Empty Palaces

             This little story may be the product of an active imagination. But you may decide as you read, that it is not so imaginary after all. This is the way I have pictured it:

            It is evening--if heaven has an evening. And two figures walk silently, arm in arm, through the golden streets. One of them we recognize immediately as the Master. The other—the other must be the angel Gabriel. On they walk, through beauty beyond description. For “eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.”

            But the beauty, tonight, seems marred by the strange silence of the two. They have come now into that vast part of the city which is uninhabited. Just why it should remain so is hard to understand. For the homes that line its winding streets are lovely beyond words. The terraces, the lawns of living green, the rose gardens rich with bloom, would bring tears of joy to any child of God who, looking upon such beauty, could cherish even the faintest hope of one day possessing it.

            At last Gabriel breaks the silence.

            “Master,” he says, “all that has come from Your hand is good. And these homes are no exception. They are beautiful—as only You could make them.”

            “They would be beautiful,” is the Master’s reply, “if they were not empty.”

            “Master, when do You plan to bring them home?”

            “Not yet,” He replied. And then softly, with a look of yearning sadness, “Not yet.”

            “Didn’t you plan to go for them years before this?”

            “Yes,” and His sadness seems to deepen.

            There is another moment of silence, and then—

            “Master, you know there is a housing shortage down there. Many have no homes. There is a continual clamor to find them. And those that do have them seem to be satisfied with the old earth. They seem to feel no need for heaven. But Master, the loveliest homes down there are only shacks compared to those that You have built.”

            “I know,” the Saviour says.

            There is more silence, and this time it is the Master who breaks it.

            “Gabriel, do you see those groups of people in all lands, the ones that are kneeling?”

            “Yes, Master.”

            “They are My people, Gabriel. They are faithful to Me. They keep My commandments. They love My words. They tell others I am coming back. And they pray, ‘Even so, come, Lord Jesus.’”

            The Master hesitates. Then he continues, “But Gabriel, sometimes when My people feel that I am about to come for them, I detect a worried look on their faces, as if—as if--“

            The Master can not say what is in His heart. But Gabriel knows, and turns his face. For he knows no answer for his Lord.

             A few moments pass and the angel turns again, his face expressing the love and admiration that are in his Lord.

            “Jesus,” he says.

            And the Saviour’s face seems to light up as Gabriel addresses Him. He loves to be called by the name that in a special way expresses His mission to a fallen world. “And thou shalt call His name Jesus: for He shall save His people from their sins.”

            Gabriel pauses an instant, as he looks at the nail-prints in His hands. Then, clasping both wounded hands in his one, he continues, repeating that matchless name:

            “Jesus, You gave so much for them.” He does not say more, for even an angel can not find words adequate to express such infinite love.

            The tears that a moment ago were stealing down the Master’s cheek, now flow unchecked. His disappointment is so great that its intensity can not be described. At last, motioning toward the empty mansions about Him, He finds words.

            “Gabriel, don’t they want to come home?”

            Friend, there is nothing imaginary about the disappointment that tears at the Saviours heart. It is more real and intense than I have pictured it. Empty palaces are waiting for you and for me. And why—why—do earth’s flimsy structures so hold our affection while those in the sky stand idle?

            Friend of mine, don’t you want to go home?

                                                            --Author Unknown

Death Disk

Another small tryant...

            It was in Oliver Cromwell’s time. Colonel Mayfair, the youngest officer in the armies of the commonwealth, and his young wife, sat hand in hand gazing into the fire. Their child, Abby, seven years old, glided in at the door and ran to the father.

            “Why papa, you mustn’t kiss me like that, you’ll rumple my hair!”

            “Oh, I am so sorry; do you forgive me, dear?”

            “Why, of course. Papa, please don’t cry.”

            Her father wound his arms about her. “Papa was naughty. What must he do for punishment?”

            “A story! Papa, a story! A dreadful one, papa, so that we’ll shiver. Mama, you snuggle up close and hold one of Abby’s hands, so that if it’s too dreadful, it’ll be easier for us to bear it. Now begin, Papa.”

            “And in a battle they committed a breach of discipline. They were ordered to feign an attack on a strong position in a losing fight, in order to draw the enemy about and give the Commonwealth’s forces a chance to retreat; but in their enthusiasm they turned the feign into a fact, carried the position by storm, and won the day and the battle. The Lord General was very angry at their disobedience; praised them highly, and ordered them to London to be tried for their lives.”

            “Is it the great General Cromwell, Papa?”

            “Yes.”

            “Oh, I’ve seen him. When he goes by so grand on his big horse the people are afraid of him, but I’m not afraid of him.”

            “Well, the colonels came prisoners to London, and were allowed to go and see their families for the last -----“

            Hark! Footsteps: but they passed by.

            “They arrived this morning.”

            “Why Papa, it’s a true story, isn’t it! Oh, how good. Go on. Why, Mama, you’re crying.”

            “Never mind me, dear. I was thinking of the—the poor families.”

            “Don’t cry, Mama. It’ll come out right—you’ll see; stories always do. Go on, Papa, to where they lived happy ever after, then she won’t cry anymore. Go on.”

            “They took them to the Tower before they let them go home.”

            “Oh, I know where the Tower is—go on.”

            “In the Tower the military court found them guilty, and condemned them to be shot. The three colonels—“

            “Do you know them, papa? I love colonels. Would they let me kiss them, do you think, Papa?”

            “One of them would, my dear. There, kiss me for him.”

            “Then the military court went to the Lord General and said they had done their duty—and now they begged that two of the Colonels might be spared, and only one shot. One would be sufficient for an example for the army, they thought. Presently the Lord General said: ‘They shall cast lots. They said they were all ready to die.’”

            Hark! Tramp-tramp-tramp!

            “Open in the Lord General’s name!”

The child jumped down, scampered to the door and pulled it open.

            “Come in! Come in! Here are the soldiers, Papa. I know them.”

            The file marched in; its officer saluted the doomed Colonel. The soldier’s wife was standing at his side with features drawn with pain. –One long embrace—Then—“To the Tower—forward!” The Colonel marched forward with military step, the file following; then the door closed.

            “Oh, Mama, didn’t it come out beautiful! I told you it would; and they are going to the tower, and he’ll see them!”

            The next morning Abby was told to run and play—her mamma was very ill. The child went out. It struck her as wrong that her papa should be allowed to stay at the Tower at such a time as this.

            An hour later the military court were ushered into the presence of the Lord General. The spokesman said: “We have implored them to reconsider, but they persist. They will not cast lots. They are willing to die, but not to defile their religion.”

            The Lord General said: “They shall not all die. The lots shall be cast for them. Send for them. Place them in that room side by side with their faces to the wall and their wrists crossed behind them, and go, bring me the first little child that passes by.”

            The man returned leading Abby by the hand. She went straight to the Head of the State, and climbed up into his lap.

            “I know you, sir, you are the Lord General. I have seen you when you went by my house. I had on my red frock. Don’t you remember?”

            “Why, I am ashamed, but I will never forget you again, dear. You remind me of my own little girl. She had your charm—your all-conquering sweet confidence in friend and stranger alike. She used to sit on my lap, just as you are doing now.”

            “Did you love her very much?”

            “When she commanded I obeyed!”

            “I think you are lovely. Will you kiss me?”

            “Thankfully. There! What you command I must obey. And now I have a commission for you.”

            The Head of the Nation gave Abby three little disks of sealing wax, two white, and one ruddy red. The red was to deliver death to the Colonel who should get it.

            “And now, dear, lift the corner of that curtain, there; pass through and you will see three men standing in a row. Into the open hands drop one of those things, then come back to me.”

            Abby dropped the curtain behind her, then her face lighted merrily as she saw that one of them was her papa. She dropped the disks into the open hands, then peeped around under her father’s arm and cried out:

            “Papa, Papa! Look what you’ve got. I gave you the pretty one.”

            He glanced at the fatal gift, then gathered his innocent little executioner to his breast in an agony of love and pity. There was deep silence during some minutes, then the officer of the guard moved reluctantly forward.

            “It grieves me sir, but my duty commands. I must take you away!”

            “Indeed you can’t. My mama is sick, and I’m going to take him home.”

            “My poor child, he must go with me!” said the Colonel.

            “I told you my mama is sick. Let him go—you must!”

            Abby was gone like a flash if light. In a moment she was back, dragging the Lord General by the hand.

            “Stop them, Sir! I told them my mama is sick, and wants my papa.”

            “Your papa, child! Is he your papa?”

            “Why, of course. Could I give the pretty red one to any other when I love him so?”

            “Ah, God help me! I have done the cruelest thing that ever man did! What can I do now?

            “Why, you can make them let him go,” and she began to sob. “Tell them to do it! You told me to command, and now the very first time I tell you to do a thing you don’t do it!”

             A tender light dawned in the rugged old face, and the Lord General laid his hand upon the small tyrant’s head and said:

            “God be thanked for the saving accident of that unthinking promise, and you, inspired by Him, for reminding me of my forgotten pledge. Officer, obey her command—she speaks by my mouth. The prisoner is pardoned; set him free!”

                                                --Selected

Courtesy

            It was the evening rush hour, when homeward-bound workers pour out on Washington streets by the thousand, and when street cars are packed-jammed to the very doors. A late train had brought a traveler, cumbered with baggage, to a cross-town transfer point just when the street was most crowded. One-two-three cars whizzed past before a motorman deigned to even stop; and then we just did manage to get aboard.

            There were no seats to be had, of course. As we went around a curb, most of the standees slipped off balance and grabbed wildly for the nearest support. Suddenly a dusky-faced, bright-eyed, kinky-haired boy of twelve or there-abouts touched my arm and spoke:

            “’Scuse me, lady, but ef yo’kin scrouch roun’ inter dis corner, I kin change places wif you.”

            Thankfully I “scrounced” even though a florid fat man almost did get the precious corner to lean against first!

            In half an hour we were out in the suburbs, and the crowd began to melt away. The last part of the ride was comfortable enough—as street carsgto—for anybody.

            “Georgia Avenue,” called the conductor; then “7^th Street – 6^th Street – 5^th Street–“

            I turned to gather up my belongings, as we ground to a stop, but a dusky hand reached for the heavy suitcase, and once more the small gentleman-of-color came to my rescue.

            “Yo’ goin’ dis a-way, lady?”

            “Yes, but—“

“I kin carry it—well, as not,” he insisted. And so—with numerous stops—he did.

Four blocks later, having told me enroute all about “Miss Mary and Mr. Jack” for whom “my mammy cooks and housekeeps while dey run de stor’,” he set the burden down at last before the house where it belonged, but with a smile that showed two rows of snow-white teeth, absolutely refused to accept the quarter I offered—yes, urged--him to take.

“No, indeedy,” he explained. “I’s glad I kin do dat fo’ you, ‘cause it’s my ferfume fo’ terday.”

“Oh!” I responded blankly. “Well, I surely thank you very much.”

“Ho’ shor is welcome,” he beamed—then looked at me quizzically and added, “but lady, yo’ shore know ‘bout the ferfume don’ you?”

“I’m not so sure, Jerry. Suppose you tell me.”

“Why, Miss Mary, she say (Miss Mary’s her I chores fo’ after school,) Miss Mary, she say yo’ must do some perliteness fo’ somebody ever’day, and she say dat’s de ferfume o’life—make it smell sweet, yo’ know!”

Ah, now I understood. Politeness is the perfume that makes life more fragrant—sweeter—lovelier!

And really, isn’t it?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Courtesy isn’t such a complicated accomplishment, after all. It’s merely “to do and say the kindest thing in the kindest way,” not merely sometimes, to some few persons whose favor we may wish to gain but to everybody, everywhere, and under every circumstance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was the queerest little old woman! “Eighty years, come July 3,” she told us. I wish you could have seen her! She was dressed in a patched black dress, and had a much-patched faded blue gingham apron protecting her long, voluminous skirts. Her hat—a “sailor” type of ancient vintage—was perched on the tip top of her head, but securely tied under her chin with a string, and beneath its spacious brim gray hair fell in sparse strings around a wrinkled face. Her shoes were at least twice too large, and had long, long ago seen their best days. On her right arm hung a spacious, though pitifully thin, old pocketbook tied shut with a shoe lace. In her right hand she carried a broom-stick—full length—with a nail in the end. This served as a cane! Her left hand clung to a tiny, old-fashioned “hand satchel.”

The conductor brought her into the Pullman from the crowded day coach, just after our train left Baltimore, and she settled herself with a sigh into its more comfortable quarters.

“Nice man, ain’t he?” she remarked in a high-pitched, carrying voice to her nearest neighbor. “I mean the tall feller wearin’ all that gold braid. Come in where I was a-sittin’ an’ said he had extry room in here, an’ he brought me right along, he did!”

Before an hour had passed everyone within hearing distance knew that her home was in “St. Paul, in Minnisoty;” that she had, after years of economy, saved money enough to see at least part of the world, and had selected “Jerusalem, an ‘them places over there” on which to begin. We learned that she had bought her ticket—“A round tripper” from “the ticket-agent-man in St. Paul, “and charged him to see that she traveled “straight to New York an’ then straight to Jerusalem!” Disgusted and disillusioned, she was hurrying “straight back to St. Paul to give that ticket agent man a good settin’ about, and make him give the money back!”

She positively refused “to go to bed” when night came. “Whoever he’erd of such goin’s on in a train!” But if she had been – the Queen of Sheba – those railroad men, from the colored porter to the portly goldbraided official, could not have taken more trouble to make her as comfortable as possible. And when we reached Chicago, they arranged for her transfer to “the Minnisoty station” in a taxi, and even put themselves to considerable trouble to locate her missing specks, and the way they did this proved that it was not just all in a day’s work, but that they knew the real meaning of real courtesy!

This after all is only the golden rule translated into a gracious reality—the “ferfume” of life.

“It’s so easy to be too busy in these hustling, hurrying days for some of the finer courtesies—those things that are perhaps outside the realm of expected civility. But ‘tis well worth anybody’s while to take a few steps aside from the beaten path of his polite duty, and be extra courteous!

Why? Because it will not only sweeten other lives, but it will do wonders for one’s own naturally all too selfish heart, and transform one’s little world into a warm, kindly, sympathetic living place.

You wonder if it’s worth while—this super courtesy. Well, just try it someday and—you’ll—be—surprised.

           

~Lora E. Clements, The Youth’s Instructor, September 9, 1930

Cast Thy Bread Upon the Waters

            Nels Lundquist entered the little sod house in which he and his family had made their home during the five years they had lived on the Nebraska prairie. He placed his rifle on its accustomed pegs in the wall and turned to greet his wife.

            Noticing the troubled expression upon his face, she asked, “How was he?”

            “I don’t know, Martha, I didn’t see him this time.”

            The solemnity in his voice frightened her. “You don’t think he is…” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

            “No, I don’t think he is dead; at least, I hope not. But there wasn’t any smoke coming out of his chimney. I called the dog and he was there.”

            “You didn’t let the dog come near you, did you?” anxiously queried his wife.

            “No, I threw rocks at him to keep him away.”

            Crossing the room and seating himself before the hearth, the man aimlessly poked at the logs upon the fire. Finally he thrust out, “Martha, it doesn’t seem right, it isn’t Christ-like, we must do something. Just last night you were telling of the priest and the Levite. Sick old Matt isn’t a stranger, but our neighbor, and a good one.”

            With a pained but determined look on her face, Martha replied, “Think of little Nelda and Arvid. We can’t risk their lives. Anyway, we are taking him food and leaving it near the door. What more can we do?”

            “I shudder when I think that he may be too sick even to crawl to the threshold to get it,” answered her husband.

            Just then their conversation was interrupted by a vigorous knock at the door. Mrs. Lundquist opened it.

            “Come, warm yourself by the fire and tell us your errand.”

            “I was returning from the Junction with a few supplies,” explained the youth, “and old White Foot was getting pretty tired. Therefore, I decided to stop and rest him awhile.”

            Ralph noticed a strained expression upon the faces of his friends as he was talking.

            “You look worried. Has anything happened?”

            “Yes, Ralph, we are worried,” replied his host. “Four days ago our neighbor, Old Matt, who lives east of us about a quarter of a mile, was taken sick. At first it didn’t seem to be serious, but day before yesterday, as I was approaching his cabin, he called and told me not to come near, for he thought he had the smallpox. I dislike to endanger my family, yet I feel it is my Christian duty to care for him. Matt is a good man; he drifted in here about two years ago and built himself a one-room shack. The results of his good influence are to be seen on every hand. He has never said much about himself. I don’t even know his full name or whether he had any folks or not.”

            “Surely there is someone who can give him assistance,” protested Ralph.

            “No, there doesn’t seem to be anyone around here who has had the smallpox or who is willing to run the risk of getting it,” answered Mr. Lundquist soberly.

            “I can do it,” suggested Ralph calmly.

            “You!” they both gasped in astonishment.

            “Yes, let me go. You see, I can’t take smallpox, for I’ve been vaccinated,” Ralph explained as he rolled up his sleeve and showed his friends the round scar on his arm.

            “Do you remember that terrible storm we had in January about two years ago? That night a doctor who had been visiting some relatives up the country was delayed in reaching town by the storm, so he stayed with us. That evening, as we were visiting, dad happened to mention how near he came to dying from smallpox during the War of 1812. That aroused the doctor’s interest, and he told us about the wonderful discovery of vaccination by Edward Jenner, and English physician, and we were surprised to learn that it is now being successfully used in this country. In fact, he said that he was using the vaccine himself. I begged him to try this experiment on me. My father consented, so he made a few scratches on my arm and rubbed on some of this magic medicine. It took, and a scab formed which fell off in a few days, leaving this scar. Even though two years have passed since then, I haven’t taken smallpox, although I have been exposed twice. I’m sure that if dad were here, he would care for old Matt himself. Dad never loses an opportunity to help someone, even if it means risking his own life. You know the reason, of course. I’m better, though, at taking care of sick people than dad is.”

            Seven years before, Ralph’s father had been left a widower with three sons. Ralph, being the eldest, had taken the place of a mother to his two younger brothers.

            “We couldn’t think of letting you risk your life,” exclaimed the Lundquists as the youth paused for breath. They were a bit skeptical in regard to any new-fangled notion, as they called this vaccination for smallpox of which they had been hearing a great deal.

            “I am eighteen,” argued Ralph, “and, besides that, I know dad would give his permission.”

            Finally he won their consent to his plan, and was soon on his way to the home of old Matt, it having been agreed that he was to signal the Lundquists if their old neighbor was still alive.

            Upon receiving the assurance that old Matt lived, Nels Lundquist set out upon the fifteen mile journey to inform the elder Guinn of his son’s whereabouts. He planned to bring the younger Guinn children to his own home, that they might be cared for by his wife during Ralph’s absence.

            “I wonder,” pondered the man as he rode along, “What Ralph meant by saying that he supposed I knew why his father never missed an opportunity to do a good turn.”

            The hour was growing late as he saw in the distance a light which made him realize that he was nearing the end of his journey.

            When the reason for his son’s absence had been told, Mr. Guinn remarked, “That’s just like the boy, but I’m glad he went. It is too late for you to start back tonight, Lundquist. Come in and rest. You can get an early start in the morning. I will have the children ready then, since you insist on taking them home with you.”

            As they sat around the fire discussing the weather and such problems as confronted those hardy pioneers, Mr. Lundquist suddenly said, “John, that son of yours spoke about your willingness to help anyone in need or trouble, as if there was some mystery attached thereto. Tell me about it.”

            “I thought that everyone in this country knew about my miraculous escape from death,” answered the elder Guinn, surprised. “But if you don’t, you shall hear it now.”

            “It happened when I was a young man several years older than Ralph. I was a careless, indifferent youth who took many unnecessary risks. We had moved to the Ohio Valley after I was nearly grown, and the Indians were on the warpath most of the time. Thinking that I was capable of caring for myself, I left my companions one day while out hunting, and was captured by a band of Indians. How I escaped being scalped then and there is more than I know. They seemed in no hurry to get rid of me, yet I didn’t know what moment would be my last.”

            “Finally, one day about three weeks after I had been taken captive, a white man strode into camp. I watched his actions closely, as he seemed to be acquainted with this band of red men. Upon seeing me and guessing what my fate was to be, he tried to gain my freedom, with the results that my captors only became angry and threatened his life. He was evidently a trapper, as he had a great number of skins with him.”

            “But finally after much bickering, I was actually turned over to this stranger, though it cost him everything he possessed. The few days that I was in his company he treated me very kindly, and through his influence I resolved to mend my ways. We parted without my being able to repay him for his great sacrifice, and I lost track of him entirely. I have hunted for him for years without success. My failure caused me to resolve to risk my life, if need be, to help my fellow men and to give unselfishly of my worldly possessions to those in need. In this way I hope indirectly to repay my debt, in a small measure at least, to one who sacrificed his all for me. And it was a sacrifice, for those skins which were exchanged for my life represented the work of an entire winter.”

            “Would you know him if you saw him again?”

            “Yes, I think so. He had a queer scar over his right eye in the shape of a half circle. He must be quite an old man now if he is still living.”

            Nels Lundquist was up at daybreak to start for home, because he was anxious to see Ralph. Suppose the vaccination did not protect the boy? Suppose he should take the smallpox?

            Meanwhile, the self-appointed nurse was busy caring for old Matt. His knowledge was limited, but he possessed kindness, patience, and a firm determination to succeed in everything he undertook.

            A search of the cabin, which was begun in an attempt to find a clue regarding the relatives of the old man, was of no avail. He noticed a half-moon scar above the patient’s eye while bathing his fevered brow, but thought nothing of it until the next day when he discovered an old rifle in a corner of the room with the name “Matt Sawyer” carved on the stock.

            “Why!” he exclaimed to himself, “that was the name of the man who saved dad’s life. No, it couldn’t be he—what would he be doing here?”

            For fear that he might be mistaken, he said nothing about his discovery.

            After some weeks the sick man began to improve, and Ralph was satisfied that he would live. As he gained strength, he thanked his young nurse time and time again, with tears in his eyes, for saving his life. He realized, had he been left alone, he would have died.

            Then one day Ralph’s father came to see his son, and to make the acquaintance of old Matt. The boy met his father at the door, and with an air of importance drew him aside and told him about the rifle.

            “Yes,” Mr. Guinn said, when he saw it, “this is Matt’s gun.  Now let me see the man himself, and if the scar is there, as you say, son, it must be he.”

            As they approached the bedside, the old man spoke, “I can never repay your son for his kindness to me.”

            “You owe us nothing,” exclaimed the visitor, choked with emotion. “I am the one who is still indebted to you. I have been searching for you these many years, Mr. Sawyer.”

            “But I have never seen you before,” the old man exclaimed in feeble surprise.

            John Guinn bent close. “Look at me. Don’t you remember? You saved my life long years ago, when the Indians were about to kill me.”

            “Ah, yes! I remember,” mused the old man thoughtfully. “God is good.” After a moment came the words, “Cast thy bread upon the waters; for thou shalt find it after many days.”

                                    --from Miss Virginia Shull, July 29, 1956

The Business Man

Photo (just for fun!) by the Treasure.
:D

           “Nice place you have here, Langford,” said Stephen Quillen, his keen eyes taking in the polished gas pumps and the clean orderliness of the service station.

            Bill Langford stopped whistling abruptly. As he looked up his eyes were clouded with suspicion.

“I’m doing pretty well,” he said cautiously. “People appreciate good service.”

            Quillen nodded approvingly. “That’s the way to build up a business.”

            As he watched Quillen drive away, Bill frowned thoughtfully. The man’s interest disturbed him. Quillen was a little gray man of undetermined age, admired and feared as a shrewd businessman. He owned half the town, and was always taking over various sorts of businesses, buying them up when the owners seemed in financial straits, or picking up good opportunities. No one could say that he was dishonest, but quiet, secretive actions invited suspicion.

            A small lean dog came running up and sniffed wistfully at Bill’s lunch box, his tail wagging in friendly submission. In contrast with Quillen’s cold shrewdness, Bill’s compassion was stirred, and he gave the dog a sandwich. He chuckled as the dog gulped the sandwich and begged for more.

            “They’re cute beggars,” said a voice behind him.

            Bill turned quickly. “Oh, hello, Elmer.” Elmer was Quillen’s nephew, blinded in the war. He was a likeable chap, and came frequently to the station. “How did you know I was feeding a worthless dog?” Bill asked.

            Elmer smiled faintly. His thin, sensitive face was as wistful as the dog’s hungry eyes. “I heard him—and your laugh was the special kind people reserve for animals.”

            “I like dogs,” agreed Bill, “but a guy can’t feed all of ‘em.”

            “I know,” said Elmer soberly. Then he went on with quick, nervous eagerness. “I’ve been thinking, Bill. You know, I was a mechanic in the army. The smell of gas and dirty oil still gets me. You said you wanted to put in some improvements here. I’d like to work with you if you’d let me, and –well, I have a little money and I could be a kind of partner. I don’t know just what I can do to be useful, but I’ll think of something.”

            Bill was surprised and touched. “I don’t want to take your savings,” and his thoughts swept back to Quillen—“I’m not sure just how things are going to be from now on. But you can have a job here, for the present at least.”

            Elmer’s hand fumbled for Bill’s. His thin fingers squeezed it hard. He spoke a little huskily. “You’re swell, Bill; but Uncle Steve always says a man has to risk something if he’s going to get anywhere. If I work with you I want to put something into the deal.”

            Just then a fussy middle-aged woman blew her horn impatiently, and Bill went to wait on her. When he looked around again the boy was gone.

            A little later Bill remembered that his lease expired soon. He must renew it at once, before—everybody knew Quillen worked fast. Bill’s resentment and fear had built up in him a sharp dislike for Quillen. So, as soon as Spud Jones came on the job at the station, Bill rushed over to the State Realty Offices.

            “I want to renew my lease,” he told the man in charge.

            The man smiled ruefully as he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Langford. The property was sold this afternoon to Stephen Quillen. You’ll have to see him.

            “Thank you,” said Bill dully as he turned away. So his suspicions had been right. Quillen just couldn’t bear to see anyone else have a good thing.

            Quillen was not in his office.

            “He won’t be back today,” the girl at the desk told him. “Is there anything I can do?”

            Bill explained, but the girl shook her head. “I have no instructions. Can you come back tomorrow?”

            Bill left the building with bitter thoughts. If he lost the business, it would take him a long time to get back where he was.

            “But I’ll fix him!” he muttered. “If he won’t renew my lease I’ll fix him. I’ll run the business into the ground, and he won’t have a customer by the time I’m through.”

            Approaching the service station, Bill could see that the rush was on. Perversely he refused to hurry. Then Matt Wilson came out of the barber shop next door, his bald head shining in the slanting sunlight. He was waving the evening paper.

            “Did you see this, Bill?” he cried.

            “No,” replied Bill.

            “Says here the Hinkle Paper Company is all set to start building a big factory at the corner of Main and Oliver Streets.”

            “That’s only three blocks away,” said Bill, with rising interest.

            “I know,” answered Matt. “It ought to throw plenty of business our way.”

            Suddenly Bill stiffened. “That’s right,” he said in an odd, cold voice.

            Matt looked up in surprise. But Bill was striding toward his station. His dislike had hardened into cold hatred. Quillen must have had advance information.

            Blind Elmer approached unnoticed, and spoke eagerly. “Can I talk to you pretty soon, Bill? I have an idea.”

            Bill thrust the hose nozzle into a nearly empty gas tank. He was thinking darkly. He couldn’t be of good to anyone, now. This was his chance! If people saw him give a blind boy the bum’s rush, they would be through with him and his service station. By the time Quillen took over there would be no business.

            He turned toward the blind boy, intending to send him away crushed. But the boy beat him to it.

            “I know you’re busy,” he said apologetically. “If you say I can come back in the morning—or—or, not come back at all!” His thin hands fingered his white cane nervously.

            “Come inside—and wait!” Bill commanded sternly. He put the hose down and led the boy inside the station. As he turned around, he muttered under his breath some unflattering bit about Quillen. Bill stopped as if he had been struck. When he recovered he said in a determined but low voice, “And I don’t have to be a chiseler just because Quillen is!”

            “Sorry to keep you,” he told the waiting customer and his snarl was gone.

            The cars thinned out so that Spud was able to take care of them. As Bill started to go into the station to speak to Elmer, he saw Quillen come out of the barbershop, and walk straight toward the filling station. Bill met him halfway. Quillen smiled as he approached. It looked to Bill like a devilish grin.

            “How are you, Bill?” Quillen greeted pleasantly. The tone of his voice completely unnerved Bill. And the remark that followed left him speechless.

            “How would you like to be head of the Langford Garage, Bill?” Quillen asked. “Wilson wants to sell out. That will give us room enough. I’ll have a garage put here and you can run it. I’ll guarantee you as much as you’re making now, and you’ll get a percentage of the profits.”

            Bill’s jaw only sagged. He wanted to ask, “What’s the catch?” but there was no sound; he merely looked incredibly at Quillen.

            Quillen relieved the situation.

            “My nephew, Elmer,” he began, “lost his eyes, but he’s crazy to work in a garage. He’s smart, and he likes you. So I would like to have you use him, and I feel certain he will make himself useful. I’ll pay his salary myself—until he can earn it. Perhaps you remember seeing him around.”

            Bill nodded. “He’s in there, now—waiting to talk to me, said he had an idea.”

            “I bet he has, too,” chuckled Quillen. “How about our deal?”

            Bill’s face suddenly beamed. “Sure I’ll take Elmer! But I’d rather put him on the regular payroll, even if it cuts down the profits. He’s too fine a boy to be holding a fake job.”

            “I guess you’re right, Bill,” agreed Quillen. “How about our deal?”

            “But why,” exclaimed Bill, after recovering his composure, “are you making me a swell offer like this?”

            “It’s a good investment,” replied Quillen shrewdly. “Anyone who’ll take time out when he’s bust to be nice to a blind kid, has the stuffin’ in him to make a big success of life. That’s why I’m tying to you!” And the two men shook hands heartily.

                                                            --from Mrs. W. J. Lighthall’s collection

Beth's Awakening

            Beth stood in the very center of her dainty room looking dubiously at a fat envelope she held. With a gloved hand she creased the top edge over and over as a dainty slipper tapped the floor. With a wavering motion she started to open the flap, but at the sound of the horn outside the window, shrugged her shoulders, thrust the letter into her bag, and drew her fur closer around her white throat.

            “Oh, bother! It’s too long. It’s probably just a lot of gossip anyway, and I can read it when I get back. I wonder what mother would say if she knew where I’m going tonight—probably wouldn’t like it. She’s a dear, though, even if she is just a wee bit old-fashioned.”

            With another shrug of her graceful shoulders, she laughed merrily and started down the hall, swinging her hat in her hand.

            “Yes, Jack, don’t be in such a rush,” she said as he met her at the door. “One would think we had only five minutes ahead of us instead of a whole evening. But honestly, my conscience pricks me for spending all of Friday evening with you at nothing more elevating than a hockey game. I know it’s breaking the Sabbath, but—‘Oh, well!’”

            “Oh, my dear! You and your nonsense make me tired. All this Friday night business and starting a new day in the middle of the afternoon! I don’t mind your keeping Sabbath on the wrong day, but I do like my Friday nights with you. And you can suggest nothing more interesting to go to than a dry old Missionary Volunteer Meeting.”

            “Jack!”

            “I’m sorry, Beth, but it’s true. I almost never see you, and you always have your religion on your mind. Can’t you forget it for just tonight? Please think of me for a while. It’s our only time together for days. My night off would be your Sabbath.”

“All right, Jack,” Beth answered in a small voice,  “for tonight I’ll try to forget.”

But her face was sober as she slowly descended the boarding house steps, and walked to the car. Reaching in her purse for her handkerchief, she saw her mother’s letter still unopened, and a guilty look flashed across her face. With an effort however, she turned to her companion, and soon he had captured all of her attention.

When the long gray roadster had pulled up at the huge building in the heart of the city, Beth’s spirits were soaring and all thoughts of the letter were gone.

“My, what a crowd!” she exclaimed in surprise. “I had no idea hockey was so popular. Who did you say was playing? How long does the game last? I’m beginning to be glad I came. Why didn’t you tell me it was like this?”

“Come on, question box!” was the laughing response. Let’s go in and attend to your education. Where have you spent all your life?”

“Well not at hockey games, that’s one sure thing!”

Laughing and pushing, the two, arm in arm, made their way through the throng and took their seats in the crowded auditorium. With each moment the noise and excitement increased until it was almost necessary to shout in order to hear one another. Beth watched, with breathless interest and shining eyes, the scrambled mass of human beings on the ice. Even after the game was over and the crowd had thinned, Jack could hardly persuade her excited self to leave the scene.

“Well, little miss, how did you like it?” he inquired when they were back in the car.

“It was grand. That’s all I can say! Simply wonderful! Such excitement and so many people. Oh, I loved it.”

“There, I told you so. I knew you’d like it as well as I do. Come on, lets make a night of it. There’s no use in stopping now. The fun has just begun.”

So saying, he stepped on the starter, and off they went roaring down the road. Half an hour later they stopped, with a screeching of brakes, at a little tearoom, cozily set in a grove of evergreens.

Entering, the two chose a table in the corner by a small radio, and ordered their lunch.

“This is what I call fun,” declared Jack. “Let’s have some music.”

With a murmur of contentment Beth turned the dial, but stopped short at the phrase which caught her ears:

“Oh, I love the dear silver that shines in your hair----“

As if paralyzed, her fingers clutched the switch, her heart sank within her. It was Sabbath! What if mother knew?

“The brow that’s all furrowed and wrinkled with care----“

With tender meaning, the words came over the air to the stricken heart of the listening girl. In a moment, her bright and shining world had been shorn of its glitter.

“I kiss the dear fingers so toil worn for me;

“Oh, God bless you and keep you, Mother Machree.”

Mother bending over the ironing board on a hot summer’s day. Mother’s hands so worn and knotted in their honest labor for those she loved. Mother up with the sun and about the house so that all might be ready for daughter’s guests! Mother wearing a shabby dress, that daughter might have a warm fur about her neck. Mother’s hopes and longings that her daughter might become a strong earnest worker for her Master. She was mother’s investment. What was she doing here?

With a pale face she turned her attention to the food before her and to the conversation of her partner.

 “S’ matter Beth? Excitement too much for you? I guess you’re not used to the big city.”

With a warm smile she replied, “Listen Jack, I must tell you something. I have forgotten all else but what you wanted me to do for this one evening, but now it is over. You’re right, hockey is exciting, extremely so, but I know such excitement is not for me! I have no place in such surroundings at any time, but tonight—I have broken God’s sacred command to keep His Sabbath holy. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

“Beth, what on earth.”

“No, Jack. Let’s not argue. I’ve decided. In spite of anything you may think to the contrary, I do have a high Christian ideal in life. I have not been very faithful in living up to it of late, but I’m turning over a new leaf. You don’t understand me, Jack, I know you don’t. Perhaps it’s because of my inconsistent action. I’ve been so weak and so ready to do the things I have wanted to do, without too much thought as to whether they were things a Seventh-day Adventist girl ought to do. I realize now, that, as the Bible says, it’s best not to be unequally yoked together. I’m sorry.”

“But Beth, you’re being ridiculous. You’re fanatical. What possible harm is there in what we have done tonight? You and your saintly ideas!”

“I knew you wouldn’t understand, Jack. I’ve explained my reasons to you before. Shall we go now?”

The trip home was made in stony silence. All Beth’s attempts at conversation were brusquely and firmly repulsed, until she also subsided into a miserable heap in the corner of the car. With her mind in a turmoil she asked herself over and over again whether she had been right in saying what she had. But deep down in her heart there was the growing conviction that she was on her way back to the close communion with God which she had once known and enjoyed.

With a curt good night Jack left her, after escorting her to the door, and drove off in a rush. Leaning her aching head against the doorway, Beth wiped away a tear and murmured earnestly, “Bless him, Father, and somehow bring him to a knowledge of Thy love and Thy truth in spite of my inconsistent influence.”

Wearily she climbed the stairs, opened her door, and threw herself sobbing upon her bed. A torrent of confession poured from her lips until she lay quiet, exhausted from the storm, but peaceful at last in the knowledge of her new hope.

As she rose to put away her scattered belongings, she noticed her bag, and immediately thought of her unread letter. Eagerly she reached for it and tore open the flap. With a contented sigh she sat down upon the bed and devoured the home news. She laughed at Mrs. Murphy’s worry over her sick puppy, sighed with the discouragements and mortgages of old Aunt Hannah, and her heart quivered at the love and sacrifice of the home folks. With a start she realized that it was all interesting, this home news that she had once scorned. It told of her people of her kind. Here were her joys and her sorrows as well as theirs.

With a tired body but a comforted heart she went to sleep at last, a wiser and happier girl.

Several years passed, with no word from Jack. Beth had become a successful teacher and was happy in serving her Saviour, when one day she received a letter written in a familiar hand. With quickened heartbeat she tore it open and read:

Dear Beth,

            You will, no doubt, be surprised to hear from me after our long separation, but I feel that I must tell you what it is that is burdening my heart. When I left you after our evening together three years ago, I was very angry. I called you stubborn, obstinate, and a fanatic. I determined never to see you again. Since then, however, I have seen some of the seamy side of life, and I have found that you were right. I shall not tell you of the experiences I have lived through in the past three years, but I do want you to know how much your example has done for me. Always, I could see before me your noble character and high ideals. I fought with all my might against the calling of the small voice within me but, at last I surrendered, and now your Saviour is my Saviour too. I have come to enjoy a friendship with Him such as I never thought possible. And now I want to go back—back to the place where our friendship was broken off so abruptly. May I? I shall be anxiously awaiting your reply.

                                                                                    Jack

The golden sun made long shadows upon the wall of her pretty room as Beth sat with bowed head. At last she raised her eyes to the fading glory in the heavens, and with a heart full of gratitude, murmured, “Father, I thank Thee.”

--Mayfred R. Rose, Youth’s Instructor, August 28, 1935

Anne Hatherly

            The fire crackled merrily in the huge fireplace. The radio was softly playing a plaintive tune. Curled up on the davenport watching the shadows, was Anne Hatherly.

            Tearfully she thought of leaving home. Mother and Dad were so wonderful, and then there were Bobby and Betty, the younger children. She knew she would miss them too. Why couldn’t they all go—but then life just isn’t that way.

            She had worked hard all summer, with college as her goal. But now that she was ready to leave, her thoughts of home were uppermost.

            The clock struck eight, breaking into her reveries, and then her father’s big voice boomed out, “I took your trunk down and checked it. Your train leaves at eleven-fifteen in the morning. I’m glad you are going to college dear, and remember, Anne,”—he sat down beside the girl, placing a strong arm about her--“I love you; you know that. I have faith in you. With your talents fully consecrated to the Lord, you will make good. Just a s surely as there is a place for us in heaven, there is a work for us to do here in this world. I know God has a special place for you, Anne. Be true and honest and faithful. Mother and Dad will be praying for you.”

            Anne’s eyes filled, and Father just hugged her tighter while a few tears dropped on his shoulder. They both were silent for a moment or two, then he said, “Let me tell you a story from real life, daughter. Perhaps it will help you some day.”

            “When I was a boy we lived on a farm in the Willamette Valley. The house was of the low, old-fashioned type. Over one side and around the porch climbed a white rambler rose. In the yard were huge spreading cherry trees. Oh how we boys loved to climb them and eat all we could hold of their delicious fruit.”

            “To the north was an orchard. Back of that was a plum thicket; between this and the orchard was the red barn, where we boys played in the hay. Directly in front of the house was a large field of waving green grass, skirted by clumps of sentinel-like trees. An old worn fence zigzagged leisurely between our farm and Mr. Elm’s. To the south ran a railroad track, and beyond it the Tualatin River. Below the trestle which crossed this river was an old fashioned flour mill. We boys often trudged down there with wheat to be ground, giving the miller one fourth for grinding.”

            “It was during these happy, barefoot days that I learned to love the Lord. Every evening, after the chores were done and supper was over, we had worship. Mother was growing a bit deaf; so she read the Bible as we children and Father sat about the fireplace. Never can time erase from my memory those earnest seasons of prayer. Ours was a peaceful, happy household.”

            “But hard times came. Father slipped in the Christian way; we lost our home and became very poor. Mother, however, stood true and loyal, enduring Father’s abuse and breaks of temper like a real soldier of the cross.”

            “We boys grew up and left home one by one. The world was alluring, but, Anne, God always helped me to remember that my Mother was praying for me, Trusting in me, and I could not break that trust.”

            “My wish is that you, too, may have that same anchor, that same sweet assurance, knowing that we here at home are praying for you, as you go out alone into the strange, wide world.”

            Anne’s heart was too full for expression. She just squeezed her father’s hand tightly, then slipped up to her room and into bed, “for the last time till next summer,” she sighed.

……………………………………………………

            “But Anne, it’s such a little while—surely it can’t be wrong! Just think what it means to your future. Won’t you please?” begged Judith, who had been Anne’s roommate for nearly two years.

            Anne was a beautiful singer, and with her congenial, happy disposition, had won many friends; in fact, she was almost to the point of too much popularity. However, she had calmly kept her head, standing like a monument for right.

            But now what should she do? In a near-by city a radio broadcasting station was seeking singers. At first she only filled in, in the absence of a friend. Now she was offered a position at a substantial salary. It would mean that she could go to school easily—no more days spent under the boiling sun picking berries—no more wearing of old made-over clothes. And Anne loved clothes just as any girl loves them. Her hands wouldn’t be rough any more; they would be soft and white like Judith’s. Could she? Should she? Would she? It was only one hour, one afternoon hour, of singing on Sabbath.

            “Why, oh, why,” she wailed as she hid her face in a fluffy white pillow, “does the voice of conscience have to keep whispering that it is wrong?”

            What real difference did it make anyway? She had been too narrow-minded. This wouldn’t be like really working on the Sabbath. Her singing might even cheer some poor shut-in, and that would be missionary work. Yes, she would—just long enough to get through school!

            Judith danced a gleeful jig of her own making when she heard Anne’s decision. She loved her friend dearly and unselfishly, but not being a Christian, she little knew of the struggle going on in Anne’s heart.

            And so the winter weeks came and went, but Anne was always sad. “Why must I be so unhappy?” she asked herself many times.  “I have more than I have ever had before!” But still the ache was there.

            At last came a spring afternoon when Anne sat with her face hidden in her hands, large tears dropping through her fingers and blurring the words of an open letter on her lap.

            Before her, as a panorama, flashed a view of home. It was worship hour. She heard prayer, her father’s voice, then heard him say, “I have faith in you, dear.”

            Slowly she sank to her knees, for the first time in months. Contritely she begged God to forgive her, to give her new strength to do right.

            It was the spring Week of Prayer. The speaker of the evening had just made a call. Many hearts were responding, but among those sitting still was Judith, almost persuaded, but not quite. The speaker stood silently praying; the audience was tense, as it always is when decisions for eternity are being made.

            Then impulsively Anne stepped forward to the platform and began singing. Her sweet, flutelike soprano rang like a dainty, heartbreaking birdsong through the quite room.

“Somebody’s here with an aching heart,

No rest and no peace within;

Somebody’s here and the teardrops start

As God convicts of sin.

“Jesus will give you rest,

Jesus will give you rest,

Turn from your sin,

Call now on Him,

For Jesus will give you rest.

“Somebody’s here whom the Lord doth seek,

My brother, that somebody’s you;

Come as you are, make no delay,

And prove every promise true.”

            As the last note died away, Judith rose, and walked resolutely to the front, where stood the group asking for special prayer.

            When the two girls were alone in their room, Anne threw her arms about Judith, exclaiming, “Oh, I am so happy!”

            “So am I,” sobbed her roommate. “I thought if you could give up so much—“ and her voice again broke.

            Anne spoke lovingly, “But Judith, I didn’t give up anything; see—I have gained even you!”

--Maecel Tupper, Youth’s Instructor, November 3, 1931