Children’s Story

Fighting the Good Fight

by

A number of years ago, at an orphanage in a northern state, there lived a boy we shall call Will Jones. He was just an ordinary boy except in one respect, which I must point out, to his discredit. Will Jones had a temper that distinguished him from the general run of boys. Will’s temper might have been inherited from a Spanish pirate, and yet Will was a boy whom everyone loved; but this hair-trigger temper at times terribly spoiled things. It would be tedious to recount his uprisings of anger, and the dire consequences that often followed.

Mr. Custer, the superintendent of the orphanage, had worked to hopefully lead Will to the paths of right; but it was a difficult task.

Sometimes it needs but one small breach to begin the overthrow of a giant wall. One small key, if it is the right one, will open the most resisting door. One small phrase may start a germ of thought growing in a human mind which in after years may become a mighty oak of character. So, Will Jones the incorrigible fighter, was to demonstrate this principle, as we shall see.

On a Sabbath evening, as the hundred or more orphans met at vespers and sang, “Onward, Christian Soldiers!” they saw a stranger seated at the speaker’s desk in the home chapel. He was a venerable old man, straight and dignified, his grayish-white head a crown of honor; for he was all that he appeared—a father in Israel.

In a brief speech, he told the boys that he had once been a Union soldier, and had fought in the battles of his country. He told of the courage it required to face death upon the battlefield. He described the charges his company had made and met, the sieges and the marches, the sufferings they endured, and, lastly, the joys that victory and the end of the conflict brought.

Then, when the boys were at the height of interested expectancy, he skillfully drew the lesson he wanted them to learn. He told of a greater warfare, requiring a higher courage, and bringing as a reward a larger and more enduring victory. “Boys,” he said, “the real soldiers are the Christian soldiers; the real battle is the battle against sin; the real battleground is where that silent struggle is constantly waging within our minds.” Then he told of Paul, who said, “I have fought a good fight.” Did any of you boys ever fight a bad fight?” Every head but one turned to a common point at this juncture, and the eyes of only one boy remained upon the speaker. Will Jones had the record for bad fights, and that is why about 99 pairs of eyes had involuntarily sought him out when the speaker asked the question, which he hoped each would ask himself. And the reason Will Jones did not look around accusingly at any of the other boys was because he had taken to heart all that had been said; and, because of this, the turning point had come; his conversion had begun. Henceforth, he determined so to live that he could say with Paul, “I have fought a good fight.”

No sooner does a boy determine to fight the good fight than Satan accepts the challenge, and gives him a combat such as will seem like a “fiery trial” to try him. These struggles develop the moral backbone; and if a boy does not give in, he will find his moral courage increasing with each moral fight. Just let that thought stay in your mind, underscored in bold faced italics, and printed in indelible ink; and if you have a tendency to be a spiritual “jelly-back,” it will be like a rod of steel to your spine.

The fear of Will Jones’ knuckles had won a degree of peace for him. He had lived a sort of armed truce, so to speak. Now he was subjected to petty persecutions by mean boys who took advantage of his new stand. He did not put on the look of a martyr either, but remained good natured even when the old volcano within was rumbling and threatening to bury the tormentors in hot lava and ash. The old desire to fight the bad fight was turned into the new channel of determination to fight the good fight. Today, Will Jones is still a good fighter, and I hope he always will be, and someday be crowned with eternal victory; for he who fights the good fight is fighting for eternity.

Will you not try so to live each day, subduing every sinful thought, that at night when you kneel to pray you can say to the Lord, “I have fought a good fight today”?

Stories Worth Re-reading, S. W. Van Trump, ©1913, 71–73

Story – David Brainard

by

Apostle to the American Indians

At the dawn of the seventeenth century, the memorable “Mayflower” brought to the shores of North America a man and a woman who were to be the grandparents of the great missionary.

Far up amidst a group of hills near Hartford, Connecticut, nestled the cottage where on April 20, 1718, this missionary was born. His name was David Brainard. When he was a mere youth, both his parents died. He did not attend school until he was past twenty years of age. Nevertheless, his education was not neglected. He loved to read the Bible, as is shown by the fact that one year he read the whole volume through twice.

At the age of twenty-four, Mr. Brainard received a license to preach. At this time, he responded to a call to labor among the North American Indians. Although it was in the dead of winter, he started to his field without delay. At that time the American continent was largely peopled by the red race. But few white people had ever gone west of New York, and but little was known of the Mississippi Valley.

The field assigned him was a region at that time inhabited solely by the Indians. On his journey he passed through New York City, then only a small town. After leaving New York he traversed the wilderness with his lone horse, depending entirely upon the hospitality of the Indians for his daily needs, crossing the mountains, facing bleak winds, struggling through deep drifts of snow, having nothing but the limitless blue tent of heaven for a shelter, yet regarding these afflictions lightly when compared with the bitter agony of the Saviour.

Immediately upon reaching his field he set to work to learn the language of the Iroquois, the difficulty of which can be inferred from the word “question,” which in the Indian language contains thirty-six letters. The work that John Eliot had done in reducing the Indian language to a written form, was of inestimable value to David Brainard.

The influence of this earnest Christian over the red man can be seen by the fact that he persuaded an entire tribe to emigrate so that his interpreter might work for them.

After several months of labor, he returned to New Jersey to be ordained, but upon returning to his mission field, he was met by the hostility of the traders. These unprincipled men, instead of trying to uplift their red brothers, carried to them that soul destroying enemy—strong drink. The gospel of Jesus brought to them by Mr. Brainard was having its influence to turn these deluded people away from this vice, and the traders felt as did those men from whom Paul took away “the hope of their gains,” by leading the people to turn away from the evils of divination and serve the true God.

Mr. Brainard heard of a great feast that was to be held the following day, and he knew it would be a time of drunkenness and crime for many of the Indians. What could he do to turn this tide of evil from them? Retiring to the quiet shadow of the woods, he prayed as so often our Saviour prayed, through the entire night, pleading for strength and wisdom to show the Indians their sin. The following day he was enabled by divine grace to break up the tumult, and to speak the word of life to interested listeners.

The Spirit of the Lord was working like leaven upon the hearts of the Indians, and soon there was a great revival. Entire tribes came scores of miles to hear the words of salvation. Ninety-five percent of his hearers were prostrated before the Lord. Their cry of anguish is touchingly expressed in this moving stanza [see in the image above].

This life of hardship and exposure proved too much for Mr. Brainard’s health, and it was at last discovered that he was a victim to that dread disease, tuberculosis. He suffered greatly, and was finally taken to his home and friends. For many weeks his life hung in the balance, and before he reached the age of thirty years his work on earth was finished.

His spirit always rose when it seemed that the end was near. The earnestness of his life is expressed in these words from his diary: “My heaven is to please God and glorify Him; to give all to Him, to be wholly devoted to His cause—that is the heaven I long for, that is my religion and happiness. There is nothing in this world worth living for but doing good, and finishing God’s work, doing the work that Christ did.”

True Education Series, Book 6, ©1912, 352–355

Story – The Brown Towel

by

“One who has nothing can give nothing,” said Mrs. Sayers, the sexton’s wife, as the ladies of the sewing society were busily engaged in packing the contents of a large box, destined for a Western missionary.

“A person who has nothing to give must be poor, indeed,” said Mrs. Bell, as she deposited a pair of warm blankets in the already well-filled box.

Mrs. Sayers looked at the last-named speaker with a glance which seemed to say, “You who have never known self-denial cannot feel for me,” and remarked, “You surely think one can be too poor to give?”

“I once thought so, but have learned from experience that no better investment can be made, even from the depths of poverty, than lending to the Lord.”

Seeing the ladies listening attentively to the conversation, Mrs. Bell continued: “Perhaps, as our work is finished, I can do no better than to give you my experience on the subject. It may be the means of showing you that God will reward the cheerful giver.

“During the first twenty-eight years of my life, I was surrounded with wealth; and not until I had been married nine years did I know a want which money could satisfy, or feel the necessity of exertion. Reverses came with fearful suddenness, and before I had recovered from the blow, I found myself the wife of a poor man, with five little children dependent upon our exertions.

“From that hour I lost all thought of anything but the care of my family. Late hours and hard work were my portion, and to my unskilled hands it seemed at first a bitter lot. My husband strove anxiously to gain a subsistence, and barely succeeded. We changed our place of residence several times, hoping to do better, but without improvement.

“Everything seemed against us. Our well-stocked wardrobe had become so exhausted that I felt justified in absenting myself from the house of God, with my children, for want of suitable apparel. While in this low condition, I went to church one evening, when my poverty-stricken appearance would escape notice, and took my seat near the door. An agent from the West preached, and begged contributions to the home missionary cause. His appeal brought tears to my eyes, and painfully reminded me of my past days of prosperity, when I could give of my abundance to all who called upon me. It never entered my mind that the appeal for assistance in any way concerned me, with my poor children banished from the house of God by poverty, while I could only venture out under the friendly protection of darkness.

“I left the church more submissive to my lot, with a prayer in my heart that those whose consciences had been addressed might respond. I tried in vain to sleep that night. The words of the text, ‘Give, and it shall be given unto you; good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and running over, shall men give into your bosom,’ seemed continually sounding in my ears. The eloquent entreaty of the speaker to all, however poor, to give a mite to the Lord, and receive the promised blessing, seemed addressed to me. I rose early the next morning, and looked over all my worldly goods in search of something worth bestowing, but in vain; the promised blessing seemed beyond my reach.

“Hearing that the ladies of the church had filled a box for the missionary’s family, I made one more effort to spare something. All was poor and threadbare. What should I do? At last I thought of my towels. I had six, of coarse brown linen, but little worn. They seemed a scanty supply for a family of seven; and yet I took one from the number, and, putting it into my pocket, hastened to the house where the box was kept, and quietly slipped it in. I returned home with a light heart, feeling that my Saviour’s eye had seen my sacrifice, and would bless my effort.

“From that day success attended all my husband’s efforts in business. In a few months our means increased so that we were able to attend church and send our children to Sabbath school, and before ten years had passed, our former prosperity had returned fourfold. ‘Good measure, pressed down, and shaken together, and running over,’ had been given us.

“It may seem superstitious to you, my dear friends, but we date all our success in life to God’s blessing, following that humble gift out of deep poverty. He may not always think best to reward so signally those who give to Him, but He is never unmindful of the humblest gift or giver. Wonder not that from that day I deem few too poor to give, and that I am a firm believer in God’s promise that He will repay with interest, even in this life, all we lend to Him.”

Glances of deep interest, unmixed with envy, were cast from the windows at Mrs. Bell, as, after bidding the ladies adieu, she stepped into her carriage. Her consistent benevolence had proved to all that in her prosperity she retained the same Christian spirit which, in her days of poverty, had led to the bestowal of the brown towel.

“Well,” exclaimed Mrs. Sayers, “if we all had such a self-denying spirit, we might fill another box at once. I will never again think that I am too poor to give.”

Stories Worth Re-reading, Our Young Folks, ©1913, 175–177

Story – Saved from the Flood

by

Night had fallen. Everybody in the little town was asleep. Everybody, that is, except the policeman, who was keeping his watch all alone in the police station.

Nobody dreamed that danger was near. No serious trouble had come to the town in years. There was no sign of trouble now, except that the level of the water in the river was a little higher than usual. But then, the water often rose and fell without anyone’s noticing it. Sometimes, especially in the hot dry summer, the river was merely a little trickle, way down at the bottom of its forty-foot-high banks.

The night wore on. There was no sound save the beating of the rain on the roofs and roadways, and the occasional barking of a dog.

Suddenly the telephone rang sharp and loud in the police station.

Startled a bit, the policeman picked up the receiver. “Hello,” he said.

The words that came over the phone shocked him.

“Flood warning!” said a voice. “Lots of water rushing your way. Will reach you in thirty minutes. Get the people out of all houses on low-lying ground. There’s no time to lose.”

A flood! In thirty minutes! How little time to warn everybody! How quickly he must work!

The policeman sounded the alarm, and in an instant the whole town was alive. A few minutes later men were hurrying to the houses down by the river, waking the sleeping families and helping them move what they could of their goods to higher ground. There just wasn’t time to salvage many things.

Some of the people, just roused from sleep, didn’t want to move, especially in the middle of the night, with rain pouring down. They couldn’t believe that a flood was only a few minutes away. But the policeman and the fireman and other friends hurried them out to safety.

Then it came. About one o’clock in the morning, a wall of water, full of uprooted trees, broken houses, and dead animals, rushed by. On its churning surface were tables, chairs, pianos, oil drums, and even cars! It hit the bridge in the middle of town and carried it away as though it had been made of paper. It overflowed its banks and filled all the low-lying land nearby. Some of the houses which people had left but a few minutes before were lifted off their foundations and sent sailing downstream. Others simply collapsed, fell apart, and were carried away.

By this time hundreds of people were standing on high ground near the river, peering through the darkness at the terrible scene before them. How glad they were that nobody was in those houses that were being smashed and carried away by the flood!

Nobody?

“Look!” cried someone, pointing over the swirling water. “Surely that was a light! Over there; look!”

“It can’t be,” said others. “There’s nobody there. There’s no light.”

“But there it is again! It must be a candle. Somebody keeps lighting it, and it blows out.”

“So it is. Whose house is it?”

“That’s Mrs. Smith’s house. Her husband is in the Army, and she has four little children with her. Didn’t anybody warn them?”

Somehow in the darkness and the excitement that house had been missed. Now it was surrounded by wild, rushing water which threatened any moment to carry it away.

“Give me a rope!” cried some brave soul. “I’ll swim over there.”

They tied a rope around the man, and he set off. But he couldn’t get anywhere near. It was impossible. The swift current carried him away, and it was only with great difficulty that he was hauled back. Another man offered to go but he also failed. A third made the attempt, but exhausted, had to give up.

Meanwhile, out there in the darkness a brave mother was making a gallant fight for her life and for the lives of her children.

As no one had called to warn her of the coming flood, she and her children were all fast asleep when the first rush of water came sweeping into their house. Awakened by shouts and the roar of the flood waters going by, she jumped out of bed to find herself standing in two feet of water, which covered the bedroom floor and was fast rising. Suddenly realizing what had happened, she grabbed her four children and lifted them one by one onto the top of a large cupboard. Then as the water rose above the beds, the table, the chairs, she clambered up on top of the cupboard herself, taking with her a candle and matches, a dry blanket, a bottle of milk, a knife, an old chisel, and, of all things, a flatiron!

Now they were all huddled together on top of the cupboard, wondering just how high the water would rise. Then it was that this dear, brave mother began to pray that God would spare her and her children, and if not, let them die together.

An hour passed by. Two hours. It was now three o’clock in the morning. They could feel the water close to the top of the cupboard. Suddenly one of the inside walls of the house gave way and fell with a great splash.

“The end must be near now,” this brave mother said to herself. But she was not ready to give up yet.

Now it was that she made use of the tools she had so wisely brought with her, thinking that she might in some way need them.

Just over their heads was the ceiling, made of thin boards. “If I could just cut through it,” she said to herself, “we could climb up on the rafters. Then we would be another two feet above the water.”

Seizing the flatiron and the blunt chisel, she began chipping away at the board, splitting it off in little pieces until she had made a hole two feet long by nine inches wide. Through this tiny holy she pushed her children, one by one, telling each to sit astride a rafter. She was afraid they might fall through the frail board if they were to stand on it. Then she pulled herself up through the hole and sat with them there, waiting, wondering, praying, while below, the water swirled through the house.

Four o’clock. Five o’clock. Six o’clock. It was getting light now. And what a scene! The great brown torrent was still surging by, with bits of broken houses and furniture floating on its surface.

Hundreds of people who had watched all night were looking anxiously at the one little house still standing in the midst of the flood. Only its roof could be seen now, with the tops of some of its windows. Surely everybody in it must have drowned long ago!

But no! As they looked they could see that someone was cutting a hole in the roof!

The brave little mother was making her last attempt to save her children. She was lifting them out onto the roof!

A shout goes up from the people and tears come to many eyes. But the little family is still in grave danger. At any moment the house could begin to come apart under the pressure of the swirling water.

“Let me try again,” says a strong swimmer. “I think I can make it now.”

They tie a rope around his waist and he sets off through the raging waters. He is swept downstream, but fights his way up again. At last, after a mighty effort, he reaches the house. Another shout goes up from the people anxiously watching on the bank. He has gotten there in time! The family may yet be saved.

Tying the rope securely, he makes his way in through a window. The large cupboard, on which the family had waited so long, and by which they had climbed into the loft, is gone. He signals back for a ladder. Soon another swimmer, aided by the rope, is on his way with one. Another swimmer follows. Soon one of them is seen swimming from the house with a little girl on his shoulders.

Another mighty cheer rends the morning air. Then another and another as one by one the children are brought by strong hands along the rope, strained to the uttermost by the fury of the torrent.

Then, as all brave captains are last to leave a sinking ship, this dear mother is the last to leave her falling house. When all her four children have been taken to safety she comes herself and, with the help of her rescuers, makes her way to land. What a cheer the people give for her!

Her children won’t soon forget how they were saved from death that dreadful night. It was a mother’s faith against a flood.

The Story Book, Character Building Stories for Children, RHPA, ©1964, 81–89

Story – God’s First Rule

by

It was a warm, sunny afternoon, a beautiful day for Johnny and his mother to go for a walk. Spot, their Boston bulldog, went, too. On their way home Mother wanted to stop at the grocery story to buy bread, lettuce, and tomatoes for sandwiches. “Johnny, you will have to stay outside with Spot,” said Mother, pointing to a sign on the store.

“What does it say?” asked Johnny.

“It says no dogs or cats are allowed in the store. It is a good rule to keep animals out of stores that sell food, don’t you think?”*

“Yes, that is a good rule,” agreed Johnny. He remembered that he had wanted Mother to teach him the first rule in the Bible. “Mother, please teach me God’s first rule, the first commandment in Exodus.”

“As soon as we get home and take the clean clothes from the line, we’ll talk about God’s first rule,” Mother answered.

Once they were home, Johnny put the clothespins in the bag while Mother folded the fresh white sheets and towels. In a little while they were able to sit down together in the breakfast nook. Mother took her Bible and read:

“Thou shalt have no other gods before Me.”

“This is God’s first rule,” said Mother. “In this first rule God tells us about Himself. This means that God comes first. He made us, and He made the world and everything in it. Everything belongs to God. He says in the Bible: ‘Every beast of the forest is Mine, and the cattle upon a thousand hills.’

“God wants us to love Him above everything, because He gave us life, water, food, sunshine, and all the trees and flowers. We should feel God close to us when we look at the sun and the moon and the twinkling stars, for we know that God made them all.”

“Did God give me to Daddy and you?”

“Yes, Johnny. God gave you to us. You are our child. We are to care for you, train you, and love you. We want you to love us, too.”

“I do love you and Daddy,” Johnny piped up.

“It is the same with God. He is our Father, and He loves us. We belong to Him, so God should be first in our love and first in our thoughts,” Mother explained.

“I love God, too,” said Johnny.

“There are many ways to tell God we love Him. Do you know how we can show our love to Him?” Mother asked.

“We can pray,” Johnny answered.

“Yes, God wants us to pray to Him. He hears us, too, when we pray. We can also bring gifts to God,” Mother added.

“But, Mother, God is in heaven; how can I give Him a gift?” puzzled Johnny.

“Suppose Daddy gave you a dollar to buy whatever you wanted. You would want to go to the store and see what you could find, wouldn’t you? You might decide to buy a play car that cost one dollar. Then suddenly you think to yourself: I’m going to give the dollar to help someone else learn about God. Johnny, that is telling God you love Him. You would show you thought of Him first, and would be giving Him a gift.”

“Mother, I am going to give God the money I have in my bank. It will help to teach some other boy about God.”

“I know God will be pleased,” said Mother. “But there are many people in this world who love their own things more than they love God. Some of the things they have are like a god to them. Whatever we love more than our heavenly Father is an idol, or false god.

“I once knew a little girl who had a treasure that was almost like a god to her. She loved it so much she wouldn’t go to sleep until it was right beside her. It really didn’t amount to much, but it was the most precious thing in all the world to her.”

“What was it, Mother?” inquired the boy.

“It was a fluffy, furry kitty. The little girl would love it and hug it tightly. One day the kitty was gone. She couldn’t find it anywhere in the house. She cried and cried. She stamped her feet and shouted naughty words. Her mother couldn’t seem to comfort her, and the girl wouldn’t go out to play with her little friends. She sat around all day and pouted.

“It was all right for her to like her kitty, but she thought more of it than anything else. When we love anything more than God, then it crowds God out of our hearts, and we become angry when we can’t have what we want.

“God said, ‘Thou shalt have no other gods before Me,’ and He doesn’t want girls or boys to love anything above Him. Boys or girls should not think so much of their games or dolls or bicycles that they forget God who gave them all things. God wants you and me to love Him with all our hearts.”

“God loves all the people in the world, doesn’t He?” asked Johnny.

“Yes, but not everyone loves Him. You see, there are many people in this world who pray and bow down to other gods, Johnny. They do not love the true God who made them.”

“I always want to love God more than anything else,” Johnny reflected.

God’s Ten Rules, Ethel M. Neff, ©1948, 15–20

* The setting of this story is in the 1940s. Today, service and emotional support animals are permitted in almost all public places including restaurants and food markets.

Story – Only a Boy

by

More than a half a century ago a faithful minister coming early to the church met one of his deacons, whose face wore a very resolute expression.

“I came early to meet you,” he said. “I have something on my conscience to say to you. Pastor, there must be something radically wrong in your preaching and work; there has been only one person added to the church in a whole year, and he is only a boy.”

The old minister listened. His eyes moistened, and his thin hand trembled on his broad-headed cane.

“I feel it all,” he said; “I feel it, but God knows that I have tried to do my duty, and I can trust Him for the results.”

“Yes, yes,” said the deacon, “but ‘by their fruits ye shall know them,’ and one new member, and he, Robert, only a boy, seems to me rather a slight evidence of true faith and zeal. I don’t want to be hard, but I have this matter on my conscience, and I have done but my duty in speaking plainly.”

“True,” said the old man; “but ‘charity suffereth long and is kind; beareth all things, hopeth all things.’ Ay, there you have it; ‘hopeth all things’! I have great hopes for Robert. Some seed that we sow bears fruit late, but that fruit is generally the most precious of all.”

The old minister went to the pulpit that day with a grieved and heavy heart. He closed his discourse with dim and tearful eyes. He wished that his work was done forever, and that he was at rest among the graves under the blossoming trees in the old graveyard.

He lingered in the dear old church after the rest were gone. He wished to be alone. This place was sacred and inexpressibly dear to him. It had been his spiritual home from his youth. Before this altar he had prayed over the dead forms of a bygone generation, and had welcomed the children of a new one; and here, yes, here, he had been told at last that his work was no longer owned and blessed!

No one remained—no one?—“Only a boy.”

The boy was Robert Moffat. He watched the trembling old man. His soul was filled with loving sympathy. He went to him, and laid his hand on his black gown.

“Well, Robert?” said the minister.

“Do you think if I were willing to work hard for an education, I could become a preacher?”

“A preacher?”

“Perhaps a missionary.”

There was a long pause. Tears filled the eyes of the old minister. At length he said: “This heals the ache in my heart, Robert. I see the divine hand now. May God bless you, my boy. Yes, I think you will become a preacher.”

Some years ago, an aged missionary returned to London from Africa. His name was spoken with reverence. When he went into an assembly, the people rose. When he spoke in public, there was a deep silence. Priests stood uncovered before him; nobles invited him to their homes.

He had added a province to the church of Christ on earth; had brought under the gospel influence the most savage of African chiefs; had given the translated Bible to strange tribes; had enriched with valuable knowledge the Royal Geographical Society; and had honored the humble place of his birth, the Scottish church, the United Kingdom, and the universal missionary cause.

It is hard to trust when no evidence of fruit appears. But the harvests of right intentions are sure. The old minister sleeps beneath the trees in the humble place of his labors, but men remember his work because of what he was to one boy, and what that one boy was to the world.

“Do thou thy work: it shall succeed
In thine or in another’s day;
And if denied the victor’s meed,
Thou shalt not miss the toiler’s pay.”
—Youth’s Companion

Stories Worth Re-Reading, ©1913, 178–180

Story – Siddi’s Secret

by

The tinkle of her father’s sheep bells awoke Siddi. Usually she smiled and closed her eyes for another few minutes of sleep, but not this morning.

Last night her father had told her, “Siddi, you will have to herd the sheep by yourself tomorrow. I have to go to the village for our supplies, and the herd boy cannot come.”

This news had pleased Siddi. In the country of India, where she lived, the children often herded goats and sheep. Siddi’s father had never allowed her to herd them by herself, but she was certain she could.

Springing out of bed, she dressed and hurried outside. “Little shepherdess, are you ready?” her father greeted her with a smile.

“Oh yes, Father,” Siddi answered.

“Then I’ll drive the sheep to the grazing grounds for you.” Father opened the gate and started the ewes and the lambs on the trail.

Siddi did not follow right away.

After a moment, her father called to her, “Siddi, are you not coming?” He saw her standing by the gate with her head bowed.

“Yes, Father,” she answered and ran to catch up. Siddi had a secret that she had never told her father. Her secret was that she believed in Jesus Christ.

Several months ago, her missionary friend Naomi had told her about Jesus, and every day now Siddi prayed to Him. She was certain her father would be angry if he knew. Often he had remarked, “Don’t forget, Siddi, to worship our gods.” But Siddi had learned better than to worship gods who can neither see nor hear.

As she skipped along on the trail with her father, she saw her friends Rajendra and Santha standing in their uncle’s garden. She knew they were beginning their task for the day. It was their job to chase away any birds or animals that came to eat the young vegetable plants.

“I would rather herd sheep than chase birds,” she told her father gaily.

“Would you?” smiled Father. “Why?”

Siddi wanted to say because Jesus had loved the baby lambs so much, but she knew she couldn’t. Before she could think of an answer, her father turned onto another path. “Graze the sheep here this morning,” he said. “I should be back in the early part of the afternoon. Then we will drive them farther.”

“All right, Father,” Siddi said. She gave her father a kiss and waved goodbye to him.

After he had gone so far down the trail that she could no longer see him, Siddi sat on a rock. For a while she watched the wooly lambs eat the tender green grass beside their mothers. Then she looked across the countryside.

Naomi had told her that India was a little like the land where Jesus had lived. She said the tamarind groves were once like the olive groves mentioned in the Bible. In the distance, Siddi saw some day lilies and a clump of balsams. I guess they are like the flowers that grew in Jesus’ land, she thought.

The sun grew hot. Siddi became sleepy, but she remembered to stay awake and watch the sheep.

She was still herding them in the grassy plain when she saw her father coming down the trail from the village. Forgetting the sheep for a moment, she raced to meet him.

Then a strange thing happened. Siddi heard a voice calling, “Go back, Siddi.”

Siddi slowed and looked at her father. He was smiling and waving to her. Surely he hadn’t told her to go back.

Again, Siddi started down the path. Again came the voice, “Go back, Siddi, go back!”

Puzzled, Siddi stopped once more. Who could be calling? There was no one but her father near. As she stood still, the voice spoke louder this time. “Siddi, go back to the sheep at once!”

Quickly Siddi turned to obey. As she did she caught sight of something beside the path—the horrible flat head of a cobra!

Siddi ran as fast as she could. She did not see the poisonous snake strike, barely missing her, nor did she see her father destroy the snake.

She was still shaking from the experience when her father reached her. “Oh, Siddi, if you hadn’t run when you did the snake would have killed you!” her father cried. “How did you ever see it in time?”

Siddi shook her head. She knew it had been one of Jesus’ angels who had warned her. She knew too, that she must tell her father her secret.

“I didn’t see the snake in time, Father,” she said. “Jesus sent an angel to tell me to turn back. My friend Naomi has taught me all about Jesus. Father, you must come to the meetings that Naomi’s father has and learn about Jesus too.”

For a moment Siddi’s father looked almost angry. Then his look softened as he put his arm around Siddi. “If Jesus has the power to save you from the cobra,” he said, “then I certainly must learn about Him.”

Learning about Jesus is no longer a secret in Siddi’s family. Both her father and her mother go with her to the Sabbath meetings.

Heaven, Please!, Helena Welch, ©1973, 76–79

Story – As One Whom His Mother Comforts

by

At a summer resort, not long since, a clergyman and a lady sat on the porch of the hotel. The lady’s heart was heavily burdened, and she talked of her sorrows to the aged minister, who tried to lead her in her hour of need to the Great Comforter. His efforts seemed to be in vain; the lady had heard all her life of the promise that if a tired soul casts its burden on the Lord, that soul will be sustained, no matter how heavy that burden may be; but she seemed to lack the faith to cast herself upon the Lord.

A half hour later a severe thunderstorm came up in the western sky. With the first flash of lightning the woman, a mother, jumped out of her chair, and ran up and down the piazza, exclaiming, “Where is Freddie? Where is Freddie? He’s so terribly frightened in a thunderstorm, I don’t know what he will do without me.”

A few moments afterward her boy came running up the walk, almost breathless, his face plainly showing the great fear that was in his heart. “O Mother,” he exclaimed, “I was so frightened, I ran just as fast as ever I could to get to you.” The mother sat down, and took the frightened child into her arms. She allayed his fear and quieted him, until his head rested calmly on her loving heart.

The good clergyman stepped up gently, and whispered, “ ‘As one whom his mother comforts, so will I comfort you.’ (Isaiah 66:13).”

“I understand it now,” she replied, as she looked up with tearful face. “I did not trust Him as my boy trusts me, but now I will throw myself into His arms as a little child, and remember His promise, ‘As one whom his mother comforts, so will I comfort you.’ I never felt the depth of divine love as shown in that promise before.”

We may all learn the meaning of this precious promise. We know how full our hearts are of love and sympathy for the little ones who come to us in their hour of trouble and fear, and how tenderly we gather them in our arms and comfort them with our words of love and cheer. Is it not strange that with this sweet, practical demonstration of truth in our daily lives we so often forget the precious promise, and try to struggle on alone with our burdens of sorrow and fear? “As one whom his mother comforts, so will I comfort you.”

Susan Teall Perry

The Youth’s Instructor, January 9, 1896

The Boy Who Wouldn’t Give Up

by

Many years ago, a man, Judge Pemberton, was in a bookstore in Cincinnati, Ohio, when a boy came into the store. He was about 12 years old and was dressed in worn, shabby clothes. The judge watched him as he came to the counter.

“Do you have any geography books?” the boy asked the owner of the store.

“We have plenty of geography books,” the man replied.

“How much do they cost?” the boy asked.

“One dollar.”

The boy looked surprised. Putting his hand in his pocket, he pulled out some coins and began counting them. There were several nickels and dimes, but mostly pennies. He counted them three or four times before he put them back in his pocket. At last, he turned to go, saying softly to himself, “I didn’t know they cost so much.”

He got to the door and then turned back. “I have only sixty-two cents,” he told the shopkeeper. “Could you let me have the geography book now and wait a little while until I get the rest of the money?”

He eagerly waited for the answer, and seemed to shrink a little inside his ragged clothes when the shopkeeper kindly told him that he couldn’t do that. The boy was plainly disappointed, but he tried to smile and then left the store.

Judge Pemberton left as well, and caught up with the boy on the street.

“Where are you going now?” he asked.

“I’ll go to another bookstore and try again, sir,” the boy replied.

“May I go with you,” the judge asked, “and see what happens?”

The boy looked surprised. “Sure,” he said. “If you want to.”

The answer was the same at the second bookstore—and at two more that the boy visited, as well.

“Are you going to try again?” asked the judge as they left the fourth bookstore.

“Yes, sir,” the boy assured him. “I’ll try them all. Otherwise, I won’t know whether or not I can get a geography book.”

As the judge and the boy entered the fifth bookstore, the boy walked up to the counter and told the owner just what he wanted and how much money he had.

“You want this book very much, don’t you?” the man asked.

“Yes, sir. Very much.”

“Why do you want a geography book so badly?”

“To study it, sir. You see, I can’t go to school. I have to work most days to help my mother. My father is dead. He was a sailor, and I want to know about the places that he used to go.”

“I see,” said the bookstore owner softly.

“I’m going to be a sailor too, when I grow up,” the boy told him.

“Is that right?” the man replied. “Well, I tell you what I will do. I will let you have a new geography book, and you pay me the rest of the money when you can. Or I can let you have a used geography book for fifty cents.”

“Are all the pages in the used book?” the boy asked. “The very same pages as the new book—only used?”

“Yes,” the man answered. “It’s just exactly like the new book, except that it isn’t new.”

“Then I’ll take the used book,” the boy said. “And I’ll have twelve cents left. I’m glad they didn’t let me have a book at any of the other stores.”

The bookstore owner looked up puzzled when the boy said this. And Judge Pemberton explained that this was the fifth store the boy had come to looking for a geography book. The owner seemed impressed. When he handed the boy the book, he also handed him a new pencil and a tablet of paper.

“Here’s a little gift,” he said, “because you’re so determined to learn. Always have perseverance and courage, and you’ll do all right in life.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the boy. “You’re very kind.”

“What’s your name?” the man asked.

“William Haverly, sir.”

The judge looked at William. “You like books very much, don’t you?”

“Indeed, I do.” And the judge saw his eyes sweep longingly across the shelves of books in the store.

“Well, William,” said the judge, “Here are twenty dollars. Twenty dollars will buy some books for you.”

Tears of joy came into the boy’s eyes. “Can I buy anything I want with it?” he asked.

“Yes, you can buy anything you want with the money.”

“Then I’ll buy a book for my mother,” the boy said. “And another book for myself. I thank you very much, and I hope some day I can pay you back.”

The judge left him standing in the bookstore with a great smile on his face.

Many years later the judge went to Europe on one of the finest sailing ships then making the voyage across the Atlantic. The weather was beautiful until the very last few days before reaching port. Then a terrific storm arose. It was so violent that it would have sunk the ship if it had not been for the heroic efforts of the captain. The ship sprung a leak that threatened to fill the ship and sink it.

The crew were all strong men, and the officers were experienced and capable. But after they had manned the pumps for an entire night, the water was still gaining on them. They gave up in despair and were getting the life boats ready, although they knew that the chances were slim that such small boats could survive in the violent sea.

The captain had been in his cabin with his charts, trying to figure how far it was to land. Now he came on deck. When he understood the situation, he ordered the seamen back to the pumps. At his command they turned to their task once more. Then the captain started to go below to examine the leak. As he passed, the judge asked him, “Captain, is there any hope?” Several other passengers nearby came close to hear his reply.

The captain looked at the judge and said, “Yes, sir. There is hope as long as one inch of this boat remains above water! When I see none of the ship above water I will abandon the vessel, and not before—nor shall one of my crew. I will do everything humanly possible to save it, and if we fail, it won’t be because we didn’t try. Come, every man of you, and help work the pumps!”

The captain’s courage and perseverance and powerful will captured every mind on that ship, and everyone went to work. “I’ll land you safely at the dock in Liverpool,” the captain assured us, “if only you will each do your part.”

And he did land the passengers and crew safely, but the ship sank as they were mooring it to the dock. The captain stood on the deck of the sinking ship as the passengers filed down the gangplank. The judge was the last to leave. As he passed, the captain took him by the hand, “Judge Pemberton,” he said, “you don’t recognize me, do you?”

“I don’t recall that we have ever met before,” the judge answered.

“Oh, but we have,” said the captain. “Years ago in Cincinnati. Do you remember the boy who was looking for a geography book?”

“And are you that boy?” the judge exclaimed.

“Yes, I’m William Haverly. God bless you for what you did for me back then.”

“And God bless you, Captain, for your perseverance and courage,” the judge replied.

StoryTime, Character-building Stories for Children, ©2008, 12–15

The Dog That Sold a Book

by

To 16-year-old Leon, Monday morning meant a new week of ringing doorbells or knocking on doorposts. Selling Christian books door to door was a challenging job, but Leon loved the opportunity to help his customers learn about God.

First, he knelt by his bed and asked for courage and strength. Then he slipped into his brown slacks, noting the cuff that his landlady had mended. A dog had grabbed him as he approached a house a few days before.

Leon was not afraid of dogs. He and Gyp, his shaggy shepherd, had had many a fierce tussle, and both had learned that the quickest one wins. Dogs were Leon’s friends in selling the little children’s books he always carried with him. Whenever he saw a dog at a house, usually there were children also.

This Monday morning Leon came to a house set far back from the road at the top of a slope of beautiful green grass. It was a long, low, wood-colored home that didn’t seem at all friendly. Yet there was a big black dog lying on the porch, and Leon had the habit of never passing a house with a dog without giving the folks inside a chance to purchase the children’s book he was selling.

As Leon neared the house, the dog took his stand at the top of the porch steps.

When Leon spoke to him, he growled and lunged. But Leon was quicker and gave him a smack on the nose with the corner of his traveling case.

It hurt enough to change the dog’s mind, and the canine went off quite disgruntled.

The woman of the house would not buy the children’s book even though the eyes of her little girl danced with joy at the pictures of Jesus. All Leon’s talking and the girl’s begging were in vain.

“No, we have more books now than I can get time to read to her,” the mother stated firmly. Leon noted two or three well-worn Mother Goose books on the couch.

As he showed the book, he prayed in his heart, “Please help me to leave the stories of Jesus for this little girl.” But he had to depart without an order, with the children’s book still in his hand.

When he was halfway down the path to the highway, there came the big dog, snarling as he ran. He leaped for Leon’s throat, but again Leon was quicker, and he stuffed the book right into the dog’s open jaws. The dog bit clear through the covers of the book.

Just then the woman, who had come running to help, jerked the dog away by his heavy collar and sent him to the house.

“I’ll take the book,” she said, smiling rather sheepishly. “I guess Dodger wanted to help Linda get it.”

But Leon thought he knew Who really had helped the eager little girl get her book.

Source: guidemagazine.org July 2007