Children’s Story

Children’s Story – Who Made the Bad Bugs?

by

There’s something making me itch,” Betty Lou complained as she came in from play one afternoon.

“Where is the itch?” Mother asked.

“Right here, back of my ear.”

Mother looked back of the girl’s ear and found a tick. “It’s a tick,” Mother exclaimed. “Don’t touch it. I’ll get it out right away.” She found a piece of cotton, dipped it in kerosene and sopped the itchy place several times until she was sure the tick was dead. Then she pulled it out carefully and threw it into the fire.

“You see,” explained Mother, “the tick burrows its head under the skin so it can get some of the blood from your body. I told you not to touch it because if you try to pull a tick off while it is alive it will only cling the tighter; and while you are pulling, it may leave some of its poison in your body. Although they are only tiny creatures, ticks are dangerous, for they sometimes carry disease germs that make people very sick.”

“He’s a bad bug, isn’t he, Mother? Why did God make bad bugs?” asked Betty Lou.

It was a question that gave the family plenty to talk about that evening. Linda, thought she answered the question by saying, “God made everything, didn’t He? So He must have made good bugs and bad bugs.”

“I don’t see how that can be,” Harold objected. “Didn’t God say that everything He made was good?”

“That’s right, Harold. God never made anything bad,” said Mother. “He never made an ugly or useless thing. Even the serpent was beautiful before it told the lies that Satan put into its mouth. After man sinned, some of the animals became wild and ferocious; and, not satisfied with the grass and other plants God had given them for food, they began to eat one another. Some of the birds, too, began to fight and destroy one another, instead of living on the fruits and nuts and grains. Satan has tried to spoil everything that God has made, because he hates God and because he hates us.”

Daddy went into the library and brought out a big book he had been reading. It told about huge animals and reptiles that lived before the Flood. Their bones have been found in the earth, where they were buried when the mountains were thrown up by the raging wind and water.

“What animals!” Linda exclaimed. “Are there any such animals living anywhere on the earth now?”

“No,” Daddy answered, “not one of them is left. God must have allowed these huge animals to die in order to protect man from harm that they might do him. Undoubtedly they were wonderful creatures when God made them, but sin changed them into beasts that brought terror to man.”

“Betty, there will be no bad bugs in heaven to carry poison and disease, as ticks and mosquitoes so often do now.”

Daddy read the wonderful description of the new earth from the Bible. Harold asked, “Will there be lions in the new earth? In one chapter it says that there will be no lions there, and in the other chapter it says that the lion and the lamb will lie down together.”

“It’s this way, son,” came Daddy’s answer; “there’ll be no wild, ravenous lions as we know them now; but there will be friendly, harmless lions, the kind God made in the beginning.”

Happy Home Stories, by Ella M. Robinson, Teach Services, Inc., pages 49–51.

Children’s Story – Esther’s Victory

by

Dear!” and Esther sighed wearily as she bent over the tiresome figures on her slate. The long afternoon sun shot slanting in at the window of the little red school-house, where thirty restless children were thumbing the leaves of their well-worn books. The last class in spelling was on the floor, and Esther had not finished her problem. It wasn’t such a very hard example, but Esther was a little girl, and didn’t like arithmetic. Yet she kept at it; for there was to be a prize given at the end of the term to the one who had the most perfect lessons. The prize was a copy of Robinson Crusoe, handsomely bound in blue and gold, and full of pictures. Books were scarce in Esther’s home, and she wanted this one so much.

But now the spelling class was dismissed, and all the scholars were putting away their books for the night. Esther looked ruefully at the long columns of figures on her slate and the answer that, try as hard as she pleased, she couldn’t prove to be right, and something very much like tears shone in a pair of great hazel eyes as she straightened up her desk.

After the supper dishes were washed that evening, Esther sat down again to the puzzling example. The arithmetic class came the first thing in the morning, and she must get her answer ready tonight. But it was as bad as ever, and she couldn’t get it right. By and by mamma called her to go to bed, and the problem had to rest.

There was no time in the morning, for in this busy household, everyone had their appointed tasks, which they were expected to do. So Esther took her broom and went to sweep and straighten up brother Jack’s room. When she was whisking her duster around the books on the corner shelf, a little one on the end fell off to the floor.

Esther stooped to pick it up, and paused. What chance had placed that book in her way? She did not know Jack had such a book. It was arithmetic just like hers, and beside each problem was plainly written in black ink the correct answer.

Esther turned over the leaves till she came to the place where her lesson was. Her answer was nearly the same; there was only one figure in the tens that was wrong. What hurt would it do if she should copy the answer and hand it in for hers? She was sure she had worked long enough on it to have it right, and nobody would know. It was but the work of an instant, and the book was put back in its place.

With a smiling face, Esther went to school, and when the arithmetic class recited, was marked perfect in her lesson; but her conscience was not quite at ease. Everything said that day seemed to have something in it about honesty. The reading lesson was about an honest boy that would not tell a lie to save himself from punishment; and Miss Lewis said she hoped they would all strive to be strictly honest in their lessons, for that would be better than any prize they might win.

Esther knew she had not done right and that she ought to tell Miss Lewis about it; but she put it off that day and on the morrow, the warning voice of conscience grew more faint, till it ceased to trouble Esther. “It will not matter much,” she said, “if I don’t do it again.”

At length the last day came. There was to be speaking and singing at the school-house, and the children’s parents and friends were to be present, and the prizes presented. The little room had been gaily decked for the occasion with wreaths and flowers, and through the open door and windows came sweet scents of lilacs and clover and blossoming orchard trees.

When the exercises were over, Miss Lewis rose to give the prizes. “There are two scholars,” she said, “who stand so nearly equal in their studies that it has been a difficult matter to decide which one to award with the prize. They are Jennie Feverel and Esther Hallern. However, as Esther has had one more perfect mark than Jennie, she may come forward and receive the prize.”

With beating heart and triumphant face, Esther felt the coveted book in her hands, and heard Miss Lewis’s kind words as she handed it to her. But as she turned to go to her seat, she saw over in the corner, her dear friend Jennie, sobbing as if her heart would break over the disappointment.

With a sudden twinge of conscience, Esther remembered how unfairly the prize had been won and paused half way down the isle.

“What is the matter, Esther,” said Miss Lewis kindly, as she saw her stand there, her face flushing and paling by turns, as every moment her action looked meaner.

“O Miss Lewis,” said Esther, her voice growing so husky she could hardly speak above a whisper, and her eyes filling with tears of shame, “The prize is no more mine than Jennie’s. I copied one lesson out of Jack’s arithmetic; and the book belongs to her because she didn’t cheat,” and with a new sense of honor, Esther laid the beautiful book on Jennie’s desk.

Miss Lewis said a few words in reply, though what they were Esther could not have told, for her shame and disappointment crowded out everything else. Then school was dismissed.

Esther took her books and hurried home alone, not waiting even for her mother to come with her, and flung herself down in the grass under a pear tree, where the soft wind sent down showers of petals over a very miserable little girl. Here her mamma found her. Then there followed a quiet talk that Esther will never forget. Jennie kindly came over most every afternoon with her book, and by the last of vacation they had finished the story together.

When Esther gathered up her books, on the morning school began again, she was very much delighted to find a new history book and a slate laid beside them—presents from her mamma for her generosity and truthfulness about the prize.

  1. E. L.

The Youth Instructor, April 28, 1886

Children’s Story – The Errand Boy Martin

by

Little Martin was a poor boy, who earned his bread by doing errands. One day he was returning from a village, which was quite distant from his home, and feeling tired, he sat down under a large tree, near an inn, to rest. While he sat there, eating a piece of bread which he had taken for his dinner, he saw a handsome carriage driving up, in which sat a young gentleman and his teacher.

Martin looked at them very attentively, and then looked at his crust of bread and at his ragged clothes and old cap; and he could not help sighing as he said, half aloud, “Oh, dear! If I were but that young gentleman, instead of being poor Martin the errand boy! How I wish I could change places with him!”

The teacher chanced to overhear what Martin said, and he told it to his pupil, who, leaning out of the coach window, beckoned Martin to come near.

“So, little boy,” said he, “you would like to change places with me, would you?”

“I beg pardon, sir,” replied Martin; “I meant no harm by what I said.”

“I am not angry with you,” said the young gentleman; “on the contrary, I am quite willing to change places with you.”

“Oh, now you are joking!” cried Martin; “no one would wish to change places with me, and least of all, a gentleman like yourself. I am obliged to walk many miles every day and seldom have anything but dry bread or potatoes to eat, while you may ride in your nice carriage, and have whatever you desire.”

“Well,” said the young gentleman, “if you will give me all you have that I have not, I will in turn give you everything that belongs to me.”

Martin started, for he did not know what to say; but the teacher desired him to answer.

“Do you agree to change?” said he.

“Oh, yes,” said Martin, “I do indeed, if you are in earnest. How the people in the village will wonder to see me coming back in this grand coach.” And Martin laughed at the idea.

The young gentleman then called his servants, and they opened the coach door, and helped him to get out. But what was Martin’s surprise on seeing that both his legs were quite crooked, and of no use to him!

He was obliged to lean upon crutches for support; and on looking at him more closely, Martin saw that his face was pale and thin, like that of a person who is often ill. The young gentleman smiled kindly on Martin, and said, “Well, my lad, do you still wish to change situations with me? Would you, if you could, give up your rosy cheeks for the sake of driving in a carriage, and wearing a handsome coat?”

“Oh, no, not for the world!” said Martin.

“And I,” said the young gentleman, “would gladly be poor, if I only had the use of my limbs; but as it is God’s will that I should be lame and sickly, I try to be patient and cheerful, and to be thankful for the blessings He has left me.

“And you, my young friend, must do the same, and remember that if you have poor clothes and hard fare, you have health and strength, which are far better than a coach and horses, and what money can buy.” Selected.

The Youth’s Instructor, April 14, 1886.

Children’s Story – The Blind Poet

by

Have you found out the name of the blind poet who wrote so many hymns?” asked Mother.

“Tell Mother who she was,” said Linda.

“Fanny Crosby,” answered Betty Lou, pronouncing the words slowly and carefully.

“How did you find out?” Mother asked.

“Linda told me.”

“How did you find out, Linda?”

“I looked through our hymnbook to find the names of the women who wrote hymns. I found more hymns by Fanny Crosby than by any other woman. There were several by Frances Ridley Havergal, too. I didn’t know which one was blind, so I asked Harold, and he got down the encyclopedia. We read what it said about Fanny Crosby.”

“Well done! Here is the poem which she wrote when she was only eight years old:

“Oh, what a happy soul am I: although I cannot see,

I am resolved that in this world contented I will be.

How many blessings I enjoy that other people don’t.

To weep and sigh because I’m blind, I cannot and I won’t.

“Fanny was two years old when her mother told her very tenderly that she would never be able to see. In spite of her blindness, Fanny learned to dress herself and comb her hair. She could feel her way around the house and wait on herself. She could eat at the table as well as almost anyone.

“When Fanny’s grandmother heard of her blindness, she came to live with Fanny and her mother. Grandma spent much of her time with Fanny. The girl would sit for hours curled up in Grandma’s lap, listening to Bible stories or to descriptions of the clouds and the sunsets and the stars. She especially loved stories about Jesus, and the heavenly Father Who sent His own Son to save us.

“As Fanny and her grandmother walked together through gardens and woods, Grandma would pick a flower and tell the blind girl to feel it and to smell it. In this way Fanny learned to know each flower by name. She also learned to know the birds by their songs. She played with other children, climbed trees, and rode horseback. Her favorite pet was a lamb that went almost everywhere with her, like Mary’s little lamb.

“In the evenings Grandma would read to Fanny from the Bible and from her favorite poets. Fanny memorized many of the poems, as well as some of the psalms and other chapters from the Bible. But she longed to go to school to learn to read out of books. Yet how could a little blind girl ever read books?

“One night she knelt by her bed and prayed, ‘Dear Lord, please show me how I can learn as other children do.’ From that time on, Fanny was sure that God would help her receive what she had asked of Him. One day, not long after this, Fanny’s mother received some good news. A school for the blind had been opened in New York.

“ ‘Thank God!’ Fanny exclaimed; ‘He has answered my prayers, as I knew He would.’

“Fanny was fifteen years old when she entered the school. The books from which the students studied were printed in Braille, a system of raised dots, which a blind person feels with his or her fingers.

“Fanny was the school favorite because she was so cheerful and full of fun. She was also the school poet, and she wrote poems for special occasions. One day Dr. Jones, the school superintendent, called her into his office.

“Among other things, he said this: ‘Do not allow the words of praise from others to make you feel that you are better than they are. Remember, Fanny, whatever talent you possess belongs wholly to God, and you ought to give Him the credit for all that you do.’ He asked Fanny if he had been too blunt.

“ ‘No, sir,’ she replied. ‘You have talked to me as a father, and I thank you very much for it.’

“Fanny never forgot that her ability and talents had been given to her by God.”

Happy Home Stories, by Ella M. Robinson, p. 61–64, (TEACH Services, Inc., 2005).

Children’s Story – Send Food to John

by

On top of Washington Mountain, overlooking a deep valley stood a simple hut. This hut was the home of John Barry, a poor charcoal burner. During the past summer, John had felt sick and was not able to work as much as usual.

In December, several heavy snowfalls came. The road up the mountain from the village below was completely drifted shut. Before the road could be cleared, another storm raged, and John and his wife were stranded with only one day’s supply of food left.

In the village of Sheffield, ten miles away, lived Deacon Brown. Mr. Brown was a well-to-do farmer, known for his Christian life and practice. The deacon and his wife, Margaret had gone to bed, and, in spite of the storm, both were sleeping soundly. Toward morning, the deacon suddenly awoke. He had a strong impression he needed to bring food to someone named John. He awoke his wife and told her.

“Nonsense!” replied Mrs. Brown. “Go back to sleep. You must have been dreaming.” The deacon laid down again, and in a few minutes he was asleep. When he awoke, the impression was as strong as ever.

“Well!” said Mrs. Brown, “You must be ill. I wonder if you have a fever. Lie down and try to sleep.”

“Listen, Margaret,” he said, “Do you know anyone named John who might need food?”

“No one that I can think of,” replied Mrs. Brown, “unless it could be John Barry, the old charcoal burner on the mountain.”

“That’s it!” exclaimed the deacon. “Now I remember. When I was at the store in town the other day, Mr. Clark said, ‘I wonder if old John Barry is alive, for it is six weeks since I saw him. He has not come in for his winter stock of groceries yet.’ It must be that old John is sick and needs food.”

Quickly, the deacon and his wife got dressed. Mr. Brown woke his helper, Willie, and the men ate a hurried breakfast while Mrs. Brown packed a good supply of food in the two largest baskets she could find.

After breakfast, Mr. Brown and Willie hitched up the horses to the double sleigh. With a month’s supply of food, they began their journey just as the first streaks of light appeared on the horizon. It would be a dangerous trip. The wind was still blowing and the snow kept falling and drifting. Yet the team of horses continued on their trip of mercy. While the people on the sleigh, wrapped up in blankets and extra buffalo robes, urged the horses through the drifts in the face of the storm, that ten-mile ride, which normally took less than an hour, was not completed until nearly five hours had passed.

At last they drew up in front of the hut where the poor, trusting Christian man and his wife had been praying for help to Him Who is the hearer of prayers. As the deacon reached the door, he heard the voice of prayer. He knocked at the door; it was opened, and we can scarcely imagine the joy of the old couple! The generous supply of food was carried in, and thanksgivings were raised to God by John Barry and his wife in their mountain hut.

How God Sent a Dog to Save a Family and other Devotional Stories, 59–61, by Joel R. Beeke and Diana Kleyn, Reformation Heritage Books.

Children’s Story – Everything for the Best

by

Toward the evening of a fine summer’s day, a gentleman, who lived in the country, took his son William with him to the top of a neighboring hill. While they were admiring the beauty of the setting sun, which made everything around them look bright and happy, they saw a shepherd driving his flock and heard the bleating of the playful lambs.

The sides of the road which they were obliged to travel were lined with thorn bushes and thistles, and every sheep in passing, rubbed against the briers and lost some of its wool. This troubled little William very much.

“See, Father,” he said, “see how the naughty thorns steal the wool from the sheep. Why does God, Who is so good to everything, let the thorns grow to do such mischief? Why do not men destroy every one of them? Poor sheep! Tomorrow morning, I will come with my knife and cut down all these bushes. Will you not come and help me, Father?”

“I will see about it,” said his father. “But why are you so angry with the briers and thorns? Do you not know that we ourselves rob the sheep by shearing them? Instead of taking a few pieces of wool, we take the whole coat.”

“True,” replied William, “but we need it to make our clothes; and it grows all the better after being cut off. Besides, I have heard you say, that sheep always shed their wool in summer; and it is surely better that we should cut it off and make some use of it, than that it should be entirely lost.

“But these thorns do not need the wool. They rob the sheep of wool which is of no use to them nor to anybody. Will you, Father, come with me tomorrow morning and help me cut them down?”

“Perhaps I will,” said his father. “We will take a walk at break of day, and then we will see about it.”

William, who thought himself a great hero because he was going to destroy the hurtful bushes, could hardly sleep; so much was his mind occupied with his glorious project. He waked his father as soon as the singing of the birds gave notice that morning was coming.

Both of them enjoyed the clear air and the glorious spectacle of the rising sun, and went along singing merrily until they arrived at the foot of the hill. William was running to the bushes with his knife in his hand to cut them down, when his father called to him to stop.

A great number of birds were flying round the thorns, and his father told William to watch and see what they came there for. He soon saw that each little bird carried away in his bill a piece of the wool which the briers had torn from the sheep. Wrens, linnets, goldfinches, and robins all went away with full loads of wool.

“You now see,” said his father, “that God takes care of everything. The thorns, which you thought did nothing but mischief, furnish these pretty birds with wool to line their nests. The sheep do not miss these few locks of wool, and the birds are made rich and happy by them. And does my boy now wish to cut down the thorn bushes?”

“Oh no!” said William. “I now see I was too hasty. God is wise and good and has made everything for the best.”

The Moore McGuffey Readers, Book 2, 145–148.

Children’s Story – The Davis Indians

by

Look on the map of South America and find the place where Venezuela, Guyana, and Brazil meet. Can you find here the name of Mount Roraima? Those who now visit this place stand with bowed heads before a little mound of earth which marks the spot where lies the body of the first white man who carried the gospel to the Indians living there. This man’s name was O. E. Davis. Because he laid down his life in opening the gospel door to these natives, they have ever since been called “The Davis Indians,” but their real name is the “Carib Indians.”

It was in the year 1911 that this missionary started on his long, lonely journey from Georgetown, Guyana, to Mount Roraima. His only companions were two Indians, one to act as guide, the other as interpreter. But the privilege of hunting out other Indians who had never seen a missionary and who had never heard about Jesus filled his heart with hope and joy, for he believed that God would open the way to establish a mission among them.

The journey during the first few weeks was taken up a river in a little rowboat. When the river became too small for the boat, a canoe made of a log hollowed out carried the company seven miles farther. The rest of the three months’ journey had to be traveled on foot. For eleven days they pushed their way through forest and glen, over hill and valley, under the hot tropical sun and through drenching rains, sleeping at times in some wayside hut, and again out under the stars, wherever night overtook them. It was a truly heroic journey, for danger lurked at every turn. Only faith in God and a love for souls could lead even a brave heart over such a path.

At last, they reached the country where the Indians lived. Mr. Davis called the Indians from the surrounding towns and told them of Christ. During the few months that he was among them he started three missions, the last one at Mount Roraima. The Indians and their chief listened with wonder to the story of Jesus, the Son of the only true God, Who loved them and gave His life to save them. They learned of God’s law. They learned how important it is for every child of God to obey his Creator.

With great joy the chief and one hundred thirty of his people accepted Christ and promised to obey God. To those who made this covenant with God, Elder Davis gave Christian names. He named the chief Jeremiah. Gladly these Indians provided a building in which they could come and learn more about God. It was large enough to seat two or three hundred people. Faithfully did Elder Davis teach these people who were hungry for the bread of life.

Elder Davis had been with them but a few short months when he became very ill with blackwater fever. His Indian friends did all they could to help him, but his work was done, and one day out in that lonely place with no white friend near, he breathed his last in the hut of Chief Jeremiah. Loving Indian hands dug a grave and laid the body of this noble missionary gently down to rest. For a long time his friends did not know about his death. His wife was waiting and watching for his return. It was on her birthday that the American consul brought her the sad news.

A short time after this a white man found the grave and learned the story of the sacrifice that Elder Davis had made. While he was taking a picture of the spot, the Indians gathered about the grave of their loved missionary, singing one of the songs he had taught them—“Jesus knows all about our struggles.” Did Jesus really know all about their struggles? Oh, yes, Jesus knows and cares. They had lost their dearest earthly friend, but they had learned about their heavenly Friend.

Chief Jeremiah held meetings with his people and did his best to help them. But after a while, the good chief died. Then the Indians were like orphan children. Poor Indians! They longed to hear more about Jesus, but they had no one to teach them. They were like sheep without a shepherd, and after a time they gave up their religious meetings.

When the people in Georgetown heard of the death of Elder Davis, they wanted to send someone else to teach the Indians. But year after year passed, and there was no one to send. Anxiously the Indians watched and waited. But they waited and watched in vain. Fourteen summers came and went, and still no “Davis men.”

One bright day in autumn, nearly fifteen years after Elder Davis had first visited them, they heard several signal shots fired not far away. Looking in the direction of the sound, they saw two white men with several strange Indians coming toward them. The Indians met these strangers and kindly took them to a shed where they might rest.

“Who are these white men?” they questioned among themselves. “What if they are the ‘Davis men’!”

They determined to find out. One young man went to the shed where the strangers were resting.

“I want to be a good man,” he said in broken English, but very earnestly. Then he began to sing, “There’s not a friend like the lowly Jesus.”

The strangers joined in the singing. Other Indians came. In a few moments the shed was filled with them. Men and women crowded in and surrounded the shed, and all joined in singing. With earnest, hopeful faces, they sang, “Jesus knows all about our struggles.”

The song was finished. There was a short pause. Then an Indian woman began to sing, “Shall we gather at the river?” All joined, “Yes, we’ll gather at the river.” After that, another song, “Jesus is coming again!”

When the strangers joined in singing the songs that Elder Davis had taught the Indians, they exclaimed, “The ‘Davis men’ have come! The ‘Davis men’ have come!”

Their joy knew no bounds. They stroked the faces of the men. They patted their cheeks. They took their faces between their hands. They put their arms around them. They did all they could to express their love and happiness.

They had no telegraphs, no telephones, no post offices, no railway trains, no automobiles, but these Indians knew how to make known such glad tidings to their people. Three runners were quickly sent to the different Indian towns to carry the news.

“The ‘Davis men’ have come! The ‘Davis men’ have come!” they shouted as they reached the towns.

Some of these towns were distant half a day’s journey, but groups of Indians were soon on their way to welcome the “Davis men.” With earnest faces they pleaded that these men come to their town and teach their people more about Jesus.

The visitors remained with the Indians only a few weeks, but every day they were busy teaching and helping them. At last, the time came when it was necessary for them to say good-bye. The Indians could hardly let them go. Some of them went with the visitors on the way. Three times the visitors said good-bye before the Indians turned back. Even then, an hour later, they, with the other Indians, twenty-four in all, caught up with the visitors, this time with their hammocks and food just to go a “piece way.” To show their love and goodwill they went a distance of eight days’ march.

Then sadly they said their last good-bye and with sorrowful hearts returned to their mountain home to pray that God would soon send other “Davis men” to live among them. And God heard the prayers of these humble, earnest Indians who are seeking after Him.

[Emphasis author’s.]

True Education Series, Book 5, 1933, 307–311.

Children’s Story – Lord Cornwallis’ Knee Buckles

by

This is a story about the Revolutionary War. This war was fought between England and the United States, when George Washington lived. At the close of the war, the United States became a free country and George Washington was its first President.

At the time of the Revolutionary War, in 1777, a brave little American girl, named Anne Randolph lived on a farm not so far from Philadelphia. Her father and her two brothers had joined the American army under the command of George Washington; so Anne and her mother were left alone to take care of the farm.

Two years before the time of this story, Anne’s father had given her a beautiful calf as a pet, and the two had become great friends. Whenever Anne went into the field, the young cow came to be petted.

At one time during the war, the English army was in Philadelphia. The soldiers, as they marched through the country, took the wheat and the corn of the farmers, and their horses and cattle as well.

One day, the soldiers came to the farm of Mr. Randolph and took Anne’s pet cow. They tied a rope about her horns and drove her away. In great grief Anne begged for her pet, but without success.

It did not take long for Anne to think what to do. She ran to the stable, saddled her pony, and then rode at full speed to see Lord Cornwallis, the general of the English army. It was a very brave thing for a little girl only twelve years old to do.

A soldier was marching back and forth in front of the general’s camp.

“What do you want?” he asked Anne, as she galloped up.

“I wish to see Lord Cornwallis,” she said.

The soldier let her pass, thinking, no doubt, that she had very important news to tell. Lord Cornwallis and some of his friends were at dinner when little Anne rushed into the room.

“What do you want, my child?” asked the general kindly.

“I want my cow, Sir. Your soldiers have taken her away, and I have come to get her. Oh, please, Sir, you must let me have her.”

“And who are you, my little girl?” asked the general kindly.

“I am Anne Randolph, and I live three miles from here with my mother. Have you seen my cow, sir?”

“Have you no father or brothers, Anne?”

“Yes, Sir, but they are in the army.”

“In which army?”

“In the American army, Sir.”

“Oh! So they are rebels, are they?”

“Oh yes, Sir; we are all rebels about here, Sir.”

“And you are a bit of a rebel yourself?”

“Yes, indeed, I was born so.”

The general threw back his head and laughed. “And your cow is a rebel too, I suppose.”

“I think so, Sir. She is the best cow I ever knew.”

“Look here, my little rebel,” said Lord Cornwallis soberly. “Don’t you know that we are here to fight the rebels?”

“Yes, Sir. But oh, Sir, I raised my cow myself. She has always been mine. She can’t belong to you. I would never steal your cow, Sir.”

The general arose. “Come here, my child. You are a brave little girl, and I promise you that you shall have your cow. And here, take these,” he said, unfastening a pair of silver knee buckles. “Keep them to remember that Lord Cornwallis can appreciate courage and truth even in a young rebel. And if the solders trouble your cow again, come to me at once.”

Then, calling a guard, he told him to go with the child through the camp in search of the cow; and when he should find the animal, to send a man to drive her home again. So Miss Anne returned home in triumph with her cow. And those sparkling knee buckles are treasured by her descendants, in memory of Lord Cornwallis and the Revolution.

“Gentlemen,” said Lord Cornwallis to his officers, after Anne had left, “this country is certain to be free, with such brave little rebels in it as this.”

May we all be as brave to stand for what we know to be right and true!

Adventure Stories from History, Harvestime Books, Altamont, Tennessee. Pages 39–41.

Children’s Story – The Record

by

A mother wrote a story about her daughter in which she represented her as making some unkind and rude remarks to her sister. Julia was a reader of the newspapers, and it did not escape her notice. The incident was a true one, but it was one she did not care to remember, much less did she like to see it in print.

“Oh! Mother, Mother,” she exclaimed, “I do not think you are kind to write such stories about me. I do not like to have you publish it when I say anything wrong.”

“How do you know it is you? It is not your name.” Julia then read the story aloud.

“It is I. I know it is I, Mother. I shall be afraid of you if you write such stories about me, I shall not dare to speak before you.”

“Remember, my child, that God requireth the past, and nothing which you say, or do, or think, is lost to Him.”

Poor Julia was quite grieved that her mother should record the unpleasant and unsisterly words which fell from her lips. She did not like to have any memorial of her ill-nature preserved. Perhaps she would never have thought of those words again in this life; but had she never read this passage of fearful import, the language of Jesus Christ: “But I say unto you that for every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment” (Matthew 12:36)? Julia thought that the careless words which had passed her lips would be forgotten, but she should have known that every word and act of our lives is to be recorded and brought to our remembrance.

I have known children to be very much interested, and to be influenced to make a great effort to do right, by an account-book which was kept by their mothers. When such a book is kept at school, and every act is recorded, the pupils are much more likely to make an effort to perform the duties required of them. So it is in Sabbath-schools. I recently heard a Sabbath-school superintendent remark that the school could not be well sustained unless accounts were kept of the attendance, etc., of the pupils.

Many years ago a man, brought before a tribunal, was told to relate his story freely without fear, as it should not be used against him. He commenced to do so, but had not proceeded far before he heard the scratching of a pen behind a curtain. In an instant he was on his guard, for by that sound he knew that, notwithstanding their promise, a record was being taken of what he said.

Silently and unseen by us the angel secretaries are taking a faithful record of our words and actions, and even of our thoughts. Do we realize this? And a more solemn question is, What is the record they are making?

Not long ago I read of a strange list. It was an exact catalogue of the crimes committed by a man who was at last executed in Norfolk Island, with the various punishments he had received for his different offenses. It was written out in small hand by the chaplain, and was nearly three yards long.

What a sickening catalogue to be crowded into one brief life. Yet this man was once an innocent child. A mother no doubt bent lovingly over him, a father perhaps looked upon him in pride and joy, and imagination saw him rise to manhood honored and trusted by his fellow-man. But the boy chose the path of evil and wrong-doing regardless of the record he was making, and finally committed an act, the penalty for which was death, and he perished miserably upon the scaffold.

Dear readers, most of you are young, and your record is but just commenced. Oh, be warned in time and seek to have a list of which you will not be ashamed when scanned by Jehovah, angels, and men. Speak none but kind, loving words, have your thoughts and aspirations pure and noble, crowd into your life all the good deeds you can, and thus crowd out evil ones.

We should not forget that an account-book is kept by God, in which all the events of our lives are recorded, and that even every thought will be brought before us at the day of judgment. In that day God will judge the secrets of men: He will bring to light the hidden things of darkness, and will make manifest the counsels of the heart.

There is another book spoken of in the Bible—the book of life, and it is said that no one can enter heaven whose name is not written in the Lamb’s book of life.

Angels are now weighing moral worth. The record will soon close, either by death or the decree, “He that is unjust, let him be unjust still, and he which is filthy, let him be filthy still; and he that is righteous, let him be righteous still; and he that is holy let him be holy still” (Revelation 22:11). We have but one short, preparing hour in which to redeem the past and get ready for the future. Our life record will soon be examined. What shall it be! [Emphasis author’s.]

Sabbath Readings for the Home Circle, pages 25–28. Published by M.A. Vroman, 1905.

Children Story – Make It Plain

by

On the sixteenth day after the battle of Gettysburg, I entered the room where a young wounded colonel was apparently near to death. As I entered, he was roused from his stupor and beckoned me to his bedside, and threw his feeble arms around my neck.

“O my father, how glad I am to see you. I was afraid you would not come till it was too late. I am too feeble to say much, though I have a great many things to say to you; you must do all the talking. Tell me all about dear mother and sister.”

I soon perceived by the appearance of those in the house, that there was no hope entertained of his recovery. But as I could no longer endure the agony of suspense, I at last inquired of the doctor, “Doctor, what do you think of my son’s case?”

“Entirely hopeless.”

“But is there nothing more that can be done to save him?”

“No, sir. Every thing that human skill and kindness can do has been done. Your son has been a brave and very successful officer; has been a great favorite in the army; has won the highest esteem of all who have known him, but now he must die. Immediately after the amputation the gangrene set in, and defies all efforts to arrest it.”

“Well, Doctor, how long do you think he can live?”

“Not more than four days. He may drop away at any hour. We are constantly fearing that an artery will give way, and then it is all over with the colonel. What you wish to do in reference to his death, you had better do at once.”

“Have you, or has any one, told him of his real condition?”

“No. We have left that painful duty for you to do, as we have been expecting your arrival for several days.”

As I entered the room with the dreadful message of death pressing on my heart, the eyes of my son fastened on me.

“Come, sit by my side, father. Have you been talking with the doctor about me?”

“Yes.”

“What did he tell you? Does he think I shall recover?”

There was a painful hesitation for a moment.

“Don’t be afraid to tell me just what he said.”

“He told me you must die.”

“How long does he think I can live?”

“Not to exceed four days, and that you may drop away any hour—that an artery may slough at any moment which you cannot survive.”

With great agitation he exclaimed,

“Father, is that so? Then I must die! I cannot. I must not die! Oh! I am not prepared to die now. Do tell me how I can get ready? Make it so plain that I can get hold of it. Tell me, in a few words, if you can, so that I can see it plainly. I know you can, father, for I used to hear you explain it to others.”

’Twas no time now for tears, but for calmness and light, by which to lead the soul to Christ, and both were given.

“My son, I see you are afraid to die.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, I suppose you feel guilty.”

“Yes, that is it. I have been a wicked young man. You know how it is in the army.”

“You want to be forgiven, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes! That is what I want. Can I be, father?”

“Certainly.”

“Can I know it before I die?”

“Certainly.”

“Well now, father, make it so plain that I can get hold of it.”

At once, an incident which occurred during the school-days of my son came to my mind. I had not thought of it before for several years. Now it came back to me, fresh with its interest, and just what was wanted to guide the agitated heart of this young inquirer to Jesus.

“Do you remember while at school in ______ you came home one day, and I having occasion to rebuke you, you became very angry and abused me with harsh language?”

“Yes, father, I was thinking it all over a few days ago, as I thought of your coming to see me, and felt so bad about it, that I wanted to see you, and once more ask you to forgive me.”

“Do you remember, how, after the paroxysm of your anger had subsided, you came in, and threw your arms around my neck, and said, ‘My dear father, I am sorry I abused you so. It was not your loving son that did it. I was angry. Won’t you forgive me?’ ”

“Yes, I remember it very distinctly.”

“Do you remember what I said to you as you wept upon my neck?”

“Very well. You said, ‘I forgive you with all my heart,’ and kissed me. I shall never forget those words.”

“Did you believe me?”

“Certainly. I never doubted your word.”

“Did you then feel happy again?”

“Yes, perfectly; and since that time I have loved you more than ever before. I shall never forget how it relieved me when you looked upon me so kindly, and said, ‘I forgive you with all my heart.’ ”

“Well, now, this is just the way to come to Jesus. Tell Him you are sorry just as you told me, and ten thousand times quicker than a father’s love forgave you, will He forgive you. He says He will. Then you must take His word for it, just as you did mine.”

“Why, father, is this the way to become a Christian?”

“I don’t know of any other.”

“Why, father, I can get hold of this. I am so glad you have come to tell me how.”

He turned his head upon his pillow for rest. I sank into my chair and wept freely, for my heart could no longer suppress its emotions. I had done my work, and committed the case to Christ. He, too, I was soon assured, had done His. The broken heart had made its confession, had heard what it longed for, “I forgive you,” and believed it. It was but a few moments of silence, but the new creation had taken place, the broken heart had made its short, simple prayer, and believed, and the new heart had been given. A soul had passed out from nature’s darkness into marvelous light, and from the power of sin and Satan unto God.

I soon felt the nervous hand on my head, and heard the word, “father,” in such a tone of tenderness and joy, that I knew the change had come.

“Father, my dear father, I don’t want you to weep any more, you need not. I am perfectly happy now. Jesus has forgiven me. I know He has, for He says so, and I take His word for it, just as I did yours. Wipe your tears. I am not afraid to die now. If it is God’s will, I would like to live to serve my country, and take care of you and mother, but if I must die, I am not afraid to now, Jesus has forgiven me. Come, father, let us sing—

“ ‘When I can read my title clear,’ ” and we did sing.

“Now, father, I want you should pray, and I will follow you.”

We did pray, and Jesus heard us.

“Father, I am very happy. Why, I believe I shall get well. I feel much better.”

From that hour all his symptoms changed—pulse went down, and countenance brightened. The current of life had changed.

The doctor soon came in and found him cheerful and happy—looked at him—felt his pulse, which he had been watching with intense anxiety and said—

“Why, Colonel, you look better.”

“I am better, Doctor. I am going to get well. My father has told me how to become a Christian, and I am very happy. I believe I shall recover, for God has heard my prayer. Doctor, I want you should become a Christian too. My father can tell you how to get hold of it.”

In the evening three surgeons were in consultation, but saw no hope in the case, and one of them took his final leave of the colonel.

Next morning the two surgeons, who had been in constant attendance came in and began as usual to dress the wound.

On opening the bandage, they suddenly drew back, and throwing up their arms exclaimed—

“This is a miracle! The gangrene is arrested, and the colonel will live! God has heard your prayers!”

“Why, Doctor,” replied the colonel, “I told you yesterday, that I believed I should get well, for I asked Jesus that I might live to do some good. I knew He heard my prayer, and now you see He has. Bless the Lord with me, Doctor.”

Meanwhile, “Our son must die,” had gone over the wires, and made sadness at home. Next day, “Our son will live, and is happy in Christ,” followed, and joy came again to the loved ones.

After his recovery, the colonel returned to the people whose sons he had led with honor through fifteen hard fought battles. They, in return, gave him the best office in the gift of a loyal and grateful people. Among them he now lives in prosperity and honor, he is a member of the church of Christ, and the father of a happy family growing up around him, and consecrated to the service of his Redeemer.

I, too, was made a better man and better minister by that scene, where this dear son, struggling with his guilt and fear of death, was led to Jesus, and found the pardon of his sins. I there resolved never to forget that charge he made me, in his extremity: “Make it so plain that I can get hold of it.”

I have made this the motto of every sermon I have preached, and God has blessed the effort.

Sabbath Readings for The Home Circle, vol. 2, 180–188.