius placed on 
 the canvas the beautiful face of a woman, and the 
 world in joy cried out "Mother," and began to cuddle 
 up to divinity as something to be loved and not feared. 
 Then a babe was placed in her arms and the world 
 gazed in adoration at loving simplicity and the mys- 
 teries began to float away like the cloud before the 
 sunshine. God has inspired all his great sons of earth 
 to bend down to where the patches and the old shoes 
 are, to study them, to sympathize with them, to lift 
 them out of the dust and discouragement, to touch the 
 common failures and the common needs of a common 
 humanity with the genius of love, and to give them 
 a place on the walls of the gallery alongside of the 
 madonnas and the crackled old masterpieces. 
 
KOTCHED ON A NAIL." 
 
 Little Tommy sliding- down the roof,. — "Oh, 
 Lord, save me. Don't let me slide off the — never 
 mind. Lord; I kotched on a nail.*' 
 
 Why smile? Doesn't Little Tommy have much 
 the same sort of a religious faith that Big Tommy has? 
 Aren't we all ready to call upon the Lord when we 
 feel ourselves sliding down, and aren't we all ready 
 to forget all about the Lord when we "kotch on a 
 nail?" We save up our religion for a rainy day, and 
 we get very pious when the skies threaten with storm, 
 but when the sun bursts forth again we lay aside our 
 piety with our umbrella. We forget to say our prayers 
 if we're feeling well, but when the pangs of pain get 
 hold upon us we seize the horns of the altar and beg 
 for divine help. It's our Little Tommy's religion 
 grown to man's size, so why smile at the boy's prayer 
 on the roof? 
 
 It is so easy to sneer at the church because it is a 
 mere fashionable club without any heart in it, so easy 
 to look upon the preacher as one who is simply "try- 
 ing to hold his job" and who is working ''for what 
 there is in it," the same as any other man, but when 
 
124 u kotche:d on a nail." 
 
 the shadows lengthen in the sick room and the ticking 
 of the clock seems so slow, and there is a longing for 
 the morning and yet a dread of what that morning 
 will bring, then the soft footfall of the messenger as 
 he comes up the stairway, bringing tidings of sympa- 
 thy and hope, seems like the approach of an angel, and 
 there is as sweet music in his prayer as in that with 
 which tender motherhood by her loving lullaby coos 
 the tired child to cuddle down and forget the troubles 
 which are breaking its little heart. In our grief w r e 
 listen to the message to w T hich w r e gave a dull ear 
 when the w r orld was laughing and we were laughing 
 with it. The preacher is no longer one who is simply 
 "trying to hold his job" and who is working "for what 
 there is in it;" the church is no longer a mere fashion- 
 able club with no heart in it, the prayer is no longer a 
 mere form, God is no longer a myth, when one finds 
 himself slipping and sliding down and down, to what 
 fate he knows not. 
 
 "Never mind, Lord* I kotched on a nail." 
 With the danger past and the fear gone, one feels 
 that he can get along very well without any help on 
 the part of the Lord. It is the same human simplicity 
 which sends the little maiden crying to mother when 
 dolly is broken, and causes the little head to bury its 
 curls and its sorrows in the loving lap, and when the 
 
125 
 
 grief is over and dolly is herself again causes mother 
 to be forgotten in the ringing laugh of the playground. 
 It is when the ball is lost or the sled broken that the 
 rollicking boy turns his thoughts to the need of help 
 from father's pocketbook, but when the sport can be 
 resumed father is forgotten in the frolic. We larger 
 children keep on with our play much like the smaller 
 ones, though our games are different. It is only when 
 our dolls are broken and our playthings lost that we 
 cry out for the motherly tenderness of divine, comfort 
 and the fatherly strength of divine help. 
 
 We larger children are ready enough to' remember 
 Our Father when we need him, and ready enough to 
 forget him when he needs us. Xeeds us? What need 
 can be felt by one who is able to send the mightiest 
 planets whirling through infinite space with the ease 
 with which the boy rolls his marbles on the play 
 ground? What help can be given such a Father, with 
 all powers and pleasures of all worlds at his command, 
 by a childish little weakling so foolish as to call a patch 
 of playground the world and so feeble as not to be 
 able to mend even a broken doll or to find a lost play- 
 thing? 
 
 The little one whose dimpled hands hold forth the 
 broken doll, and whose lisping voice sobs for help, 
 
126 
 
 needs mother, but mother needs her. Those tiny 
 fingers cannot lift the pots and kettles and prepare the 
 meal, but they can tuck the clinging flannel about 
 baby sister's soft neck with a gentler touch of comfort 
 and cuddle than can the stronger hands which lift the 
 heavier burdens of life, and can give more restful 
 swinging to the cradle, and voice a sweeter crooning 
 of dreamland. The weary mother, whose stronger 
 arms have to do the sweeping, needs the helpfulness 
 of little daughter to do the dusting. There are mes- 
 sages which the rollicking boy with his nimble feet 
 can do more quickly than father. There are chores 
 w r hich he can do even better than father. Each needs 
 the other. 
 
 Doesn't the Father need all of his children as surely 
 as all of his children need him? We think only of 
 our broken dolls and lost playthings, and forget that 
 we are able to give as well as get, to help as well as 
 be helped. There are errands which the Father can- 
 not do as well as we; there are worried sisters who 
 need comfort, there are tired brothers who need rest, 
 there are smiles to be scattered and songs to be sung, 
 there are flowers to be gathered, and weeding to be 
 done, and while the divine strength may be needed 
 for lifting the heavier burdens, for providing for the 
 greater wants, yet we should busy our hands in other 
 
"kotched ox a nail." 127 
 
 ways than holding our own broken dolls, and busy our 
 feet with other errands than searching for our own 
 lost playthings. In the great family there are other 
 children and we can do for them what the Father can- 
 not do. They not only need us but he needs us — 
 needs us to wipe off the dust whirled into the home 
 from the busy highway, to deliver messages from the 
 Father, to help him care for the great family which 
 he loves so dearly. Yes, we need him, but he 
 needs us. 
 
 But we forget until we find the feet slipping and 
 see the danger ahead. Then we cry out. Then when 
 we "kotch on a nail," and fear is gone, we forget our 
 need of the Father, and still more often do we forget 
 his need for us. We feel the air thrill with the sweet 
 voice telling us that "Inasmuch as ye have done it 
 unto one of the least of these ye have done it unto 
 me," and yet we forget that while he is able to pour 
 forth showers of blessing upon his thirsty children yet 
 he needs the help of a human hand to .press the cup 
 to the parched lips and the sound of a human voice 
 to bid the thirstv child drink. 
 
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