Children’s Story

Children’s Story – How a Dog Saved a Ship’s Crew

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The noble Newfoundland dog has often been the means of saving the life of a drowning man, but here is a story of one who saved the whole crew of a ship.

A heavy gale was blowing, when a vessel was seen drifting toward the coast of Kent. She struck on the beach and the breaking waves dashed over her in foam. Eight men were seen holding on to the wreck, but no ordinary boat could go to their aid in such a sea; and in those days there were no life-boats on that part of the coast.

The people watching on shore feared every moment that the poor sailors would be washed off the ship and drowned; for although the ship was not far from the land, it was too far for anyone to swim through the foaming breakers.

If a rope could be taken from the wreck to the shore, the sailors might be saved. How could this be done? A gentleman, who was standing on the beach with a large Newfoundland dog by his side, thought he saw how it could be managed. He put a short stick in his dog’s mouth, and then pointed to the vessel. The brave dog knew what his master wanted, and, springing into the sea, he fought his way bravely through the waves.

When he reached the ship, he tried to climb up its side, but in vain. He was seen, however, by the crew, and they made fast a light rope to another piece of wood, which they threw towards him. The wise animal again seemed to understand what was meant, and, seizing this piece of wood, he turned his head towards the shore to carry it to his master. This time the wind and waves helped him on his way; but he was almost worn out when he reached the shore, dragging the rope after him, and laid the piece of wood at his master’s feet.

A stronger rope was then tied to the first one by the sailors, and one end of it was pulled onshore. Along this rope the sailors made their way one by one to the land and in this way every man on board was saved, through the courage and wisdom of the brave dog.

Storytime Treasury, compiled by P. G. Temple, Harvestime Books, Altamont, Tennessee 37301.

Children’s Story – The Boy who Took a Boarder

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About 350 years ago, a boy stood at the door of a palace in Florence, Italy. He was a kitchen boy in the household of a rich and mighty official. He was 12 years old, and his name was Thomas.

Suddenly he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around and said in great astonishment: “What! Is that you, Peter? What has brought you to Florence? How are all the people in Cortona?”

“They are all well,” answered Peter, who likewise was a boy of 12. “But I’ve left them for good. I want to be a painter. I’ve come to Florence to learn to paint. They say there’s a school here where people are taught.”

“But have you any money?” asked Thomas.

“Not a penny.”

“Then you can’t be an artist. You had better be a servant in the kitchen with me, here in the palace. You will be sure of something to eat, at least.”

“Do you get enough to eat?” asked the other boy reflectively.

“Plenty, more than enough.”

“I don’t want to be a servant: I want to paint,” said Peter. “But I’ll tell you what we’ll do. As you have more than you need to eat, you take me to board, and when I’m a grown-up painter, I’ll settle the bill.”

“Agreed!” said Thomas, after a moment’s thought. “I can manage it. Come upstairs to the garret where I sleep, and I’ll bring you some dinner by and by.”

So the two boys went up to the little room among the chimney pots where Thomas slept. It was a small room, and the only furniture in it was an old straw mattress and two rickety chairs. The walls were white-washed.

Now the food was good and plentiful, for when Thomas went down into the kitchen and foraged, he found abundance that the cook had carelessly discarded. Peter enjoyed the meal, and told Thomas that he felt as if he could fly to the moon.

“So far so good,” said he; “but, Thomas, I can’t be a painter without paper and pencils and brushes and colors. Haven’t you any money?”

“No,” said Thomas, “and I don’t know how to get any. I shall receive no wages for three years.”

“Then I can’t be a painter, after all,” said Peter mournfully.

“I’ll tell you what,” suggested Thomas. “I’ll get some charcoal down in the kitchen, and you can draw pictures on the wall.”

Then Peter set resolutely to work, and drew so many figures of men and women and birds and trees and animals and flowers, that before long the walls were covered with pictures.

At last, one happy day, Thomas came into possession of a small piece of money. I don’t know where he got it, but he was much too honest a boy to take money that did not belong to him.

You may be sure there was joy in the little room up among the chimney pots. Now Peter could have pencils and paper, and other things artists need. By this time the boy had learned to take walks every morning. He wandered about Florence drawing everything he saw: the pictures in the churches, the fronts of the old palaces, the statues in the square, or the outlines of the hills. Then, when it became too dark to work any longer, Peter would go home and find his dinner tucked away under the old bed, where Thomas had put it, not so much to hide it as to keep it warm.

Things went on in this way for two years. None of the servants knew that Thomas kept a boarder, or if they did know it, they good-naturedly shut their eyes. The cook sometimes said that Thomas ate a good deal for a lad of his size.

One day the owner of the palace decided to repair it. He went all over the house in company with an architect and poked into places he had not visited for years. At last he reached the garret, and there he stumbled right into Thomas’s room.

“Why, how’s this?” he cried, astonished at the drawings in the little room. “Have we an artist among us? Who occupies this room?”

“The kitchen boy, Thomas, sir.”

“A kitchen boy! So great a genius must not be neglected. Call the kitchen boy.”

Thomas came in fear and trembling. He had never been in his employer’s presence before. He looked at the charcoal drawings on the wall and then into the face of the great man.

“Thomas, you are no longer a kitchen boy,” said the official kindly.

Poor Thomas thought he was dismissed from service, and then what would become of Peter?

“Don’t send me away!” he cried. “I have nowhere to go, and Peter will starve. He wants to be a painter so much!”

“Who is Peter?”

“He is a boy from Cortona who boards with me. He drew those pictures on the wall, and he will die if he cannot be a painter.”

“Where is he now?”

“He is wandering about the streets to find something to draw. He goes out every day.”

“When he returns, Thomas, bring him to me. Such a genius should not be allowed to live in a garret.”

Strange to say, Peter did not come back to his room that night. One week, two weeks went by, and still nothing was heard of him. At the end of that time a search was made and at last he was found. It seems he had fallen deeply in love with one of Raphael’s pictures that was exhibited in a public building, and had asked permission to copy it. The men in charge, charmed with his youth and talent, had readily consented. They had given him food and a place to stay.

Thanks to the interest the rich official took in him, Peter was admitted to the best school of painting in Florence. As for Thomas, he had masters to instruct him in all the learning of the day.

Fifty years later, two old men were living together in one of the most beautiful houses in Florence. One of them was called Peter of Cortona, and the people said of him: “He is the greatest painter of our time.”

The other was called Thomas, and all they said of him was: “Happy is the man who has him for a friend.”

He was the kind boy who took care of his friend.

Adventure Stories from History, Harvestime Books, Altamont, Tennessee 37301, 407–411.

Children’s Story – Bread Upon the Waters

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“Oh! Jacob, now you see how all your hopes are gone. Here we are worn out with age—all our children removed from us by the hand of death, and ere long we must be the inmates of the poorhouse. Where now is all the bread you have cast upon the waters?”

The old, white-haired man looked up at his wife. He was, indeed, bent down with years, and age sat tremblingly upon him. Jacob Manfred had been a comparatively wealthy man, and while fortune had smiled upon him he had ever been among the first to lend a listening ear and a helping hand to the call of distress. But now misfortune was his. Of his four boys not one was left. Sickness and failing strength found him with but little, and had left him penniless. An oppressive embargo upon the shipping business had been the first weight upon his head, and other misfortunes came in painful succession. Jacob and his wife were all alone, and gaunt poverty looked them coldly in the face.

“Don’t repine, Susan,” said the old man. “True we are poor, but we are not yet forsaken.”

“Not forsaken, Jacob? Who is there to help us now?”

Jacob Manfred raised his trembling finger toward heaven.

“Ah! Jacob, I know God is our friend, but we should have friends here. Look back and see how many you have befriended in days long past. You cast your bread upon the waters with a free hand, but it has not returned to you.”

“Hush, Susan, you forget what you say. To be sure I may have hoped that some kind hand of earth would lift me from the cold depths of utter want; but I do not expect it as a reward for anything I may have done. If I have helped the unfortunate in days gone by, I have had my full reward in knowing that I have done my duty to my fellows. I would not for gold have one of them blotted from my memory. Ah! My fond wife, ‘tis the memory of the good done in life that makes old age happy. Even now, I can hear again the warm thanks of those whom I have befriended, and again I can see their smiles.”

“Yes, Jacob,” returned the wife, in a lower tone, “I know you have been good, and in your memory you can be happy; but, alas! There is a present upon which we must look—there is a reality upon which we must dwell. We must beg for food or starve!”

The old man started, and a deep mark of pain was drawn across his features.

“Beg!” he replied, with a quick shudder. “No, Susan, we are—”

He hesitated, and a big tear rolled down his furrowed cheek.

“We are what, Jacob?”

“We are going to the poorhouse!”

“O No, I thought so!” fell from the poor wife’s lips, as she covered her face with her hands. “I have thought so, and I have tried to school myself to the thought; but? My poor heart will not bear it!”

“Do not give up,” softly urged the old man, laying his hand upon her arm. “It makes but little difference to us now. We have not long to remain on earth, and let us not wear out our last days in useless repinings. Come, Come.”

“But when—when—shall we go?”

“Now—today.”

“Then God have mercy on us!”

“He will,” murmured Jacob.

That old couple sat for a while in silence. When they were aroused from their painful thoughts it was by the stopping of a wagon in front of the door. A man entered the room where they sat. He was the keeper of the poorhouse.

“Come, Mr. Manfred,” he said, “the selectmen have managed to crowd you into the poorhouse. The wagon is at the door, and you can get ready as soon as possible.”

Jacob Manfred had not calculated the strength he should need for this ordeal. There was a coldness in the very tone and manner of the man who had come for him that went like an ice-bolt to his heart, and with a deep groan he sank back in his seat.

“Come, be in a hurry,” impatiently urged the keeper.

At that moment a heavy covered carriage drove up to the door.

“Is this the house of Jacob Manfred?”

This question was asked by a man who entered from the carriage. He was a kind-looking man, about forty years of age.

“That is my name,” said Jacob.

“Then they told me truly,” uttered the newcomer. “Are you from the almshouse?” he continued, turning toward the keeper.

“Yes.”

“Then you may return. Jacob Manfred goes to no poorhouse while I live.”

The keeper gazed inquisitively into the face of the stranger, and left the house.

“Don’t you remember me?” exclaimed the newcomer, grasping the old man by the hand.

“I cannot call you to my memory now.”

“Do you remember Lucius Williams?”

“Williams?” repeated Jacob, starting up and gazing earnestly into the stranger’s face. “Yes, Jacob Manfred—Lucius Williams, that little boy whom, thirty years ago, you saved from the house of correction; that poor boy whom you kindly took from the bonds of the law, and placed on board your own vessels.”

“And are you—”

“Yes—yes. I am the man you made. You found me a rough stone from the hand of poverty and bad example. It was you who brushed off the evil, and who first led me to the sweet waters of moral life and happiness. I have profited by the lesson you gave me in early youth, and the warm spark which your kindness lighted up in my bosom has grown brighter and brighter ever since. With an affluence for life I have settled down, to enjoy the remainder of my days in peace and quietness. I heard of your losses and bereavements. Come, I have a home and a heart, and your presence will make them both warmer, brighter, and happier. Come, my more than father—and you my mother, come. You made my youth all bright, and I will not see your old age doomed to darkness.”

Jacob Manfred tottered forward and sank upon the bosom of his preserver. He could not speak his thanks, for they were too heavy for words. When he looked up again he sought his wife.

“Susan,” he said, in a choking, trembling tone, “my bread has come back to me!”

“Forgive me, Jacob.”

“No, no, Susan. It is not I who must forgive—God holds us in His hand.” “Ah!” murmured the wife, as she raised her streaming eyes to heaven, “I will never doubt Him again.”

Storytime Treasury, Compiled by P. G. Temple, (Harvestime Books, Altamont, Tennessee 37301).

Children’s Story – One Minute More

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On a bright sunny day while Ned set at the breakfast table he tried to get his mother or sister to tell him where they were all going.

“I’m as much in the dark as you are,” said Carolyn. “I think that mother was afraid I would let out the secret, for she sometimes calls me her little chatterbox. We’re to be ready at ten o’clock sharp.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll know in a few hours. Look, here comes Charley Wood. I promised to show him something in my workshop.” Away ran Ned.

The boys played together until after nine o’clock; and then, instead of going directly to the house, to be on hand promptly at ten o’clock, Ned thought: “Oh, there’s time enough for me to finish my kite.”

Two or three times his eyes were upon his watch; but there were a few minutes to spare, he thought. When he looked again, he was startled to find that it was three minutes past ten. By the time he had his hat and rushed to the front room, he was five minutes late, and no one was there.

He could not believe that his mother would disappoint him for such a little delay, so he called for Carolyn. Then he ran to his mother’s room to see if she were there, then out the front door; but no one was to be seen.

“Why did mother not tell me where she was going? Then I might have overtaken her. Now I don’t know in which direction to go,” mumbled Ned.

It was because of this that his mother had not told Ned where she was going. He was in the habit of trying to make up for lost time by hurrying at the last minute.

Mrs. Gray had planned a visit to her sister, who lived on a farm. Ned and Carolyn had once visited there and had a grand time with their cousins. They played in the hayloft, searched for eggs, helped feed the cattle, and rode the horses to water. They often begged mother to take them again; but she had many home cares and could not get away.

Poor Ned! When he found his mother and sister gone, he was a disappointed boy. Half ashamed to have Jane, the maid, see his tears or know how miserable he was, he went back to his play. He knew that if his mother returned, Carolyn would be sure to run out to the playhouse in search of him, so he stayed out there by himself until dinnertime.

Jane called Ned to dinner. She had lived in the Gray home a long time and knew Ned’s one failing. She had promised Mrs. Gray not to tell him where his mother and sister had gone, until dinnertime. The woman saw the boy with sad, downcast face enter the dining room. Seeing the table set for only one person, Ned was surprised, for his mother rarely stayed away all day.

The boy sat down to his lonely meal, and when Jane came in with a piece of pie, he asked why his mother was not home to dinner.

“Oh, Ned,” she replied, “your mother won’t be back today, or tomorrow either—no, not until Monday morning. She and Carolyn have gone to visit your Aunt Mary.”

This was too much for the youth. Dropping knife and fork, he rushed upstairs to his room, where he flung himself on the bed and cried bitterly.

When he had recovered from the first burst of tears, he remembered his mother’s request “not to forget,” that she should expect him “in the front room at ten o’clock precisely.” Now he understood that she must have started with Carolyn to the station at the very moment the clock hands pointed to the hour. It was a good lesson. He knew his mother had not meant to be cruel to him, and he resolved to improve in promptness.

It was with bright, sunny face, from which all sadness had vanished, that Ned met his mother and sister when they reached home Monday morning. Mrs. Gray saw at once that the hard lesson she had been obliged to teach him had not been in vain.

Storytime Treasury, compiled by P. G. Temple, Harvestime Books, Altamont, Tenessee.

Children’s Story – ‘Neath the Green Earth

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In some places the salt is found mixed with earth. Then to retrieve it, water is poured into the salt, melting the salt. The salt water, which is now called brine, is then pumped out and boiled in large kettles till nothing is left but the salt.

In other parts of the earth, salt is found on the surface in large quantities. On the island of Carmen, in the Gulf of California, where there has been a large salt lake, there now remains a solid crust of salt that is several feet thick.

The wonderful “salt tree” grows wild in the northern part of India. Salt can always be found clinging to this tree. The natives gather it and eat it with great relish.

When we meet a friend in this country (America), we say, “How do you do?” but when one Arab meets another, they each produce a piece of salt for the other to touch with his tongue. This act means friendship and welcome. If an enemy eats salt at an Arab’s door, he becomes his friend forever, for by so doing he really asks to be forgiven, and the request thus made is never refused.

I wonder if we always forgive each other as freely as do the Arabs! Uncle Ben hopes that his boys and girls will remember this beautiful lesson. Don’t forget that we ask the Lord to “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.” (Matthew 6:12.)

What great Teacher said, “Have salt in yourselves, and have peace one with another”? Mark 9:50.

In merry old England, many years ago, the little dish containing the salt was so placed on the table that the rank of the guest could be known. The poorest folks always sat below the salt, and the rich ones above the salt. What a strange custom this was!

Who can tell us about a great feast that will soon be held when the rich and poor, great and small, will sit down together and to which “whosoever will” may come? And what great King will serve the guests at this feast?

Now just see what a wonderful article we are studying about. It is found in great mines, in the sea, in springs, in mountains, on the surface of the ground where salt lakes have been, and also on the salt tree of old, old India. Salt is useful for good for both man and beast.

One of the most valuable uses of salt is to preserve or keep. People of olden times even thought that salt was sacred because of its great power to preserve various articles from decay. Who can tell what Jesus meant when He said, “Ye are the salt of the earth” (Matthew 5:13)?

The Jews at the time of Christ used rock salt, and sometimes salt obtained from the Dead Sea and the marshes.

Travelers tell us that this salt is of poor quality and that when it is left in the sun or is exposed to the air, it loses its saltiness, and is then, of course, good for nothing.

Jesus wants us to be just like the good salt of the earth. He wants us to keep ourselves pure, and to save souls from death by pointing them to Christ, who is “the Way, the Truth, and the Life” (John 14:6). To do this we must have “salt in ourselves,” and never lose our saltiness.

This means we must always have the spirit of Christ in us, and love to do good as He did, and be always willing to speak the kind word and do the kindly deed.

Jesus said, “Salt is good; but if the salt have lost his savor, wherewith shall it be seasoned? It is neither fit for the land, nor yet for the dunghill; but men cast it out. He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.” Luke 14:34. Dear boys and girls, let us hear, and be the real salt of the earth—always ready to help one another, and to speak a word for our dear Saviour who has done so much for us.

Among all the voices of earth the Lord would have us hear His voice. He wants us to hear so that we shall remember it always, and believe just what He says, and do just what He commands. Then His truth will be as salt in us to keep us from sin and sinning.

Excerpts from Uncle Ben’s Cobblestones, W. H. B. Miller, Pacific Press Publishing Association., Mountain View, California, 1904, 29–40.

Children’s Story – Making Up

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Mrs. Morton had noticed for several mornings that something had gone wrong with little Donna May. The child seemed as happy as usual at the breakfast table, but when school-time drew near, she became restless. She took her hat and coat long before the hour and stationed herself at the window, looking up the street, as if waiting; yet when the time came, she went reluctantly, as though she had no heart to go.

When she came home at noon she was sadder than when she went.

“What grieves my little daughter?” asked her mother, as she came into the room.

“Oh, mother!” said Donna May, crying outright at a kind word. “You don’t know!”

“But I want to know,” said Mrs. Morton. “Perhaps I can help you.”

“Nobody can help me,” said Donna May. “Alice Barnes and I—we’ve always been friends, and now she’s mad at me.”

“What makes you think so?” asked her mother.

“Oh, I know! She always used to call for me mornings, and we were together at recess and everywhere. I wouldn’t believe it for the longest time; but it’s a week since she called for me, and she keeps away from me all the time.”

“Now that I know what Alice has done, dear, can you think of anything you did?”

“Why, mother! No, indeed, I don’t need to think. I thought too much of Alice.” Donna May cried again.

“There, my dear, don’t cry. You must find out why she keeps away from you. Very likely there is something that you never thought of.”

“I don’t want to ask her, mother. It’s her fault, and she ought to come to me.”

“I fear your pride is stronger than your love for Alice,” said mother. She was brushing Donna May’s hair as she spoke, and she stooped to give the girl’s forehead a loving kiss. Donna May knew that her mother was right, for she went straight to Alice when she saw her on the sidewalk after school, and said: “Alice Barnes, why are you mad at me?”

“I shouldn’t think you would ask me, Donna May Morton,” replied Alice, “when you’ve said such unkind things about me.”

“No such thing!” said May indignantly.

“Donna May,” said Alice, looking as solemn as her round, rosy face would let her, “Didn’t I hear you, with my own ears, telling Bess Porter that I was the most mischievous little thing you ever saw?”

Donna May looked blank for a moment, then burst into a laugh. Alice turned angrily away; but her friend caught her by the arm, and, choking down her laughter, said: “Alice, don’t you know I named my new canary bird after you? I was telling Bess about her, and how she tore her paper to pieces and scattered her seeds all over the floor.”

Alice stared and drew a long breath. Donna May’s eyes twinkled again and both girls forgot their grievances in a peal of hearty laughter.

“There, Alice,” said Donna May afterward, “if we ever misunderstand each other again, let’s speak about it at once. Perhaps it will be something as funny as this.”

Storytime Treasury, compiled by P.G. Temple, Harvestime Books, Altamont, Tennessee 37301.

Children’s Story – Gambetta and His Dog

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When God made the animals He gave each of them some special abilities. The dog, who has been a great helper to man, was given a very sensitive nose and the ability to smell out tracks and trails to find animals or things that are lost.

Some years ago, a great French statesman named Gambetta was traveling from Paris to his home in the country by horseback. The night was so dark that he could hardly see his horse’s head, so he was traveling very slowly.

Suddenly the horse reared. A man who had been bending down on the road felt the horse’s nose touch him, and started up. As soon as Gambetta saw what had happened, he said, “You stupid fellow! You were nearly killed.”

“I wish I had been.”

“Why so?”

“I am a poor workman. My master told me to go to the village to get some money which was due to him. I was paid in gold, and I put the money in my pocket. I did not know that there was a hole in it, but I find that all the gold has fallen out. I cannot hope to find it all again this dark night, and I dare not go back without it.”

“Have you one coin left?”

“Yes, here is the only one left me.”

Gambetta untied a dog which was under the carriage, held the coin to his nose, and said, “Go seek, Tom.”

Off Tom ran, with his nose close to the ground so as to smell the footsteps of the man, and in a minute he came back with a coin in his mouth. Again and again he ran away into the darkness, and each time he returned bringing another coin with him.

In half an hour the workman had all his money again. Thanks to the cleverness of the dog and the kindness of his owner, he was able to go on his way once more with a light heart.

Tom’s master was so pleased with his dog that the next day he bought him a new collar, and had the date marked on it in memory of his clever act.

This case showed the great keenness of scent in the dog, for a coin is very small and not likely to smell strongly. Many other true stories are told, which show what a wonderful power of smell God gave to dogs.

Storytime Treasury, compiled by P. G. Temple, Harvestime Books, Altamont, Tennessee 37301.

Children’s Story – Learning to Work

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God has made man to find his greatest happiness and satisfaction in useful labor. It is the duty of every man to work. The idle man who wastes his time and his life is of no use to himself or to others. He often gets into bad habits and sins that if he were busy would not tempt him. The man who is too lazy to work for his living is the most ready to beg or to steal.

In ancient Israel, even the children of a king were taught some useful trade and to work with their hands.

In old Germany, all the boys of the royal family were taught some useful trade.

One of the ancient kings of Egypt made a law that all his people should come before their rulers once a year, and prove that they knew some trade by which they could earn their living. Any man who could not do so was put to death.

There was at one time a custom among the people of Holland that was meant to prevent idleness. When a man was found begging, who was able to work, he was seized, and put into a pit, into which water was allowed to run through a pipe.

At the bottom of the pit there was a pump to get rid of the water. But it was hard work to pump out the water that poured in; and if the man had stopped pumping, he would certainly have been drowned.

It was great fun for those who passed by to see an idle tramp forced to work in spite of himself and a few hours of this punishment was enough to cure a very lazy man. When he was quite worn out, he was ready enough to promise to work for his living in the future.

But it is not enough that a man should learn some kind of work. He should apply himself to his work with a will, and not waste his spare minutes or half hours. “Work while you work, and play while you play,” is a good rule for old people as well as young people.

There is no better habit than that of early rising, and this, like all other habits, is most easily formed in youth. A great French writer tells us how he managed, by the help of his servant, to get up early in the morning, and thus save much of his time.

“When I was young,” he says, “I was so fond of sleep that I lost half my time. My servant Joseph did all he could to help me to break off my lazy habit, but at first without success.

“At last I promised him five shillings every time he could make me get up at six o’clock. He came the next morning at that hour, and did his best to rouse me; but I only spoke roughly to him, and then went to sleep again.

“The next morning he came again, and this time I became so angry that he was frightened. That afternoon I said to him, ‘Joseph, I have lost my time, and you have not won your five shillings. You do not understand your work; you should think only of that I have promised you, and never mind how angry I am.’

“Next morning, he came again. First I begged him to leave me alone, then I grew angry, but it was of no use; he made me get up, very much against my will.

“My ill-humor did not last long after I was awake, and then I thanked Joseph, and gave him his five shillings. I owe to Joseph at least a dozen of the books I have written.”

Young readers, don’t wait until you have such a bad habit as that. Don’t wait until you have to pay someone to get you out of bed in the morning. Start today and determine that you will learn to rise early, and use your hours wisely. You will never regret the good habit.

Storytime Treasury, compiled by P. G. Temple, Harvestime Books, Altamont, Tennessee 37301.

Children’s Story – Kathy “Sees” Thanksgiving

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Jeanie awoke the morning before Thanksgiving Day with a happy and thankful heart. Usually she awoke every morning feeling this way because she was a happy little girl, but today she had a special reason for being thankful.

Jeanie and her parents lived on a farm in the United States quite a distance from town or from neighbors. There was a big white house across the road, but Jeanie could not remember anyone ever having lived in it. Then last week Daddy told her and Mother that a family with a little girl Jeanie’s age was going to move into the house today.

Swiftly Jeanie jumped out of bed and ran to her window to peek at the house across the road. Sure enough, there was a moving van unloading furniture onto the front porch.

“Oh, now I will get to meet my new playmate before Thanksgiving!” Jeanie exclaimed to herself as she hurriedly began to dress.

She was almost to the kitchen when she remembered something she had to do today. She had promised to gather the pine cones that Mother always used to decorate the table on Thanksgiving Day. Would she have time to search for them and visit the little girl across the road too?

Then a thought flashed into Jeanie’s mind. I’ll go see my new neighbor first and invite her to go with me to gather the cones.

By this time Jeanie was at the kitchen doorway. “Oh, Mother,” she sang out, “our new neighbors have come!”

Mother looked up from the plate of toast she was preparing and smiled. “Yes, I saw them. I am making some soup for their lunch. We will take it over as soon as it is ready.”

Jeanie nodded. She was glad Mother was making the soup, but she didn’t know whether she could wait so long to meet her new playmate.

“I’m going to invite the little girl to help me search for pine cones,” she told Mother. “Do you think she will like that?”

“Yes, I’m sure she will.” Mother looked a little thoughtful. “There is something, though, I think you should know. Daddy learned about it only yesterday and told me last night.”

Jeanie had been watching Mother and saw her strange expression. “What is it? Is it about the new neighbors?”

Mother nodded. “It is about the little girl,” she answered gently. “She can’t see as you and I see, Jeanie. She is blind.”

Jeanie put down the plates she was holding and stared at Mother. Blind! She had never known a blind person. In school there was Cindy who had to walk with crutches, but being blind was different. Not to be able to see at all.

Jeanie had read about several famous blind people, such as Hellen Keller, but she had never really thought much about them. She had never tried to feel what it would be like never to see the bright blue sky, the green grass, other people—anything at all. Why, it was night all the time in a blind person’s world.

Jeanie took a deep breath. “Then—then maybe she won’t enjoy going with me to look for pine cones,” she managed to say.

“I think she may.” Mother surprised Jeanie by her answer. “You can invite her anyway and find out what she says.”

Jeanie was glad Mother had helped her decide. At worship Jeanie prayed a special prayer for Jesus to help her be friends with her blind neighbor.

Later when the steaming kettle of soup was ready Mother and Jeanie went across the road to see the new neighbors. As they entered the front gate, Jeanie’s heart began to beat faster. A little girl just her age was standing on the porch.

The little girl spoke first. “Hello,” she called. “I’m Kathy. Do you live across the road?”

“Yes, we do,” Jeanie told her. “My mother and I have brought you and your parents some soup for lunch, and I would like you to go pine cone hunting with me.”

“Oh, I would love that!” Kathy exclaimed happily. She turned toward the doorway of the house. “May I go, Mother?”

Jeanie turned, too, in surprise. She certainly hadn’t seen Kathy’s mother come to the door.

After Kathy had gotten her mother’s permission, the girls started for the pasture where the pine trees grew.

“I’ve never seen a pine cone,” Kathy stated. 

Jeanie couldn’t help staring at her. And somehow Kathy knew that she was puzzled.

“I mean I’ve never touched a pine cone,” she corrected. “I see things by feeling them. I’ve never seen many of the things that go with Thanksgiving. My parents and I have always lived in an apartment in New York City. I’ve never seen a pumpkin or an ear of corn. I surely would like to sometime.”

“Oh, you can today!” cried Jeanie. “Daddy has corn and pumpkins in the barn, and we’ll gather cones from the pine trees in the pasture.”

It wasn’t long until Jeanie spied a large cone under the pine tree by the pasture gate. “Oh, here’s one,” she told Kathy and gave her new friend the cone to hold.

Kathy ran her fingers quickly over the cone at first. Then she touched it more slowly. “It isn’t at all like I thought it would be. I thought it would be rough all over, but parts of it are smooth.”

Jeanie laughed and held out a black walnut. “If you want to feel something really different, touch this.”

Kathy was fascinated by the texture of the walnut hull. Then she felt the bark of the trees and the gritty surface of a sand rock. After the girls had gathered enough of the cones, they hurried to the barn, where Jeanie showed Kathy the big yellow pumpkins and the ears of yellow corn.

“Oh, this feels like Thanksgiving!” laughed Kathy as she patted the biggest pumpkin in the pile. “What a pie it would make!”

“One almost big enough to feed all the Pilgrims!” humored Jeanie.

Kathy smiled. Then she looked serious. “I’ve read about the Pilgrims and about the first Thanksgiving in my Braille books, but I’ve often wondered what a Pilgrim looked like.” 

Jeanie smiled, too. “I wish I had a Pilgrim to show you, but I—” Then she stopped right in the middle of her sentence and caught Kathy’s hand. “Come to the house. I do have a Pilgrim to show you. Two of them, in fact!”

When they were inside the house, Jeanie took Kathy to her room. “Here, sit in my rocker, and I’ll get my Pilgrim dolls from my doll collection. Grandmother got them for me two years ago at Thanksgiving. They are a Pilgrim man and a Pilgrim woman.”

Jeanie put the dolls in Kathy’s hands and told her about each doll’s clothing, the colors, and how the man carried a Bible in his hand.

Kathy sat for a long time touching the dolls. Then she turned toward Jeanie with joy and wonder in her face. “Oh, Jeanie, this has been such a wonderful day! I’ve never really been able to know about the things that Thanksgiving means because I couldn’t touch them. But today you really have helped me to “see” Thanksgiving. I think I want to thank Jesus for you.”

Jeanie took the Pilgrim dolls from Kathy and put them back with her doll collection. Then she took Kathy by the hand. “And I want to thank Jesus for you too,” she said. “So let’s thank Him together right now.”

On the rug beside Jeanie’s bed the two little girls knelt down and gave a special prayer of thanksgiving to Jesus, even though Thanksgiving was still a day away.

Heaven, Please! Helena Welch, 122–127.

Children’s Story – The Little Lost Lamb

by

Judy did not know Bootsie was lost until she went upstairs to get ready for bed. Bootsie was Judy’s favorite doll. Bootsie was a fleecy, little lamb with soft, white wool all over. Every night for several years Judy had tucked Bootsie under the covers beside her and pulled his soft, little body against her cheek before she went to sleep. But tonight she couldn’t find him.

“Mother, have you seen Bootsie?” Judy called down the stairs. “Did you look under the bed?” her mother answered. “He must be somewhere in your room.” But they couldn’t find Bootsie anywhere.

“Judy,” said her mother, “you were up at Mrs. Garland’s house this afternoon playing with Ann. Did you have Bootsie with you?” “Oh, yes, Mother; I believe I did.” “Do you suppose you left Bootsie at Ann’s house?” her mother asked. Judy could not be sure, so her mother phoned Mrs. Garland.

“No,” said Mrs. Garland, “Judy did not leave Bootsie here. I remember distinctly that she had him in her arms as she started home. She also had two story books and her roller skates. It was quite an armful. Do you suppose she dropped him on the way home?”

“Judy,” said her mother, after she had finished talking with Mrs. Garland, “can’t you sleep with one of your other dolls tonight? We will see if we can find Bootsie in the morning.” Just then Judy heard the sound of rain on the roof, and the tears came to her eyes. “Oh, Mother,” she said, “if I lost Bootsie on the way home, then he’s out there in the rain. He’ll get cold and wet. Please let us go find him. I can’t go to sleep without my Bootsie.”

“If you love Bootsie that much, we will go try to find him.” A few minutes later, with raincoats, overshoes, umbrella, and flashlight, they started out in the rain to look for Bootsie. “Judy,” her mother said, “you try to remember exactly which way you walked home from Mrs. Garland’s.”

“I came the short way down the hill through Mrs. Garland’s back yard,” said Judy. So together they walked up the hill in the direction of Mrs. Garland’s house, toward her back yard. About halfway up, beside a rosebush, they found Bootsie. Judy all but cried for joy as she gathered her little lamb into her arms. Back home a few minutes later, she carefully wiped the cold rain from Bootsie with a towel, wrapped him in a nice, warm blanket, then tucked him under the cover in the bed beside her.

The Story of the Good Shepherd – Luke 15:1–7

In the time of Jesus there were many men who made their living by raising sheep.

There were no fences in the pastures, and good grazing land was scarce. Often a shepherd would have to tend his flock many miles away from his home to find grass for his sheep, and sometimes one might fall behind or wander away and be lost from the flock. Each night the sheep were kept in a place called a “fold” – a closed-in space where they would be safe from wolves and robbers.

One day Jesus told the following story to the people who had come together to hear Him teach.

There was once a shepherd who had a hundred sheep. One night as he brought them into the fold he missed one. Quickly he counted them again. Yes, there were only ninety-nine.

He started back to hunt for the lost sheep. It was a long journey back to the valley where the sheep had been grazing that afternoon and it was growing dark. Robbers and wild beasts might be lurking along the way. None of these things mattered to the shepherd. He was thinking only of his lost sheep. Could it have fallen into a pit? Perhaps its leg would be broken. He hoped and prayed that the wolves would not find it before he did.

Troubled by these thoughts, he hurried on. Ever so often he would pause, and over the hills his voice would roll, calling his sheep. At last an answer came, a pitiful bleat from the distance in front of him. The shepherd ran the rest of the way, guided by the bleating sounds that became clearer and clearer as he came closer. Yes, the lost sheep had fallen into a pit. Apart from a few scratches from the rocks and briars, it was unharmed.

Gently the shepherd lifted it to his shoulder. All the way back he carried it, his heart bursting with joy and gratitude because he had found it safe and sound. Back home he rubbed oil into the wounds made by the rocks and briars; then he put the rescued sheep into the fold with the others.

However before he went to bed that night, he called in his friends and neighbors to tell them what had happened. “It meant much to me to find my sheep,” he said, “that I wanted you to know about it and share my joy.

Jesus told this story as a lesson that God loves and cares for each one of us as this good shepherd loved and cared for his sheep.

Parables from Nature, by J. Calvin Reid.