Children’s Story

Children’s Story – On Freedom’s Shore

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I wish I might have known my grandfather Leer, but he died before I was born. I can see him, though—a short, stout German farm boy, plowing the gently, rolling fields of his father’s land in Russia’s southern Ukraine.

It was good land, rich black soil. Valentine Leer stopped the horses and squatted on his heels to rub the dirt between his fingers. It was still moist from the winter rains. The best growing land in Russia, he smiled proudly to himself. And his father’s farm was the best kept, the most productive.

Straightening up, he looked out across the upturned furrows behind him to his little village nestled in the poplars among the low hills. Kassel, just fifty miles north of Odessa on the Black Sea, had been home to his people ever since they left Germany, maybe fifty years ago in the early 1800s. They had come in response to the Czar’s call for more thrifty, hardworking German farmers, with the modern methods of Western Europe, to settle these thousands of fertile acres.

Valentine loved the little village which his people had named after their hometown in Germany. He could see the Lutheran church where he helped with the younger boys, the school, and his whitewashed mud cottage in the cherry orchard under the great endless blue of the sky. Someday he would have his own cottage, and he knew who would share it with him—at least, he hoped he knew!

Putting up the horses for the night, Valentine strode toward the welcoming lamp light, hungry for a bowl of his mother’s Borsch. Or maybe there would be Kase Knepf or Strudel tonight. Whatever it was, he knew there would be plenty.

But when he came in, the kitchen was empty. From the next room, he heard his father’s angry voice.

“But, officer, I have already paid my taxes down at Odessa.”

“I did not make the law. I just follow my orders. Fifty more rubles to the Czar this year. After all, there is a war going on.”

There had been a war going on as long as Valentine could remember.

“I cannot pay it now,” his father said. “I do not have the money.”

“If you do not have it in by Monday night, you either go to jail, or we take five desiatine (roughly 1.1 hectares or 2.47 U.S. acres) of your land.”

There was a scraping of chairs and boots, and the front door closed.

Valentine saw his father sink heavily into a chair. His mother sat in the corner wiping her eyes. He waited for his father to speak.

“Ach, so. Another freedom gone.”

“But I do not understand, Father.”

“You are young, my son. Tonight you have seen two of the promises in Catherine the Great’s manifesto broken.

First, the taxes. She promised us freedom from taxation. But year by year they have become heavier until I can hardly pay them. And then this Russian officer! We Germans were to have our own government, with an administrative board appointed by the Czar. One of our own officers should be collecting the taxes. But now the only question is: Where do I get the money? If I do not get it, I will lose the land.”

For the first time, Valentine realized the heavy burden his father carried. He ate his supper silently, wishing there was some way he could help. Scarcely had they finished their meal when Conrad Schmidt, their neighbor to the east, came in. He looked so old and beaten that Valentine’s father exclaimed, “Conrad, what is wrong?”

“They have taken my land,” he almost whispered. “You know I did not have much. My wife has been sick and I had a poor harvest last year. There were other expenses and I could not pay the taxes. So they have taken the land.”

“If I were younger,” Conrad continued slowly, “yes, if I were younger and my wife strong, you know what I would do? I would go to America!”

Valentine slipped out the back door. He had to think. What was happening to the German colony? How could the Russians take their land away from them? It was not right.

He looked up to see Herr Wall, their Lutheran school teacher, swinging briskly down the road, bulging satchel in hand. Herr Wall was always hurrying. “Where are you going?” Valentine called.

“To America,” he answered. Then he stopped and laughed. “Ach, lieber, Valentine. You look surprised! Yes, but it is true. The Russian officers brought me orders from the Czar to turn over our Lutheran school to the Ministry of Education. We were to be free to control our own school, but now it is to be taught and controlled by the Russians!”

“But, America, Herr Wall,” Valentine protested. “What do you know about America? It is so far away.”

“But it is free, my lad. No one will take my school away from me in America. Yes, I am going. I will write and tell you all about it.”

During the following years, Valentine thought often about Herr Wall and America. As he became responsible for more of the duties and problems of the farm, and built the little cottage to which he brought his bride, Fredricka Hieb, he treasured the occasional letter which came from his teacher.

But there was much to keep him busy at home and in the community. As Valentine and his bride walked slowly home over the muddy road one spring evening, avoiding the deep ruts left by the farm wagons, they talked about the Baptist preacher who had recently come to their village.

“You know, Fredricka, I feel that this teaching is more like what I have studied in the Bible myself. I believe I must accept it and be baptized.” He saw her face whiten in the dusk. “But Valentine, you know it is forbidden to change your religion. You know how the Orthodox Church and the government are working together to clamp down on Protestants. I just know you will be put in jail!”

“When something is right to do,” he answered, “then the only thing is to go ahead and do it.”

In spite of Fredricka’s fears, he was baptized. That was when his life of active service really began: a word of comfort to a downhearted Russian peasant here, a pamphlet on the love of God to an educated Russian officer there, and guidance and help to the new little Baptist Church in the German community.

But Fredricka had been right. It was not long before these activities brought him persecution. During the next few years he began to feel that he knew the interior of the Velva jail, five miles away, almost as well as his own home. When he returned from jail, discouraged, he could always find comfort in his children, Karl and Carolina.

“Father!” called little Karl, running out through the lean-to one night. “There is a big, big man in the house!”

Valentine dropped the plow and hurried in. What could it be this time? Surely not more taxes.

Fredricka stood at the kitchen door, tears in her eyes. “It was an officer, Valentine,” she choked. “He is taking a census for … for military service. Sometime this year you will have to go!”

Valentine picked up baby Carolina and put his arm around his wife. “Come, Karl,” he said, “It is time to go in to worship.” He took the big German family Bible from the shelf and sat down.

“That breaks the last promise, does it not? Exemption from military service. But we must remember, Fredricka, that God has a purpose behind all this. Though we cannot see what it is yet, we can trust Him.”

Valentine remembered the confidence and peace of that worship period the next evening when the heavy door of the little jail in Velva slammed behind him.

“Ivanovitch!” He heard the towering, fur-capped officer bellow. “Take this … this Baptist and lock him up. I do not know for how long. Forever, for all I care!”

“But officer,” fussed the balding little jailer. “You know this Valentine Leer makes nothing but trouble in here. He is always converting …” The nervous little jailer’s voice trailed off. The door was shut and the officer gone.

“All right, all right, Valentine Leer,” he sighed. “What is it this time?”

Valentine sank down wearily on the hard slat-covered bed and began to unlace his muddy boots.

“This time, Mr. Ivanovitch, your officers on horseback drove me five miles on foot through the mud to you here because I was reading from the Bible to my Russian neighbor. I was reading from the Book of John, you know, the part where our Savior says …”

“You mean you were out making converts for the Baptist Church again. Proselytizing. That is against the law!”

“Yes, you are right. It is against the laws of Russia, and I am sorry for that. I do not like to disobey laws, especially the laws of a country which has been so good to our people in the past. But if God’s laws tell me to preach, and man’s laws say not to, then I must obey God’s laws.”

The jailer slid down beside Valentine, his eyes on the curious faces of the other inmates as he scooted nearer.

“Tell me something, Leer,” he half whispered. “I do not know much about the laws of God, but I would like to know why it is so important for you to do this—to keep preaching this gospel you talk about, always ending up in jail here. Why are you so different from the rest of us anyway?”

Valentine leaned against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment. He was very tired. Being marched five miles through deep mud had not been easy, especially after a hard day’s work in the fields. He wanted to be alone to rest and think—to think about the letter which had come that day from Herr Wall in America. He would really prefer to talk to the jailer later.

Then a picture of Paul and Silas in the Philippian jail came to his mind. They had been tired, too, and had been beaten besides, when they sang their triumphant hymns. He turned to the jailer.

“Mr. Ivanovitch, I am glad to tell you why I seem different. It is just a matter of faith. I see you have an icon over there. You have a fine one, my friend; the gold frame is beautiful and the picture of Jesus is lovely. Now when the priest has blessed this icon, you say it is sacred and you pray to it. You have faith in the icon, do you not?”

The jailer nodded.

“Now I have faith, too, but not in a picture made by a man like myself. I have faith in God and His Son, Jesus. I can pray directly to Him. I know that God hears me, that His Spirit is with me always, wherever I am. I do not have to buy an expensive icon, and then a more expensive one, hoping that it will bring me blessings. I talk with the Creator who made the universe, and yet Who loves and cares for me. Is that not wonderful?”

“Look,” he said, “I will read it to you just as our Savior said it.”

He took his German Bible from an inner pocket and slowly translated several sweet promises into Russian. He could see that the other prisoners were straining to hear, and he wished he could read louder so that they would be sure to get the meaning.

“Come now,” he said finally. “I will teach you how to pray directly to your heavenly Father. We will kneel together.”

As he knelt, Valentine rejoiced to see four of the men climb from their bunks and slip to their knees on the floor. “Now I will teach you the prayer our Savior taught His disciples.” And Valentine slowly repeated the words of the Lord’s Prayer. Soon others were joining in with, “Our Father, which art in heaven …”

Suddenly they heard the tramp of boots outside and the grating of a big key in the lock. Before the jailer could get to his feet, the heavy door swung open, revealing the overseer of the southern Ukrainian prisons.

The overseer cursed in anger.

“Ivanovitch, you swine; what is going on here? Oh, yes, now I see. It is that Valentine Leer here again. These Baptists,” he roared. “When you have one, you have two. If there are two, there will be four. And now look; we have six, and one of them is my jailer.”

“All right,” he sighed. “Let him go. And do not bring that little Leer into one of my jails again. He makes as many converts inside as he does outside!”

Well, I am free to go home again, Valentine thought, pushing along through the mud. Home to what? A few acres of land which could be taken from him at any time, Russian schools for his children where they would be indoctrinated with the Orthodox belief, military service which might take him from home for many years to fight in wars of conquest he could not conscientiously support, and most important, to a total lack of understanding of what religious freedom should be.

He realized that he had come to the place where he must either give up his spiritual work for others or be prepared for a future which could include not only the Velva jail, but also a Siberian prison.

He had almost memorized the words of Herr Wall’s letter—“There is freedom here in America, Valentine. You can worship or not, as you please. You can change your religion, preach any message you wish—no one hinders you in any way.”

Valentine turned to look at the fields of home. He would miss the rich acres and the mild climate, as well as the Russian people. But when he would plow and plant and preach again, it would be on freedom’s soil.

Sequel: Valentine Leer did come to America. He was a Baptist at that time. In America he met an English speaking man who shared the Ten Commandments with him. That was all it took. The Holy Spirit gave him understanding as he studied for himself.

Valentine Leer raised up twenty-five Seventh-day Adventist churches in North and South Dakota. He also raised $70,000 for the College of Medical Evangelists [now Loma Linda University] to give young people the opportunity he did not have—to learn.

The American branch of the Leer family prospered and grew over the years. Many of them are missionaries, ministers, and teachers carrying on the family tradition of active service for the Lord like their progenitor, Valentine Leer.

Children’s Story – An Act of the Will

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“Forgiveness is an act of the will, and the will can function regardless of the temperature of the heart.” She spoke from personal experience. Of all the places that she could be right now, this small church in northern Germany was the last place Corrie ten Boom wanted to be, but the first place she felt called.

The many wounds inflicted by the Nazi regime were still bleeding in her heart as she spoke to the congregation about God’s love and forgiveness. Just months ago, she had been imprisoned in the Ravensbruck concentration camp; one of the most notorious and deadly camps of World War II; the very place where her beloved sister, Betsy, lost her life with countless other women. Only twenty percent of the women who entered the gates of the camp, ever lived to see freedom again.

Corrie’s mind flickered back to eight months ago and the German congregation in front of her disappeared behind the memory of the bitterly cold night Betsy was taken from her. Corrie still felt the chill of Betsy’s frail, icy fingers on her hand. Her clear blue eyes, warmed by God’s love, echoed her last words to Corrie. “Remember, dear sister,” she whispered gently, “no pit is so deep that God’s love is not deeper still.”

Corrie spent a sleepless night next to her dead sister, reliving the vicious beating Betsy had endured at the hand of one of the German guards. Corrie could still see the hatred in the steely blue eyes of a man wholly consumed by a very different spirit than that of her beloved sister. Already emaciated and faint, the scourging had robbed Betsy of what little strength she still hung on to. And now she was gone. Like a robber who had stolen millions, the guard had come back for the pennies that were left. Silent tears of hatred and fervent prayers for forgiveness tore Corrie in two as her heart fought a war not unlike the one that was tearing the world apart outside. Even as she was suffering at the hand of her enemy, Betsy claimed aloud God’s forgiveness for the man. Corrie prayed for the same spirit.

The memories vanished again and the sea of German faces reappeared. “We all are adversaries of Christ, and yet His forgiveness is offered freely.” She continued, “As we ought to offer forgiveness to one another no matter how great or small the offense.”

After the service, Corrie stood by the doors of the church speaking with the members as they filed out of the sanctuary. She warmly shook hands and exchanged kind words with these people who had a short time ago been enemies, and her heart overflowed with gratitude—and then stopped. A face in the crowd that was moving slowly past froze her in place, causing her convictions on forgiveness to shake as violently as her hands. A few moments later, the same steel blue eyes that had flashed with hatred for her sister were staring her in the face. But the hatred was gone. In its place was a deep sorrow and a question. “Forgive me, Miss ten Boom,” he pleaded quietly, and held out a trembling hand toward her. “Please.” Corrie looked long and hard at the man who had killed her sister—“forgiveness—no matter the temperature of the heart,” she reminded herself, and raised her hand to grasp his. Tears of joy and freedom flowed from both their eyes.

Children’s Corner – Heaping Coals of Fire

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Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head. Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.” Romans 12:20, 21.

Emma hated children! What a horrid thing to say but, unfortunately, it was true.

Emma lived in a time and a place where children played in the streets. There were hardly any cars to be a danger to them, and the world was not such a wicked place as it is now. So the children would play and make happy noises anywhere in the streets; anywhere, that is, except in front of Emma’s house. If they strayed in front of her house, she would come out, waving her fist and shouting at them. No, they never played in front of her house.

But there was a family with two children, Tony and Susan, who lived right next door to Emma. Tony and Susan would sometimes play in their own backyard, which had a short wall separating it from Emma’s. If Emma heard them, she would come out into her yard and shout at them. It was not pleasant living next door to Emma!

Emma had not always been so unkind. She was the eldest in a large family, and there must have been some happy times with her brothers and sisters. As sometimes happens, she had been the one to look after the little ones, and as she got older, she resented having this responsibility and listened to Satan’s suggestion—“It was not fair. Why was she the only one to look after her brothers and sisters? Why did someone else not take a turn?” And so it went, until she became bitter, and no one wanted to be with her. The more no one wanted to be with her, the more unpleasant she became.

Then came an exceptionally hard winter; it even got too cold to snow! As the temperatures got colder and colder, children stayed indoors and kept near the coal fires, which would heat just one room of the houses. People made sure that their water pipes were covered to keep the water inside them from freezing. If the water in the pipes froze, it could crack the pipes, and this is what happened to Emma’s water pipes. As the weather warmed and the ice started to thaw in the pipes, she noticed the steady drip of water through the crack in a pipe. The drip soon became a flood as the crack widened, and Emma realized she was in trouble! She had no friends or relatives to call and no money to pay an emergency plumber. Finally, she decided she must go to her neighbors and ask for help. But would they help her? She had been so nasty to them.

Emma walked to Tony and Susan’s house, and with many tears, she told their father all about her troubles with the cracked pipe and the flood. Would they please help her? Of course they would help Emma, for this family was Seventh-day Adventist and knew all about forgiving. The father went to Emma’s home and mended the pipe and helped to clean up the flood. Emma was so relieved and pleased. She thought of all those years of being nasty to people and how much heartache she had caused her neighbors. She knew she must apologize, so again she went to her neighbors and, with many tears and wringing of her hands, she apologized for all the misery she had caused them. They gladly forgave her.

“And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.” Ephesians 4:32.

Children’s Corner – Tweety, God’s Special Bird

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Mom, mom!” I heard my daughter Paula shout one spring day. She came into the house holding a very tiny baby bird. The bird was mostly pink stomach and mouth and not much else. Not even a feather! The two of us went outside to search for a nest from which the baby could have fallen, but it was to no avail. Paula found the baby bird on the wooden walkway between the house and a storage building. The ground was bare except for some pine needles. There was absolutely no place from which the baby bird could have come!

I knew that for the baby, whom we had now named Tweety, to live, he had to have small grit to digest his food. We quickly found some old parakeet grit and put a few pieces of dry dog food to soak in hot water. We were thrilled when Tweety seemed to thrive on his diet of dog food—soaked and sprinkled with grit—pieces of greens, and insects, which Paula hunted for him.

Feeding a baby bird is no small task, as they awake every dawn, screaming for something to eat. Paula was very dedicated and stayed with her task of being Tweety’s caregiver. Tweety soon began growing feathers. When all of his feathers came in, he no longer needed a cover at night. As soon as he could see, Paula became “mom” to him. He loved her. He knew her voice instantly, and would call out to her when he heard her.

Tweety became quite a fun part of our family. He loved attention, especially to have his head scratched by anyone’s finger. He would fly to us, land on our shoulders, and hop down our arms to one of our fingers where he would ruffle up his feathers and bend his head down, begging to have his head scratched.

When he was full-grown, Paula began taking him outside to fly. He loved to be out in the wilderness on top of the mountain where we lived. Paula could leave Tweety outside all day, then go out in the evening, hold out her hand, and call him. He would fly to her and land on her hand, ready to go to his cage inside the house.

When we went to camp meetings, Tweety loved to ride on Paula’s shoulder, while she rode her bike throughout the camping area. When we went to workers’ meetings at the church camp, there was Tweety, in all his glory, entertaining everyone. He loved to go to the outdoor children’s meetings with Paula and would hop all about, visiting all the young people. We were concerned that he would get hurt by landing on someone’s head or shoulder who did not know him, and they would hit him, but I guess the word got around about “that bird Tweety.” Everyone loved Tweety.

Interestingly, no one could ever tell us what kind of bird he was. We pulled out our bird books, but poor Tweety never matched up with any of the birds in it. Tweety gave our family, especially Paula, a lot of joy.

“And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. . . . Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.” Matthew 10:29, 31. If God cared so much for Tweety that He brought him to our family to save his life, surely He will take care of you.

Children’s Corner – Three In a Row, Part III

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The Story to Now: Hiram, Nettie, and Tony had especially caught the attention of one of the train passengers with their singing. Miss Lawrence, who was traveling with her brother, listened in surprise, as Nettie shyly told the whole story of their need and their experiment to sing songs, hoping a few pennies would be tossed their way from the passengers.

Looking over to the tiny cabin on the side of the mountain, Miss Lawrence whispered a few words to her brother, and then went out to Hiram.

“My boy,” she said earnestly, “I should like to see your mother and do some little thing for her. Will you let your sister and the little boy take me to her, and will you go somewhere and get the cream and some other things, which I’ll mark down?”

She sat down on a stone and wrote a brief note, folded it, and gave it to him.

“Bring the things I’ve marked,” she said, “and tell the grocer to send the others. Take this money,” she told him, as she handed him a bill. Hiram looked at her with a brief questioning look in his eyes, as she continued, “Pay what he asks, and bring back the rest. Go to the best place you know, and hurry.”

“Mother,” said Nettie, softly, “a lady’s come to see you. She came off the train. Shall I bring her in?”

“A lady?” repeated the poor woman, mechanically. “I don’t know . . . yes, get a chair, Nettie.”

Miss Lawrence paused to whisper to the little girl. “Can you make a bright fire in the cookstove? We’ll fix something tempting to eat when your brother gets back.” Then she went in to see Nettie’s mother.

The little girl busied herself about the fire, trying to clean up a little for the lady, while Tony sat in awestricken silence, swinging his short legs from his father’s chair, and all the time the children could hear the sweet, low tones of the stranger lady as she talked to their sick mother. Nettie often wondered afterwards what she could have said to make her mother refer to her as “that angel.” But when Hiram came back, bringing the delicacies for his mother, and when the lady prepared an appetizing lunch such as the children had never even imagined, and when presently the market boy appeared with his arms full of additional bundles, then Nettie, Hiram, and Tony whispered together and wondered whether God sent Miss Lawrence or whether she only came because she was good and self-denying.

Just then the stranger pulled out a wonderful, little, gold watch and uttered an exclamation. “I must go at once! The train leaves in ten minutes!” One moment she spent in taking the address of the market man, another in saying good-bye in the little bedroom, and then she was flitting away down the path to the station, from which the children presently saw the train moving down the canyon.

The little group in the cabin never saw Miss Lawrence again, but many pleasant reminders of her came to them by way of the market man, and they dated their happier life from the day when, “three in a row,” they sang their first song to the passengers on the tourist train.

“Why, Amy,” said Miss Lawrence’s brother, when the young lady stepped into the car, “where have you been? You look more like yourself than I have seen you since we came to Denver. I don’t believe you are homesick today.”

“No, and I won’t be anymore,” his sister replied, with a mysterious smile.

The singers had found their mission, and she had found hers, and undreamed-of blessings had come to all in the finding.

Children’s Corner: Three in a Row, Part II

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The Story to Now: Hiram, Nettie, and Tony reluctantly left the bedside of their sick mother and, taking their small boxes of mineral “speciments,” made their way to the train station, hoping some of the incoming train’s passengers would pay them a few pennies for some of the rock samples. Then Nettie had an idea! Why could they not sing for the passengers?

Up through Clear Creek Canyon puffed the “Gulf” train, with two observation cars full of passengers. There was a mixed company, composed mostly of sightseers for the day, who would return with the train after two hours’ halt in Silver Plume. There was a gentleman from Boston and two lively girls from Texas, and a number of young couples, evidently belonging in Colorado, who were out for a little excursion. But different from the others, and most noticeable of them all, were two, a gentleman and a lady, who sat near each other and looked alike—he pale and sick, and she pale and sad. They were brother and sister—Mr. and Miss Lawrence, from somewhere in the East. He was looking for health in the mountains, and she, in spite of deadly homesickness, would not leave him alone among strangers.

The train ran up to the mine, passed the switch, and then moved back again to the station. Here the engine and some of the passengers abandoned the cars, leaving those who objected to the high altitude to wait in patience. Among the latter were the Lawrences. The invalid was tired, and tried to rest with his head on his sister’s shawl in spite of the shrill call of “Speciments!” which seemed to come from all sides of the train. After a while, the noisy little venders grew tired, or discouraged, and quieted down; then, suddenly, Miss Lawrence started and listened intently. The little song was wonderfully sweet and fresh and true, something about . . . “A robin one morning in May.”

And the voices might have been those of the birds themselves. Everybody turned to the windows and waited expectantly. This time it was a quaint old hymn for children:

“God made my life a little song
“That comforteth the sad.
“That helpeth others to be strong
“And makes the singer glad.”

Miss Lawrence looked out the window and saw Hiram, Nettie, and Tony standing “three in a row,” the blue eyes and the brown looking up wistfully, half-pleadingly, at the faces above them. A minute’s pause, and then pennies, nickels, and even dimes rained upon them. There was an ecstatic shout from Tony and a hasty scramble on the part of all three for the money. Their hearts beating fast with excitement and gratitude, the children drew into line again, and with a word from Hiram began their sweetest song, “Anywhere with Jesus.”

Something in the words and the surroundings went straight to the heart of the stranger lady just above them, and when there came the refrain, “Anywhere with Jesus will be home sweet home,” her eyes brimmed over, and she turned hastily away that her brother might not see.

“The lady wants to speak to you, Nettie; go on,” said Hiram, pushing his sister before him, like the coward he was.

“I was so pleased to hear you sing,” said Miss Lawrence, smiling down into the eyes under the pink sunbonnet. “Won’t you tell me where you live and what you are going to do with so much money?”

Nettie looked up shyly, but searchingly, into this “different” face from any of her acquaintances, then bent her eyes to the ground and told the whole story of their need and experiment. Miss Lawrence listened in surprise, and looked over to the tiny cabin on the side of the mountain.

Children’s Story — Can & Could

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“It’ll be moonlight tonight,” said a schoolboy; “won’t you join our skating party?”

“No,” replied Can; “you know there wasn’t a boy in my class that had his arithmetic lesson today, and the teacher gave it to us again. I can master it, and I will. That lesson must not beat me twice. I mean to make sure of it, so you’ll have to excuse me from joining your party.”

“Shall I not help you?” asked his elder sister.

“Let me try it first,” replied Can; “I feel like going at it with a will; for I’ve heard that ‘where there’s a will, there’s a way.’ ” He did not stop until every example was worked out.

“If I only could learn this horrid lesson!” exclaimed his classmate, Could, made a few random figures on his slate, and then began to draw dog’s heads.

“Is that the way you study your lesson? ” asked his mother reprovingly.

“If I only could get it,” replied the boy, fretfully, “I should be glad to work at it with all my might, but it’s too hard and dry for anybody.”

“Surely you could learn some of it, if you would only try,” said his mother, and as this could not be gainsaid, Could looked at his book again. But the next moment he jumped from his chair, and ran to the window.

“Oh, this splendid moonlight!” he exclaimed. “It’s really too bad to lose that skating. I think I’ll go.”

“But your lessons are not prepared,” said his mother.

“I know that.” Answered Could; “but when I come back, there will be time enough for them.”

Off he went, and the next day, in the class, he drawled: “I would have learned the lesson if I could.”

Can and Could both had to drive cows to pasture and to hoe in the garden. Can’s cows were regularly cropping grass on the hillside long before Could was out of bed. Can easily kept ahead of the weeds by hoeing before they got much start. Could waited until there was “some real need of hoeing, to keep the weeds down,” but the weeds had such a start then that they soon got ahead of him, and ahead of the crops, too, which were hardly worth gathering, although Can’s garden yielded bountifully.

“If I could have had such a garden as that,” said Could, “I should have been glad to hoe up every weed; but my garden was so poor that it didn’t make much difference whether I hoed or not.”

“If I could only be a great man, how much I would do to reform men!” exclaimed Could. Sometime I mean to do something on a large scale in this world.”

Can was never heard to express such noble sentiments; but he attended diligently to business, and, as he prospered, employed many men at fair wages, thus enabling them to support their families in comfort.

Can, by diligence and economy, became prosperous and happy; Could, by indolence and procrastination, became discontented and unhappy. Will you be Can or Could?

Taken from The Youth’s Instructor, April 27, 1899

 

Children’s Story — The Strength of Clinton

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When Clinton Stevens was eleven years old, he was taken very sick with pneumonia. During convalescence, he suffered an unexpected relapse, and his mother and the doctor worked hard to keep him alive.

“It is ten to one if he gets well,” Said Dr. Bemis, shaking his head. “If he does, he will never be very strong.”

Mrs. Stevens smoothed Clinton’s pillow even more tenderly than before. Poor Clinton! Who had always been such a rollicking, rosy-cheeked lad. Surely it was hard to bear.

The long March days dragged slowly along, and April was well advanced before Clinton could sit at the window, and watch the grass grow green on the slope of the lawn. He looked frail and delicate. He had a cough, too, a troublesome “bark,” that he always kept back as long as he could.

The bright sunlight poured steadily in through the window, and Clinton held up his hand to shield his eyes. “Why, Ma Stevens!” he said, after a moment, “just look at my hands! They are as thin and white as a girl’s, and they used to be regular paws. It does not look as if I would pull many weeds for Mr. Carter this summer, does it?”

Mrs. Stevens took his thin hands in her own patient ones. “Never mind, dearie,” she said, “they will grow plump and brown again, I hope.” A group of schoolchildren were passing by, shouting and frolicking. Clinton leaned forward and watched them till the last one was gone. Some of them waved their caps but he did not seem elated.

“Mother,” he said, presently, “I believe I will go to bed if you will help me. I—I guess I am not quite so—strong—now as I used to be.”

Clinton did not pull weeds for Mr. Carter that summer, but he rode around with the milkman, and did a little outdoor work for his mother, which helped him to mend. One morning in July he surprised the village by riding out on his bicycle; but he overdid the matter, and it was several weeks before he again appeared. His cough still continued, though not so severe as in the spring, and it was decided to let him go to school in the fall.

Dr. Bemis told Mrs. Stevens that the schoolroom would be a good place to test Clinton’s strength. And he was right. In no other place does a young person’s strength develop or debase itself so readily, for honor or dishonor. Or course, the doctor had referred to physical strength; but moral strength is much more important.

Clinton was a bright lad for his years; and, although he had not looked into his books during the summer, he was placed in the same grade he had left when taken sick. He did not find much difficulty in keeping up with any of his studies except spelling. Whenever he received a perfect mark on that subject, he felt that a real victory had been won.

About Christmas time the regular examinations were held. The teacher offered a prize to each grade, the pupil receiving the highest average in all studies to receive the prize. Much excitement, no little speculation, and a great deal of studying ensued. Clinton felt fairly confident over all his studies except spelling. So he carried his spelling book home every night, and he and his mother spent the evenings in wrestling with the long and difficult words.

Examination day came at length, and the afternoon for the seventh grade spelling was at hand. The words were to be written, and handed in. Across the aisle from Clinton sat Harry Meyers. Several times when the teacher pronounced a word, Harry looked slyly down into the palm of his hand. Clinton watched him, his cheeks growing pink with shame. Then he looked around at the others. Many of them had some dishonest device for copying the words. Clinton swallowed something in his throat, and looked across at Billy Matthews, who pursed up his lips and nodded, as if to say that he understood.

The papers were handed in, and school was dismissed. On Monday, after the morning exercises, Miss Brooks gave out the prizes to the three grades under her care. “I have now to award the prize for the highest average to the seventh grade,” she said. “But first I wish to say a few words on your conduct during the recent examination in spelling. I shall censure no one in particular, although there is one boy who must set no more bad examples. No one spelled all the words correctly—Clinton Stevens the least of any—making his average quite low; yet, the prize goes to him. I will tell you why” as a chorus of Oh! Oh! greeted her ears. “Spelling is Clinton’s hardest subject, but he could easily have spelled more words right had he not possessed sufficient strength to prevent him from falling into the way followed by some of you.”

As Clinton went up the aisle for his prize, he felt like crying, but he managed to smile instead. A few days before, Harry Meyers had ridiculed him because he was not strong enough to throw a snowball from the schoolhouse to the road; now the teacher had said he was strong!

Clinton’s Aunt Jennie came to visit the family in December, bringing her little daughter Grace with her. Now Grace had a mania for pulling other people’s hair, but there was no one in the Stevens family upon whom she dared operate except Clinton. She began on him cautiously, then aggressively. Clinton stood it for a while, and then asked her, politely but firmly, to stop. She stopped for half a day.

One night Clinton came home from school pale and tired. Some of the boys had been taunting him on his spare frame, and imitating his cough, which had grown worse as the winter advanced. Sitting down by the window, he looked out at the falling snow. Grace slipped up behind him, and gave his hair a sharp tweak. He struck out, hastily, and hit her. She was not hurt—only very much surprised —but she began to cry lustily, and Aunt Jennie came hurrying in, and took the child in her arms.

That night after supper Clinton went into the sitting room, and called Grace to him. “I want to tell you something,” he said. “I am sorry that I hit you, and I ask your pardon. Will you forgive me, dear?” Grace agreed quickly, and said shyly, “Next time I want to pull any one’s hair, I will pull my own.”

Aunt Jennie was in the next room and overheard the conversation. “It strikes me, Sarah, she said to Mrs. Stevens later, “that Clinton is a remarkably strong boy for one who is not strong. Most boys would not have taken the trouble to ask a small girl to forgive them, even if they were very much in the wrong. But Clinton has a strong character.”

The year Clinton was thirteen the boys planned to have a corn roast, one August night. “We will get the corn in old Carter’s lot,” said Harry Meyers. “He has just acres of it, and can spare a bushel or so as well as not. I suppose you will go with us, Clint?”

Clinton hesitated, “No,” said he, “I guess not; and I should think if you want to roast corn, you could get it out of your own gardens. But if Mr. Carter’s corn is better than any other, why can you not ask him—” “Oh, come now,” retorted Harry, “do not let it worry you! Half the fun of roasting corn is in—in taking it. And don’t you come, Clinton. We wouldn’t have you for the world. You are too nice, Mr. Coughin.”

Clinton’s cheeks flushed red, but he turned away without a word. When Mr. Carter quizzed Billy Matthews, and found out all about it, Clinton was made very happy by the old man’s words: “It is not every chap that will take the stand you took. You ought to be thankful that you have the strength to say No.”

In the fall, when Clinton was fifteen, his health began to fail noticeably, and Dr. Bemis advised a little wine “to build him up.”

“Mother,” said the boy, after thinking it over, “I am not going to touch any wine. I can get well without it, I know I can. I do not want liquor.” He continued. ” ‘Wine is a mocker,’ you know. Did you not tell me once that Zike Hastings, over in East Bloomfield, became a drunkard by drinking wine when he was sick?”

“Yes, Clinton, I believe I told you so.” “Well, then, I do not want any wine. I have seen Zike Hastings too many times.” In December, Aunt Jennie and Grace made their annual visit. With them came Uncle Jonathan, who took a great liking to Clinton.

“My boy,” said he one day, placing a big hand on the lad’s shoulder, “early in the new year Aunt Jennie and I start for the Pacific Coast. Should you like to go with us?”

“Well, I rather guess I should!” gasped the surprised boy, clasping his hands joyfully. “Very well, then, you shall go,” returned Uncle Jonathan, “and your mother, too.”

Clinton began to feel better before they were outside of Pennsylvania. When they had crossed the Mississippi and reached the prairies, his eyes were sparkling with excitement. The mountains fairly put new life in him. Uncle Jonathan watched him with pleasure. “Tell me,” he said one day, when they were winding in and out among the Rockies, “what has given you so much strength of character?”

“Why, it was this way,” said Clinton, bringing his eyes in from a chasm some hundreds of feet below: “one day when I was beginning to recover from that attack of pneumonia, I saw a lot of the boys romping along, and I felt pretty bad because I could not romp and play, too. Then I thought that if I could not be strong that way, I could have the strength to do right; so I began to try, and—”

“Succeeded admirably,” said Uncle Jonathan, approvingly. “And, really, my boy, I see no reason why you should not shout and play to your heart’s content in a few months.”

And Uncle Jonathan’s words proved true; for Clinton, in a sun-kissed California valley, grew well and strong in a few months. But through all his life he will have cause to be glad that he learned the value of the strength that is gained by resisting temptation, controlling one’s spirit, and obeying the Lord’s commands.

Taken from Stories Worth Rereading, Review and Herald Publishing Assn, Washington, D.C. 1919

 

Children’s Corner – Three in a Row, Part 1

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She looks awful white today, and thin,” said Hiram, dejectedly, at the same time cleverly tying a knot in a broken suspender. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with her. She’ll die, maybe,” and the boy stopped with a sudden gulp.

Nettie’s blue eyes grew large and pathetic under her pink sunbonnet. “She’s hungry, I guess,” she remarked sagely. “Sick folks can’t eat such coarse food as we have. She told me one day”—here her voice dropped to a whisper and she glanced half guiltily toward the door of the little cabin—“that she wanted a piece of rich cream toast dreadfully; said she dreamed about it. But she wouldn’t ask Pa to get her cream. ’Twould only make him feel bad because he couldn’t, she said. He can hardly get us enough to eat, anyway, and cream costs a lot. But seems as if Mother ought to have it.”

Little Tony said nothing, only dug his toes into the gray dust. He was only six, and small for his age.

The three children were sitting near a small hut, or cabin, which clung to the side of one of the great mountains looking down upon the mining town of Silver Plume, Colorado. Half a mile from them on one side was a mine, where their father toiled from morning till night. In the other direction lay the town and the church and Sabbath School. Above and around them were the rocky, towering mountains. Beyond these boundaries their knowledge of life was very small.

“Hiram!” called a tremulous voice from somewhere within the cabin. “Children!”

The three rose and looked at one another.

“She wants us,” said Tony, “Come on.”

“Once more—sing that once more,” she called faintly, and they sang again, “There’ll be no dark valley when Jesus comes,” while the tears rolled down over the white face.

“Well, good-bye, Mother,” said Hiram later, cheerfully putting his head in at the bedroom door again. “It’s almost train time. We’ll try to get some pennies, and we won’t stay long. Don’t you be lonesome till we get back. Perhaps,” he added hesitatingly, “you can go to sleep.”

Outside, the trio halted, holding their wooden boxes filled with minerals—“speciments” they called them—doubtfully in their hands.

“ ’Tain’t a bit of use,” said Hiram mournfully; “there’s too many selling, and folks have got enough of them anyway. But just to satisfy Mother . . .”

“Say, Hi,” broke in Nettie, speaking slowly, as if in surprise at her own thought, “you don’t suppose we could sing for the train folks? Mother likes to hear us; perhaps they would too.”

The boy turned sharply about and stared at his sister with a kind of startled admiration. “You’re the greatest!” he exclaimed. “How’d you think of it? They have to sit in that car and wait two hours, some of them. Can’t get out and walk, it makes them puff so. We’ll try it this very morning just as we do for Mother, you know. We’d better stand in a row,” he mused, “Net in the middle, and we’ll sing about three songs. Tony, will you sing up good and loud to the car folks? Maybe they will give you a penny.”

To be continued . . .

Children’s Story – The Lamp in the Window

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Swish-swish!” went the rain. “Boom-boom!” crashed the thunder. And all round the car the wind whistled and moaned. Rudy crouched down in the back seat. “Is it much farther to Grandmother’s?” he asked.

Daddy, who was driving very slowly, answered, “I don’t think so, but I’m not certain just where we are.”

Rudy blinked as he tried to see out into the rainy darkness. “Can’t you see by the headlights?” he asked.

“Not in this downpour!” exclaimed Mother, wiping the windshield in front of her with her handkerchief. “I can’t even see the ditches.”

“I can see them all right.” Daddy shifted gears cautiously. “I’m just hoping we don’t slide into one.”

“Me, too,” added Rudy. How he wished he was safe inside Grandmother’s warm kitchen.

Rudy and his parents lived in the United States, but they had come to England to surprise his grandmother with a visit. At the airport they had rented a car to drive into the country to Grandmother’s house, but they hadn’t counted on the rainstorm that was almost making them lose their way.

Thinking about his grandmother made Rudy hungry. “Wouldn’t a big bowl of Grandmother’s potato soup taste good!” he exclaimed.

“It certainly would,” Mother agreed, but an extra-loud crash of thunder muffled her words.

The thunder was followed by a brilliant flash of lightening that made Rudy duck his head. What happened next neither Daddy, Mother, nor Rudy knew exactly. Rudy didn’t feel the car turn, but when he looked up he could see the fence posts right up against the front headlights.

“Daddy, is there a fence in the middle of the road?” Rudy cried.

“No,” said Daddy, rolling down a window. “We skidded. The car is sitting crosswise in the road.”

“Can you turn around?” asked Mother.

“I can try,” answered Daddy. He began backing up, but the car wheels spun in the soft mud, round and round. The car rocked back and forth for a while, then the engine stopped.

“It’s no use,” said Daddy. “We’re on high center. The wheels have sunk down to the axles in the mud. We’ll have to walk the rest of the way to Grandmother’s.”

Rudy looked into the rainy blackness and swallowed hard. “How can we see to walk?” he managed to ask.

“I have the flashlight,” said Daddy. “We can follow the road. I don’t think it’s much farther.”

Rudy buttoned his coat and stepped out of the car into the rain and mud. Daddy took his left hand and Mother took his right.

“Just follow me,” said Daddy, “and keep your head down. That way the rain won’t beat into your face.”

For a while Rudy kept his head down, but soon he looked up to see where they were walking. In the beam of the flashlight he could see an open field.

Puzzled, he stopped. “Daddy!” he cried suddenly. “There’s no field near Grandmother’s house, is there?”

Daddy stopped walking too. “No, son, there isn’t,” he said in a tired voice. “We’ve missed the road some way.”

For a moment Rudy stood listening to the storm around him and his parents. Then he asked, “Daddy, don’t you think we should pray? Maybe Jesus will help us get to Grandmother’s house.”

“Yes, I think He will.” Daddy turned off the flashlight and put it in his coat pocket so that he could fold his hands.

Then he began his prayer. “Jesus, my family and I are lost. Without Your help, we will never be able to reach my mother’s house tonight. Please allow Your lamp to guide us.”

Soon after Daddy had finished his prayer the rain slowed to a heavy mist and the wind died.

“We can see better now,” said Daddy, “and the rain won’t beat in our faces so badly.”

Rudy found he could walk better, too, without having to hold his head down. He tried to see through the darkness beyond the beam of Daddy’s flashlight, and presently he saw an orange-colored glare.

“Daddy, I see a light!” Rudy cried happily.

“I see it, too,” said Mother. “I think it is a light from a window, but it looks a little strange.”

Daddy was laughing at Mother’s bewilderment. “It’s Grandmother’s kerosene lamp,” he explained. “She always turns the electricity off during a storm, but it is odd that we can see the lamp so plainly.”

Everyone walked faster now, and in a few minutes they were happily inside Grandmother’s warm kitchen. The first thing Rudy saw after he had greeted his grandmother was the kerosene lamp sitting on a chair by the window.

“We saw your lamp, Grandmother!” he told her excitedly.

His grandmother looked at the lamp and shook her head in a puzzled way. “It is strange,” she said, “but about ten minutes ago I was sitting here reading when all of a sudden I had a feeling that maybe someone needed to see my lamp. So I moved it from the table and put it on that chair by the window.”

Daddy and Mother and Rudy looked at one another. Then Daddy smiled. “That must have been about the time we were praying.”

“And you asked Jesus to be our lamp to guide us to Grandmother’s house,” Rudy added, remembering every word of Daddy’s prayer.

There were happy tears in Grandmother’s eyes as she listened, and she repeated a verse from the Psalms, “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path” (Psalm 119:105).

Grandmother looked at Daddy and added softly, “Jesus heard your prayer and told me to move my lamp.”

“He certainly did,” agreed Daddy, “so let’s all thank Him right now.”

What a happy moment it was as everyone knelt to thank Jesus for the kerosene lamp in the window that had brought the family safely out of the storm.

Heaven, Please! Helena Welch, 48–53.