Short Stories for Colored People Both Old and Young by Silas X. Floyd

1 00 - Preface 2:33

Preface to Short Stories for Colored People, Both Old and Young, by Silas X. Floyd. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kirk Ziegler, Lake Placid, Florida. Short Stories for Colored People, Both Old and Young, by Silas X. Floyd. Preface Truly, the boys and girls of today ought to be thankful that they are alive. There never was such a golden age for childhood and youth as the present. To say nothing of the rich opportunities for mental and spiritual development. What a multitude of things have been provided for the innocent pleasure, the wholesome creation of the young people of today. Inventions that remind one of the magic of the Arabian Nights.

Tools of sports so perfect that one cannot imagine how they could be bettered. Fascinating games, all unknown in days gone by. Books and papers upon which science, art, and literary skill have lavished modern resources. All these and many other wonderful things have fallen to the lot of the favored boys and girls of today. And now enterprising publishers of our grand country are going to put the boys and girls of America And especially the colored boys and girls of America, under obligation to them, because they have decided to add to the list of good books for children and youths already on the market. I use the word good advisedly, for from the day I was engaged to write this book, I have had in mind constantly the thought of making it such a book as would tell for good.

It is an old saying that evil communications corrupt good manners. But evil reading does more than this, for evil reading corrupts good morals. I have endeavored to put into this book of stories for children only such things as might be freely admitted into the best homes of the land, and I have written with the hope that many young minds may be elevated by means of these stories, and many hearts filled with high and holy aspirations. Our nation has a right to expect that our boys and girls shall turn out to be good men and women. And this book is meant to help in this process. Silas X. Floyd End of preface

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Floyd. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Cowardly Hero. George Washington Jones was his name. Where he got it nobody knew, least of all himself. For two years he had sold newspapers one block from the big St. Charles Hotel in New Orleans. Very slender. With great hungry eyes, this little colored waif presented a pitiful sight to the crowds that hurried by. He was scorned by other newsboys, who yelled and jeered at him, causing him to shrink up even smaller, and to glance fearfully at his tormentors, for George was what other boys called a coward. He would not fight. When attacked and imposed upon by his more sturdy associates, he would throw up his hands and cower down against the ground like a whipped dog.

All boys know what this means. For months he was the mark of all of the coarse jokes and abuse of the rather rough lot of boys who were also engaged in the newspaper selling business thereabouts. He had lived, ever since he remembered, with an old colored man in a wretched attic over on the south side. The old man was a rag peddler and permitted him to share his miserable quarters for the payment of fifty cents every Saturday night. Poor food and poorer sleeping quarters had their effect, and George soon developed a hacking cough that made people turn their heads to see who it was, and then hurry on faster than ever. One cold morning in December, while George stood shivering on his corner, Scarcely able to shout loud enough to attract the attention of the passers-by, a lady about to enter an automobile glanced at him, noted pityingly at his emaciated and half-starved appearance, and the cough that wracked his slight frame.

She stepped up and asked him his name and address, which he gave, gazing in spellbound admiration at this beautiful, fairy-like creature from a different world. It happened that this young lady's father was a very influential man, and so in the course of time the lady, who had in the meantime called several times at George's wretched quarters, with eggs and milk and other dainties, prevailed upon him to arrange for George to spend the spring and summer in the country. So one bright day in April, George arrived at a big Louisiana plantation where he was to have good food and clothes. and, when able, to do odd jobs and chores about the place to pay for his board. The Grams were a couple who had been married seven or eight years, and who had a little daughter of six, who was a dainty and pretty little miss, somewhat spoiled, but naturally kind and good-hearted.

To George she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, an angel, not to be thought of at the same time with earthly things. He soon became her devoted slave. Following her about and trying to think of something he could do that would make her happy. Now George did not change in the first few weeks of his stay with the Grams. He was afraid of the cows, of the horses, even of the geese that ran around the yard. Little Louise, who had been raised in the country, could not understand this feeling, and did not hesitate to let George know that she had nothing but contempt for his running wildly away from an inoffensive cow who happened to turn her head in his direction. "'But, dearest,' her mother said, "'he has never even seen a cow before.

"'To him that cow is only an awfully dangerous thing with horns, a long tail and big mouth. "'Oh, but, Mama, he is such an awful fraidy cat.' "'Who ever heard of getting scared at a lot of silly geese?' "'Yes, I fear he is a hopeless coward,' said Mrs. Graham, "'but he certainly does work well.' But the one thing that George feared above all other things was the dog that lived on the Evans' place next door. There was considerable excuse for this fear, as the dog was a surly and somewhat dangerous brute, an immense Great Dane." Who had no love nor respect for any living thing except his master. He seemed to take a savage delight in dashing to the fence and making strenuous efforts to jump over and attack poor George whenever he had to pass by.

On such occasions, George would shriek and dash wildly up the road, screaming in terror. He feared the Great Dane more than anything else on earth. The days and weeks slipped by until the month of August. There had been a long dry spell. Everything was hot, parched, and burning up, and it seemed as if the earth was crying out for rain. Everyone was cross and irritable, and although not meaning to be unreasonable, Mr. and Mrs. Graham took considerable of their irritation out on our little colored friend, George. He was ordered about and shouted at to move faster, and scolded, and generally made the target for the ill humor of the entire household. For some days the Great Dane had been acting strangely.

No one dared to approach him, and on one occasion he even snapped at his master. "'Guess I'll chain him up until the rain sets in,' said Mr. Evans. However, the dog refused to be tied, avoiding his master and snapping whenever he approached. Suddenly he gave a roar and sprang right at Mr. Evans' throat. The man tripped and fell. Which was the best thing he could have possibly done under the circumstances, as the dog ignored him, and, snapping right and left, dashed out of the gate and down the road towards the grand place. Great heavens! The brood is mad! gasped Evans. If anyone has seen a dog go mad, he will testify that it is not a pretty sight. The maddened animal raced at top speed along the road.

Snapping wildly as sticks and stones along the way, with froth and foam flying from his mouth, his mammoth jaws closing and unclosing like the teeth of an enormous trap. Straight down the road and straight through the gate that opened into the Graham yard dashed the enormous Great Dane. He was a hideous sight to the bravest. What he looked like to George no one will ever know. Graham, sitting on the porch, He realized in an instant what had happened, and sprang to the dining room to get his rifle. Right in the path was little Louise, with her dolls, sitting around a little table, in the midst of a party. She rose to her feet, the great frenzied brute but a few yards distant, her face paling, her lips unable to utter a sound.

Graham was quick, but not quick enough. The dog would be upon the child before he could possibly get ready to shoot. But quicker than Graham, quicker than the dog, was George. What he felt, what he suffered in those few seconds, the Lord alone can tell. With a wild scream, he threw himself right in the path of the maddened Great Dane, right at his throat, shrieking and striking wildly with both clenched fists at the huge head and body of the dog. With a snarl, the dog turned and caught the negro boy. But it was here that Providence took a hand, for he grabbed not George himself, but his coat, worn and shabby from much use, and the coat came off in his jaws. Before the dog could turn and renew his attack, Mr.

Graham shot twice rapidly from the porch and the dog fell, writhing terribly in his death agonies. White as a sheet, Graham ran quickly down the path and snatched Louise up in his arms. But Mrs. Graham, who had been an agonized witness of the near tragedy, was almost as quick to reach George. Throwing her arms around him, she sobbed. God bless you, George. That was the bravest thing I ever saw. And in this way, George, the despised and ignored newsboy, who had always been called a coward, came into his own. Such is true courage. Poor boy, he was afraid, fearfully, awfully afraid. But he did not hesitate to risk everything to save the golden-haired little daughter of his employer. George still remains on the grand plantation, but you would scarcely know him.

He coughs no longer. He stands erect and is becoming strong and sturdy. He has found himself, and no one will ever again have cause to say to him, You coward! THE GREAT SPELLING MATCH There was no doubt about it. Of all the little colored boys and girls who went to the Peabody School, Margaret was the dullest. Her teacher said so. Her friend said so. Her parents were of the same opinion. And if asked herself, Margaret would undoubtedly have frankly acknowledged that her undisputed and proper place was at the foot of the class. Her brother Charles, who was one year younger than she, had proudly graduated from the fifth grade and was making rapid progress in the sixth. He did not spend half the time studying that Margaret did, and yet when it came time for recitations, he would stand up and recite in a manner that warmed his teacher's heart and made him the envy of most all of his schoolmates.

If Margaret was as backward in her studies, Little Mabel Green certainly was not. Arithmetic, geography, writing, reading. She excelled in all of them. She was a very bright little colored girl, and a very good looking one, too. Mabel knew this just as well as all of the boys and girls did. She was not exactly foolish and vain, but she had been so praised and petted by her school friends and teachers that she was inclined to be a little conceited. What we would call stuck-up. Once a month a prize was given for the scholar who stood highest in certain studies, and Mabel had twice been the successful pupil. She had two highly prized silver medals to show for her skill. Now one of the members of the school board was a farmer about forty years of age, kind-hearted, but a little old-fashioned.

He believed in boys and girls knowing how to read and write and spell correctly. But he did not care for what he called the new-fangled ideas of some of the other members of the board. He was very much opposed to a course in music and elocution that was being considered by the school board, and did not hesitate to let everyone know how he felt about it. Now he knew Mabel and liked her. He was very much interested in the way in which she stood at the head of her classes, and wanted to do something to encourage her in sticking to the old-fashioned forms of education. He thought this over for a long time, and finally decided to hold a spelling match. Now you all probably know what a spelling match is.

Two sides are chosen who stand up on opposite sides of the room, and the teacher gives out words, commencing at the head of the row. Anyone who misses a word has to sit down, and the last one to stand up wins the prize for his side, also is pronounced the best-seller, and gets the personal prize. The board all thought this a fine scheme, and so it was decided to hold the spelling match on Thanksgiving evening at the schoolhouse. The teacher was to pronounce the words, while the members of the board were to give her lists of words from which to choose. "'What are you going to give for a prize, Mr. Edwards?' asked the teacher. "'Well, I thought I would give twenty dollars,' replied the man. "'Yes, I rather plan to give a bright twenty-dollar gold piece.' The news spread like wildfire.

Never had there been such excitement. This was a small fortune, and Mabel's mother pinned a bright red bow in her hair and put on her prettiest frock. Mabel had already considered the prize as one. In fact, she had planned just how she would spend it. She was a good speller, and felt confident that she could win. The night arrived, bright and crisp November weather, with a bright moon overhead. The little schoolhouse was packed. It was decided that all the children in the fifth, sixth, and seventh grades would be allowed to compete. Now, Margaret had been in the highly excited state ever since hearing of the contest. Strange to say, she was a good speller. It has often been said, and quite correctly, too, that spelling is a gift, that some people spell correctly quite naturally, while no amount of study or practice can make a good speller out of anyone who was born with a head that ached and throbbed at the mere thought of spelling.

She had never had fifty cents of her own in her whole life. Twenty dollars in gold. It did not seem possible that there could be that much money in the whole world. Sides were chosen, and Margaret was almost hidden by fat Reggie Andrews, who stood next to her. Mabel was right across the room from her, and smiled in a somewhat scornful manner at the girl she thought was a dummy. The teacher began to pronounce the words, and you could have almost heard a pin drop. The first few times around, but few scholars dropped out. Reggie going down the third time on mucilage. Margaret gave a sigh of relief. Reggie had made her very nervous. Nothing happened that amounted to much until the teacher began to give out words containing IE and EI.

Now these words were very difficult unless a speller knows the rule. I.E. is almost always used except after the letter C. Following the letter C, it is always E.I. Margaret had learned this rule in the second grade, and these words had no terror for her. She was gaining confidence now, and the audience began to sit up and take notice. Soon, but five were left standing. Three on Margaret's side, and only Mabel and one little colored boy on the other. It seemed for a time that these five would have to defy the prize. Word after word was spelled, and no one missed. The audience was hanging spellbound on every syllable, and the dignified members of the board were trying to act naturally, although in reality greatly wrought up.

Exhaustible, suddenly said the teacher. There was a moment's hesitation, and then Ann Houston, on Margaret's side, glibly said, E-X-A-U-S-T-I-B-L-E. Wrong. Be seated. And with much sniffling and rubbing her eyes, Ann walked sorrowfully to her seat. The boy on Mabel's side shuffled his feet, looked up, down, and around the room, and finally blurted out, E-X-H-A-U-S-T-A-B-L-E. Wrong! And Bobby joined Anne in sorrowful silence. Rose Holcomb, the one remaining girl on Margra's side, had become rattled. She rolled her eyes wildly up and down, and then guessed. She made a very bad guess. E-C-H-O-S-T-I-B-L-E. And Rose was also counted out and took her seat. Tossing her head and looking indifferently around.

It was now Mabel's turn, and she had sufficient intelligence to have profited by the experience of Anne and Bobby. Had the word been pronounced to her first, she would probably have misspelled it, but now she spelled it out firmly and confidently, letter for letter, without a hitch. Now Mabel faced Margaret for the final test. They were both greatly excited. But their nervousness had passed. It was now that Margaret's natural ability came to her aid. Word after word she spelled, and the crowd watched her in amazement. Here was the supposedly dull and backward pupil, the recognized foot of the class, standing up gallantly to the last against Mabel, the favorite, to whom everybody had conceded the prize as already won.

The largest cities in America. In South America and Europe, proper names, animals, the words became more and more difficult. Finally, the names of flowers were given. Mabel had studied botany and was familiar with flowers. Margaret was now relying on her natural ability and nerve. All things come to an end, and at last the teacher pronounced the name of the flower, Fuchsia. Now it is a fact that there is probably no more tricky word in the English language than this. It all depends on where to place the letter S. Mabel knew what fuchsias were, knew all about the different parts, the petals, the stem. She had spelled the word correctly many times, but alas, she was a trifle hasty and exclaimed, F-U-S-C-H-I-A.

Wrong. Mabel burst into tears. and with loud sobs ran to her seat and threw herself down, her face buried in her arms. All eyes were now on Margaret. She was strongly tempted to spell this commencing PH. It seemed correct, but something told her that Mabel had been almost right. Almost, but not quite. Mabel's dramatic finish had given her time to think for a moment, and when the word was once more pronounced, she was ready. Without hesitation, she spelled slowly and distinctly, F-U-C-H-S-I-A. Correct. Margaret, you have won the prize. Margaret's knees almost gave way under her. Surely she must be dreaming. It could not possibly be herself to whom the committeeman was advancing with a light blue plush case.

Everyone was clapping their hands. And the boys had so forgotten themselves as to whistle through their fingers and noisily stamp their feet. It gives me great pleasure, said Mr. Edwards, to give this twenty-dollar gold piece to Margaret Hawkins, and to pronounce her the best speller in the school. Poor Mabel cried herself to sleep that night, but it was a good lesson for her. It taught her to be more considerate of others, and that there were something at which she could be beaten. Everyone treated Margaret with increased respect. Her success was also good for her. She began to improve in her other studies, and as she gained in confidence, gradually became, if not one of the best, at least a very good scholar.

Mr. Edwards says his next prize will be given for the best all-around pupil at the close of the term, and Mabel is once more looking forward with hope.

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Floyd. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Truth About Luck How often do we hear someone say, My, but he's lucky, or, It's better to be born lucky than rich. Boys and girls are too often in the habit of thinking that one of their schoolmates are lucky. Because they always stand well in their classes and frequently have spending money in their pockets. It is not likely that luck had anything to do with it. They probably stood well and were at the head of the class in school because they studied and tried harder than the other scholars, and had money to spend because they spent their time out of school hours in working to earn it instead of at play. Some years ago, I happened to find myself near the terminal of the Great East River Bridge in New York City.

Two little boys were standing near one of the large iron posts, crying their afternoon papers. I tarried near them because I was waiting for a particular car. One little fellow said to the other, "'How many papers have you sold to-day, Tommy?' "'Nearly one hundred and fifty,' was Tommy's quick reply. "'Honorbright? Yes, honorbright.' "'Whoopee! But ain't you in big luck, Tommy?' "'Luck!' exclaimed Tommy. Wiping the perspiration from his brow. There ain't no luck about it. I've just been everlasting at it since four o'clock this morning. That's all. And that is all of real success. Those who achieve success are everlasting at what they are trying to do. Tommy was right in declining to have his hard and honest work cheapened by calling the result of it luck.

You are the luckiest chap I ever saw. I once heard a little boy about sixteen years say to another boy of about the same age, "'Why do you say that?' asked the other. "'Because you have had your salary raised twice in the same year.' "'Well,' was the reply, "'you may call it luck, but I don't. I have always done my work the very best I knew how. I have never once in the whole year been a single minute late in getting to the office.' Nor have I ever left it a single minute before it was time for me to leave. When I have worked overtime, I have not made any fuss about it. My boss said when he raised my salary last week that he had taken these things into account. So I don't see where luck comes in.

All the same, said the first boy, some bosses wouldn't have raised your salary. Then I would have the satisfaction of knowing I had done my duty. Boys, I tell you that's right. Nine out of ten employers know that it is to their advantage to show appreciation of faithful work, and they show it. When this appreciation comes, luck has nothing to do with it. The thing that passes for luck is in nearly all cases the just reward of honest endeavor. Do not, therefore, start out in life with the expectation that some, lucky turn, will bring you sudden honor or wealth or position without any effort on your part. Substitute that fine old word, work, for that deceitful word, luck, and base your hopes of future success and usefulness upon the honorable labor that it is a God-given privilege for every well and strong and right-minded boy to give his heart and hands to performing.

An Evening at Home. Boys and girls between the ages of eleven and seventeen ought to spend their evenings at home as much as possible. In these busy, bustling 20th-century days, there are many families, so much the worse for them, that scarcely know what it is to spend an evening at home together. Not only the young people, but the older people are on the go. The evenings are crowded with calls and invitations, which come from far and near. It is nothing to go five or even ten miles to an evening concert or social gathering. The trolley is so near. So cheap and so universal. But I tell you, boys and girls, no matter what the pleasure or amusement afforded, no matter what the instruction or culture received, there are no social or similar opportunities good enough to displace the home circle.

The sooner young people realize this, the happier they will be. Boys and girls ought to plan for some evenings at home. Let other things have a share. But do not give up all the time to other things. Once a week, the young people ought to arrange for an evening at home. Decline everything else for that evening, the same as you would for any other engagement. Gather the family together. Make a special place for grandma and grandpa. Sing merry songs. Play innocent and amusing games. Take time to tell the home folks about some of the things that you do and that you have seen in the world. Get acquainted with the home folks. Be delighted in their delight. By special appointment spend one or two cheerful hours with the folks at home each week.

The young folks themselves should take the lead in this matter. A home is not merely a place with four walls where people meet to eat and drink and sleep securely beneath a roof. Nay, boys and girls, a house is reared to be a home, the center where a family may gather into one, To be a serene retreat where the tenderest affections may find rest, where love may have a dwelling place, and the amenities of life gain ample scope, where parents and children may press one another heart to heart, where sorrows and joys may be freely shared in sacred confidence, in a word, where the great work of training human beings for the duties of the present life and the perfection of another may be begun and carried on.

There is one special reason for making much of the evenings at home that young people are not likely to think of. Inevitably, the family circle will be broken up very soon. Perhaps not by death, but most certainly by change. When Fred goes to college, that is the beginning of new ties and new associations, and the home privileges can never be quite so complete to him again. The years of the complete unity of home are very few indeed. While these years are passing, young people especially should make the most of them. My dear boys and girls, get the benefit of these years. Get their joys. Store up memories of home life, for they will be in future years the most beautiful pictures of the heart.

However some may sneer at it, the memory of home and mother is a great power for righteousness. It has saved many a person to God and native land and race. Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. The Making of a Man Mr. Stamps, seated near the table, was glancing over the afternoon paper. Mrs. Stamps, in an easy chair, was doing some fancy work. Little Bobby, six years old, more or less, was playing with his toys on the floor. All at once the precocious little boy stopped short in the middle of his sport, and looking up at his mother, asked, "'Mama, who made the world?' "'God,' replied Mrs. Stamps sweetly. "'Who made the sea?' continued Bobby. Mrs. Stamps answered, "'God.' "'Well,' said Bobby, "'did God make everything?' "'Yes, my son, the Lord made everything.' "'And did he make everybody?' Yes, the Lord made everybody.

Bobby was silent for a moment. Presently he looked anxiously at his father, and then, turning to his mother, he asked, Mama, did God make Papa too? Yes, God made Papa also. After a lengthy pause, Bobby asked, Mama, do you think I could make a man if I was to try real hard? You'd better run out to play now, Bobby, said Mrs. Stamps. Somewhat nonplussed by her son's curiosity. Bobby left the room almost immediately. He went straight to the beach in front of the house, and labored long and earnestly in piling up some wet sand. Pretty soon he was joined in his work by two other little boys. For some time the three little fellows worked vigorously in piling up the mud. Mrs. Stamps called her husband to the window, so that he might see what the boys were doing.

"'Wife,' said Mr. Stamps, "'I believe those little saintons are trying to make a man.' Towards sunset, Bobby ran into the house and exclaimed with delight, "'Mama! We've got our man almost finished.' "'We didn't have but one marble, and we used that for one of his eyes. I came in to ask you to give me a marble, so that we might put in his other eye.' "'It's too late to bother now, Bobby,' said Mrs. Stamps. "'Wait until tomorrow morning. Then I will give you a marble and let you finish your man.' The next morning, bright and early, Bobby went out to look for his man. Lo and behold, the sea had washed the man away during the night. But Bobby, of course, did not suspect that. He thought the man had gone away of his own accord.

So the little fellow spent the entire morning looking for his man. He looked under the house. He looked in the stable. He went up to the garret. He walked up and down the beach. He went into the woods, looking for his man. But his man was nowhere to be found. Two or three weeks later, an African Methodist Episcopal conference assembled in Bobby's town. Among the ministers present, there happened to be a short, chubby, tan-colored brother with only one eye. When Bobby spied him, he examined the man curiously and cautiously from head to foot. The examination ended. Bobby concluded that it was his man. At once the little fellow left his mother and went over and took a seat beside the man. Bobby's mother was somewhat embarrassed.

The man was evidently pleased, although to be sure. He himself was not quite certain why he should be an object of special interest to the little boy. The man went to the secretary's table to have his name enrolled. Bobby went with him. He went into the vestibule to get a drink of water, and Bobby followed him there. But all the while the man was still in doubt as to the cause of the little boy's apparent affection. By this time, thoroughly exasperated, Bobby's mother decided to go home. She approached the pew in a very ladylike manner and said, "'Bobby, dear, come. We must be going home now.' "'All right, Mama,' said Bobby in dead earnest, "'but you will please let me take my man home with me, won't you?

I just found him today, and you know I've been looking for him for over two weeks.' Then, for the first time, it suddenly dawned upon Mrs. Stamps what was the matter with Bobby. In spite of herself, she laughed heartily at the boy's perversity. Finding that his mother hesitated to reply, Bobby turned to the man and said, "'Come on! We're going home now. Why did you leave before I finished you?' Once upon a time, the head clerk in a carpet store requested one of his junior clerks to go to a patron's home to measure a room. and suggested that he take along a five-yard sample. The junior clerk objected to carting such a big bundle, as he said, all over town, and asked that one of the boys be sent with it.

The proprietor of the establishment, who happened to overhear the remark, privately told the head clerk to inform the proud young fellow that a boy would be sent on after him with the roll. Shortly after, the young man reached the house. The proprietor of the establishment covered him with confusion by appearing at the house in person, with the roll of carpet under his arm. Handing the bundle to the bewildered young man, the proprietor remarked, "'Here's the carpet, young man. I hope I have not kept you waiting for it. If you have any other orders, I'll take them now.' A young woman of my acquaintance refused to carry home a yeast-cake. Though it was needed at once for the family baking, and she was bound directly homeward.

She said that she wasn't a delivery wagon, and so the yeast cake had to be sent to her home. A great many foolish young people are so absorbingly regardful of their trim appearance on the street that they will never under any circumstances carry a basket or a bundle, however much inconvenience they may cause others by refusing to do so. Now. It is not proper pride or self-respect which prompts people to act as the young folks acted whom I have just referred to. It is silliness which prompts them to act so. Any honest work is honorable that is honorably done, and you will notice that young people of good social position and strength of character are above such pettiness. Only inferior people act that way.

Superior people do not act so. Because they are well aware that they cannot be compromised by doing straightforwardly, without fuss or apology, whatever needs to be done. Yet, I admit that it seems to be human nature that whatever is distasteful or supposedly menial should be done by somebody else. When young people, or old people for that matter, are tempted to be foolish in such things, they should remember the lesson of humility that Christ taught His disciples. When in that warm, oriental country, where only sandals are worn, he performed the necessary service of washing the disciples' feet. For us to be above our business, for us to think ourselves too good or too dainty to soil our hands with honest toil, for us to feel that it is a lowering of our dignity to carry a bundle through the street, is to prove by our conduct that we are not up to the level of our business.

That we are possessed of a great amount of false pride, and in a higher sense, it shows that we have a foolish and wicked distaste of true service. There is nothing low, nothing degrading, nothing disgraceful, in honest labor, in honest work of any kind, whether it be to boil an egg properly, to sweep a floor well, to carry a bundle or package through the streets, or bring a pail of water. In fact, If somebody were to say that chores, done or undone, are the making or unmaking of boys and girls, it would be a homely way of putting an important truth. Bringing up coal or bringing in wood, weeding the garden bed, running errands, washing dishes, sewing seams, dusting furniture, doing any odd jobs where there is need, cheerfully, faithfully, these lead to the highway of greater opportunities.

And are the usual avenues to the only manhood and womanhood that is worth having. My young friends, the castle of your noblest dream is built out of what lies nearest at hand. It is the uncommonly good use of common things, the everyday opportunities, that makes honored lives, and helps us, and helps us to help others, along the sunroad. He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much. Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.

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Floyd. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Thanksgiving at Piney Grove. The people of Piney Grove settlement, both white and black, had been free for nearly a generation. The whites had been freed from the curse of being slaveholders, and the blacks had been freed from the curse of being held in bondage. But never in the history of this little town, in the very heart of the so-called Black Belt of Georgia, had the people known anything about the proper observance of Thanksgiving Day until 189. And in that year, the revolution was brought about by a young colored woman named Grace Wilkins. Grace Wilkins was the only daughter of Solomon and Amanda Wilkins. Solomon and his wife were farmers, plain, simple.

She went along with him every morning to the field, and in season, chopped as much wood, picked as much cotton, hoed as much corn, pulled as much fodder, and plowed as much as her husband did. Up to her fourteenth year, Grace had been reared on a farm, and had learned to do all the things any farmer's child has to do, such as milking cows, In her fourteenth year, acting upon the advice of an uneducated colored preacher, her parents sent Grace away from home to attend one of the great normal and industrial institutes for the training of black boys and girls of the South. At first, her mother and father were filled with forebodings. It was the first time they had ever allowed their daughter to be away from them, and they missed her so much and longed for her so constantly that they thought they had made a mistake in sending her off to Borden School.

Ignorant and superstitious neighbors, though they knew as little about such matters as did Solomon and Amanda, were loud in saying that Sol and Mandy would live to regret the step they had taken in sending Grace away from home. The only rays of sunshine that came in to brighten these periods of mental unrest and gloom on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins were found in the letters which they received regularly from their daughter. Grace invariably informed her parents, whenever she wrote, that she was well and doing well. Thus reassured from time to time, Solomon and Amanda managed somehow to undergo the terrible strain of having their daughter absent from them for eight months. But meantime, they were firmly of the opinion that, once they got their hands on her again, they would never allow Grace to return to school.

With glad and thankful hearts, Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins joyously embraced their daughter when she came home at the close of her first year in school. With keen and genuine interest, they listened to her wonderful accounts of the great school and of the great man at the head of it. Grace dressed differently and talked differently. And her mother said, speaking one day in confidence to her husband shortly after Grace's return, that gal sho got a new walk on her. Grace Wilkins brought back a toothbrush with her from school. That was something which she had never had before. She used that toothbrush every morning and night. That was something that she had never done before. She was now careful to keep her hair well combed every day.

That was something that she had been accustomed to do on Sundays only, or on special occasions. She washed her face two or three times a day now, as her mother and father noticed. Before she went to school, she had been in the habit of giving her face, as the old people say, a lickin' of promise, early each morning. Besides, Grace kept the house cleaner than she had kept it before. She brought home with her a brand new Bible which she read regularly at home and always carried to church and Sunday school. She also had a songbook called Jubilee Songs and Plantation Melodies, and it gladdened the hearts of the good old folks at home to hear their daughter sing from a book some of the very songs that they had sung all their lifetime and which were so dear to them.

All these things and others made a deep and abiding impression upon Solomon and his wife. And finding that withal their daughter was just as loving and kind as she had been before, and that she was just as industrious and faithful as formerly, Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins were not long in deciding that their daughter should go back to that school another year, and that they would work hard and stint themselves in order that they might keep her there until she had finished the normal course. So back to school Grace Wilkins went, that year, and the next, and the next. It was the proudest day in Solomon's and Amanda's lives when they sat in the magnificent chapel of the school and heard their daughter read her graduation essay on the Gospel of Service.

Glad tears welled up in their eyes when they heard the principal call their daughter's name, and then saw Grace step up to receive her certificate of graduation. Coming back to Piney Grove to live, Miss Gracie, everybody called her that after graduation, established a little school which she called the Piney Grove Academy. It was the first public school for colored children ever opened within the corporate limits of the little village. Before that, the schools were district schools or county schools, which were taught about in different places for only three or four months in the year, mainly during the summer. Miss Gracie began her school the first day of October. By special arrangement, she used the first three months for the public term allowed by the state, and supplemented that with a five-year term, for which the pupils were required to pay 50 cents each per month.

The plan worked well, the parents joining in heartily in the movement, and Piney Grove Academy soon became the model for the surrounding counties. Among other things, Ms. Gracie had learned at school what was the import of our National Thanksgiving Day. At the opening of the second year of the Piney Grove Academy, she decided that she would inaugurate an annual Thanksgiving service. Accordingly, on the opening day of the second year, Ms. Gracie informed the pupils of her plan and told them that she would begin the very next day to prepare a suitable program for the exercises. Afterwards, Miss Gracie secured the cooperation of the village pastor, the same man who had been instrumental in having her parents send her away to school.

Through him, she was permitted to talk to the people at the church two or three times about the proposed celebration. She was careful to tell them that the Thanksgiving festival was meant especially to be a home festival in addition to being a time for people to come together in their accustomed places of worship to thank God for the blessings of the year. She urged them, therefore, as far as they were able, without going to unnecessary expense, to have family dinners and bring together at one time and in one place as many members of the family as possible. She explained to them how this might be done successfully and economically, and with pleasure and profit for all concerned. She also urged them to be planning beforehand so that nothing might prevent their attending church Thanksgiving Day morning.

She was going to hold the exercises in the church, because her little school was not large enough to furnish an assembly hall for the people who would be likely to be present. On Thanksgiving Day, nearly everybody in town went to the exercises. Many white people attended, including the county school commissioner and the school trustees. It was the first Thanksgiving service that any of them had ever witnessed. The program was made up, for the most part, of choice selections from Negro authors, composers, orators, and so forth. A selection from Frederick Douglass on patriotism was declaimed. One from Booker T. Washington's Atlanta Exposition speech was also delivered. Paul Lawrence Dunbar's poem entitled Signs of the Times, a Thanksgiving poem, was read by one of the pupils, and also the party, another of Dunbar's pieces, was rendered.

The Negro National Anthem, words by James W. Johnson and music by his brother, Rosamond Johnson was sung by a chorus of fifty voices. At the opening of the service, the President's Thanksgiving proclamation was read, and appropriate remarks were made by Miss Wilkins. The closing remarks were made by the Rev. John Jones, the village pastor. The remarks of Mr. Jones were in the congratulatory mood. He was naturally proud of Miss Gracie's achievements, because he had had something to do with putting her on the road to an education. He spoke of the teacher as the leaven that was leavening the whole lump, and the applause which followed the statement showed plainly the high esteem in which the teacher was held by all the people.

Everyone enjoyed the service. None of the villagers had ever seen anything like it before. After singing America, All of them went away happy, many of them in obedience to Miss Gracie's previous counsel, going home to eat for the first time, well knowing what they were doing, a Thanksgiving dinner. At the home of Miss Wilkins there was an excellent spread of possum, potatoes, rice, chicken, pickles, macaroni, bread, a precious Thanksgiving turkey, and the inevitable mincemeat pie. Besides Miss Gracie, there sat at the table that day her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Solomon Wilkins, John and Joseph Wilkins, brothers of Solomon who had come from a distance, Mary Andrews, a sister of Mrs. Wilkins, who also came from a distance, Grandma Wilkins, Grandma and Grandpa Andrews, the Reverend John Jones, his wife, his daughter, and his only son, Jasper Jones.

Jasper had gone to a school at T, one year after Gracie went, and, of course, was one year later in finishing the course there. On this Thanksgiving Day, nevertheless, he had been out of school long enough to have successfully established himself in the business of poultry raising and dairying. Just before the dinner party was dismissed, the Reverend Mr. Jones arose and said, There is another little ceremony you all's invited to witness before you go out and see the baseball game. I am authorized by these credentials, which I hold in my hands to unite the holy bonds of matrimony, Miss Grace Wilkins and Mr. Jasper Jones. If there is no objection, these two persons will please stand up and I'll tie the knot.

Of course, there were no objections. The knot was tied. And when the villagers learned of the occurrence not long afterwards, they had additional reasons for believing that they were right when they voted that Piney Grove had never seen the like of such a Thanksgiving Day, and that Miss Gracie Wilkins was one of the best women in all the world. The Loud Girl. I do not know of a more sorrowful spectacle than that of a girl who was loud in her dress, loud in her manners. And loud in her speech. It is a great mistake for a girl to suppose that this loudness will be mistaken by her friends and acquaintances for smartness. The desire to be regarded as bright and witty has led many a girl into the folly of being loud in her manners.

She often cherishes the illusion that the attention such manners attract is combined with admiration, when the truth is that those who witness her strange conduct Are simply wondering how it is possible for her to throw to the winds that charm of all girlhood, modesty. One afternoon not long ago I saw a group of girls of the loud type. They came into the streetcar in which I was sitting. They all wore boys' hats. One wore a vivid red jacket with brass buttons, and another had on a brass belt. A third one had on a most conspicuous plaid skirt. This third one had a box of bonbons, and when the three were seated she opened the box and offered it to her companions, saying as she did so, in a voice loud enough and shrill enough to be heard in every part of the car.

"'It's my treat. Have some, chums.' Upon this invitation one of the girls dived down into the box like a hungry bear, and held up a piece of the candy in triumph. And then dashed it into her mouth with a great guffaw. "'Oh, Mame,' said one of the girls, "'if you ain't just horrid to go and take the very piece I wanted.' Mame, laughed and taking the candy from her mouth, offered it to the other girl, saying as she did so, "'Well, here it is, Lulu.' Lulu struck the candy from Mame's hand, and it flew across the aisle into the lap of a lady sitting opposite the girls. This set all three of the girls to giggling and tittering, and they seemed in danger of convulsions when the owner of the box of candy let it fall and a part of the candy rolled out on the floor.

The conductor came forward and picked up the box and candy and handed them to the owner. She giggled out her thanks, and Lulu said, Why didn't you give him a gumdrop for his trouble? This seemed to impress the other girls as a most brilliant witticism. And they fell to tittering violently over it. Presently a gentleman came in and stumbled slightly over the feet of one of the girls thrust out into the aisle. "'I beg your pardon,' said the gentleman, as he lifted his hat, whereupon the three girls grinned and giggled and giggled and giggled immoderately. And one of them said, "'Roxy, you had better ride out on the platform, where there is more room for your feet.' Roxy then struck Lulu for making this speech.

Lulu pretended to be much offended and flung herself over to the other side of the car, where she made a grimace at the other girls. The conduct of these girls during the half-hour that they were on the car was such as caused every father and mother who'd saw them to regard them with pity. The loud girl, my dear readers, is always an object of pity. She should be a sorry object for her own contemplation. An old writer has said, You know little what you have done when you have first broken the bounds of modesty. You have set open the door of your fancy to the devil, so that he can represent the same sinful pleasure to you anew. Now, the loud girl may be entirely innocent of any actual wrongdoing, but she is regarded with dislike, distrust.

And even disdain by the better class of people. She acquires a reputation for rudeness and coarseness, and the people of refinement will not associate with her. Her character suffers, no matter how innocent she may be of any intention of doing wrong. Delicacy, modesty, is a certain sign of sweetness, purity, and gentleness of character. Just as indelicacy is the certain sign of a lack of these beautiful traits. The Rowdy Boy You can tell him wherever you see him. There are certain marks or appearances which he carries about with him, and which are never absent. For one thing, you will find him with a cigarette stuck in his mouth, and a cigarette is one of the deadliest poisons in the world for boy or man.

He wears his hat on the side or cocked back on his head. Frequently, he stuffs both hands in his trousers' pockets. He doesn't attend school regularly. Sometimes he starts for school and ends at the bathing pond or the baseball park. He is late at Sunday school, if he goes at all, and he stands round on the outside at church while the service is going on inside. He steals rides on trains and on trolley cars. And on passing vehicles of all descriptions. He is saucy and impudent to older people, and is always ready and willing to quarrel or fight with his mates. He is what the boys call a bully. The loud girl and the rowdy boy are two things of which we have seen enough in this world. They are things.

They are hardly worth the dignity of being called human beings. I saw one of these rowdy boys in his own home not a great while ago. His mother said to him, "'Johnny, you must always take off your hat whenever you come into the house.' "'Good gracious alive,' he said. "'I can't do anything right.' "'What is the use of grabbing off your hat every time you come into your own house?' His mother looked sad, but said nothing. Presently she discovered that her little boy had brought some mud into the house on his shoes. In her sweetest tone she said, Johnny, you must go to the door and wipe your feet now. See how you are tracking up the floor there? Well, said the rowdy boy with a snarl, can't the old floor be scoured?

You must think this old house is gold. Now, I am a preacher, boys, and being a preacher, of course I am what is called a man of peace. But I tell you that that was one time I came pretty near wishing I wasn't a preacher, so that I might have given that boy what he deserved. I was sorry, for the time being, that he wasn't my son. No manly little boy will ever talk to his mother in such a way. I suppose that boy thought it made him appear to be a very important personage, but he was very much mistaken. Don't be rowdy, boys. Don't be rough. Don't be rude. You were made for better things.

5 04 - Chapter 04 13:31

Floyd. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. HONESTY Early in the morning two little boys came to the marketplace. They arranged their little stands and spread out their wares, and sat down to wait for customers. One sold watermelons and fruit, and the other sold fish and oysters. The hours passed on, and both were doing well. By and by, Sammy had only one melon left on his stand. A gentleman came along and said, What a fine large melon! I think I will buy that one. What do you ask for it, my boy? This is my last melon, sir, and though it looks fair, there is an unsound spot on the other side, said the boy, turning the melon over. So there is, said the man. I don't believe I'll take it.

But, he added, looking straight at the boy, is a very good business for you to point out the defects of your goods to customers? Perhaps not, sir, said the boy with becoming modesty, but it is better than being dishonest. You are right, my boy. Always speak the truth, and you will find favor with God and man. I shall not forget your little stand in the future. Then turning to the other boy's stand, the man asked, Are those fresh oysters? "'Yes, sir,' said Freddy. "'These are fresh this morning. Just arrived.' The gentleman bought them and went away. "'Sammy,' said Freddy, "'you'll never learn any since. What did you want to show that man that spot on the melon for? He never would have looked at it until he got home.

I've got an eye to business myself. You see how I got rid of those stale oysters. Sold them for just the same price as fresh oysters.' Freddy, said the other boy, I wouldn't tell a lie, or act one either, for twice the money we have both earned today. Besides, I have gained a customer, and you have lost one. And it turned out just as Sammy said. The next day the gentleman bought a large supply of fruit from Sammy, but he never spent another penny at Freddy's stand. It continued that way all through the summer. At the close of the season, he took Sammy into his store and, after a while, gave him a share in the business. Uncle Ned and the Insurance Solicitor Life insurance is something that every married man should carry.

In fact, it is a fine investment for a young man to take out a 10- or 20-year payment policy in some good company, which can be made in favor of his father or mother or in the event of his death. The following story tells of an insurance agent trying to insure the life of an old colored man. The story is amusing, but only as a story. We do not advise anyone to follow Uncle Ned's example. Charles Turner, an agent from the Working Men's Industrial Aid Insurance Company, called upon Edmund Grant, an elderly colored man. with a view to getting him to insure his life. Good morning, Uncle Ned, said Mr. Turner. Good morning, Mr. Turner, said the man, raising his hat and making a low bow. Uncle Ned, do you carry any insurance?

inquired the agent. Do I carry what? asked Uncle Ned. Do you carry any insurance? Is your life insured? asked the agent. Bless the Lord, yes, indeed, sir, replied the colored man. Long, long ago. In what company? asked the solicitor. I'm a Baptist, sir, a deep-water Baptist, answered Uncle Ned. The agent realized that the old man had not understood him, but anyhow he asked him, How long has it been since you joined? I joined the same year the stars fell, replied the old man. The solicitor knew that the old man referred to the year when the great meteoric display of shooting stars took place, and said, "'That's quite a long time ago. Does your company pay any dividends?' "'Mr. Turner,' said Uncle Ned with a smile, "'that question is out of my reach.

Just what do you mean?' "'Why, Uncle Ned,' said Mr. Turner, "'a dividend is interest paid on your money.'" And if you've been paying your money into one company for more than thirty years, surely you ought to have been receiving your dividends long before now, especially if it's an old line company. Well," said Uncle Ned, it's surely the oldest line company that ever was. The Lord set it up Himself way back yonder on Calvary's tree. But I haven't heard of any interest or dividends, nothing of the kind. And you haven't heard me talk about paying in money for thirty years. "'You know you haven't. Salvation's free, man. Salvation's free. You know that as well as I do.' "'Oh, I see,' said Mr. Turner.

"'I see that I've misunderstood you. You're talking about your soul's salvation.' "'I certainly am,' answered the old man. "'Well, I came here to talk to you about ensuring your life in case of death, or your body in case of accident or sickness,' replied the agent. "'Accidents, sickness, and death come to all of us,' said Uncle Ned, very solemnly. "'There's no way of getting away from death.' "'That's so,' replied the agent patiently. "'Insurance companies cannot prevent sickness and death any more than you can, Uncle Ned. "'But insurance companies can do and help you to bear your burdens in time of trouble.' "'That's just what my religion does,' said the old man with great satisfaction." But we do it in a different way, persisted the agent.

How do you do it? asked Uncle Ned. Then the agent went on to explain all about insurance, the benefits, the premiums, accident benefits, sick benefits, etc., dwelling particularly on the fund that would be paid in the event of the old man's death. Uncle Ned listened with a great deal of interest, and after he had finished inquired, Mr. Turner... "'Who do you say the money goes to when I die?' "'To your wife,' answered Mr. Turner, "'or to your children, or anyone else you name.' "'Well, Mr. Turner, let me ask you one question. Don't you think that it would help the other fellow more than it would me?' "'What other fellow?' asked the agent. "'My wife's second husband,' replied Ned. You know as well as I do that if I was to die and leave five or six hundred dollars to her that some other colored gentleman would be trying to change her name before I got cold in the ground.

The agent could not suppress a smile, and Uncle Ned went on. Women are mighty curious. If I went into this thing, I wouldn't dare let Dinah know about it. She's a mighty fine and loving wife right now, but if she knew there was all that money waiting for her when I died, wouldn't she be sort of looking forward to the time when she could get it to spend? Why, Mr. Turner, she might even be tempted to put something in my tea, and the first thing I knew some morning I'd wake up dead. I don't want anything to do with this insurance. The Baptist Church is good enough for me. When Mr. Turner gave it up and laughingly left him, he heard Uncle Ned sing, I'm a Baptist bred and a Baptist born, and when I die, that's a Baptist gone.

The Strenuous Life They were having a rough-and-tumble time of it, and Pansy was getting some pretty hard blows. She took them all good-naturedly, nevertheless, and tried to give as good as she received, much to the delight of her little boyfriends. A lady who was standing near, afraid for the little girl, chided the boys and said, You shouldn't handle Pansy so roughly. You might hurt her. And then Pansy looked up in sweet surprise and said with amusing seriousness, No, they won't hurt me. I don't break easy. It was a thoroughly childlike expression, but it had more wisdom in it than Pansy knew. She spoke out of a little girl's experience with dolls. Some of which, as she had learned, broke very easily.

Pansy knew how delightful it was to have a doll that didn't break so easily. Though she was not a homely girl by any means, and though she was not a wicked little girl, yet she wanted it understood that she was not like a piece of china. That was why the other children liked her so much, because she knew how to rough it without crying or complaining at every turn. Pansy was not a crybaby. There is all the time, my dear boys and girls, a great demand everywhere all through life for people who don't break easily, people who know how to take hard knocks without going all to pieces. The game of life is sometimes rough, even among those who mean to play fair. It is very trying when we have to deal with people who break easily.

And are always getting hurt and spoiling the game with their tears and complaints. It is so much better when we have to deal with people who, like little Pansy, do not break easily. Some of them will laugh off the hardest words without wincing at all. You can jostle them as you will, but they don't fall down every time you shove them, and they don't cry every time they are pushed aside. You can't but like them. They take life so hardly and so sensibly. You don't have to hold yourself in with them all the time. You can let yourself out freely without being on pins as to the result. Young people of this class make good playmates or good workfellows, as the case may be. So, boys and girls, you must learn to rough it a little.

Don't be a china doll, going to smash at every hard knock. If you get hard blows, take them cheerily and as easily as you can. Even if some blow comes when you least expect it, and knocks you off your feet for a minute, don't let it floor you long. Everybody likes the fellow who can get up when he is knocked down and blink the tears away and pitch in again. Learning to get yourself accustomed to a little hard treatment will be good for you. Hard words and hard fortune often makes us. If we don't let them break us. Stand up to your work or play courageously, and when you hear words that hurt, when you are hit hard with the blunders or misdeeds of others, when life goes roughly with you, keep right on in a happy, companionable, courageous, helpful spirit, and let the world know that you don't break easily.

A HUMBUG A boy or girl who is pleasant and agreeable everywhere except at home is a humbug. I know one boy who is a good deal of a humbug, although you would never think so if you were to see him in any place outside of his home. He is good-looking, neat and tidy, and carries himself like a little man. I do not know of a boy who can tip his hat more gracefully to a lady, or who can say, I beg your pardon, Or, excuse me, please, more pleasantly than he can. But, for all that, he is a humbug. I visited his home the other day. I heard his mother speak to him. "'Alexander,' she said. "'Well, what do you want?' he asked in a voice which plainly indicated his displeasure. "'I want you to do something for me.' "'Oh, you are always wanting me to do something just when I want to be doing something else.' Said Alexander, and this time he was whining.

In departing on his errand, Alexander accidentally ran against his little sister in the hall. I expected to hear him say, I beg your pardon, in the pleasant way that I knew he could say it, but he snapped out instead, Oh, get out of the way, can't you? When he returned from the post office, Alexander's mother was out in the yard trimming the flowers. While Alexander was reporting to her, she happened to drop her scissors. I expected to see her plight and dutiful son pick them up, as he was close by when the scissors fell. But the boy paid no attention to the scissors. When his mother said, Please pick up my scissors for me, Alexander. He said, What did you drop them for? I spent the best part of one whole day at Alexander's home, and never once during all that day did I hear him speak politely to his mother or sisters, nor did he observe the ordinary rules of courtesy and good behavior in their presence.

He was continually grumbling and complaining and finding fault. So I think I have a right to say that this boy is a good deal of a humbug. Any boy is a humbug who is polite and gracious to others, and in every way discourteous and disagreeable at home. Don't you think so, too?

6 05 - Chapter 05 27:44

Floyd. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. How to be Handsome Do you want to be handsome? I'll tell you how. First, look well into your health. Eat regularly and simply, and take proper rest, in order to be healthy. Do not crowd the stomach. The stomach can no more work all the time, night and day, than a horse. It must have regular rest. The body must have proper rest also. Do not keep late hours. Go to bed early. If you have work which must be done, it is a good deal better to rise early in the morning and do it than it is to sit up late at night and work. Secondly, good teeth are essential to good looks. Brush the teeth regularly with a soft brush morning and night, especially at night.

Be sure to go to bed at night with clean teeth. Thirdly, look well into the ventilation of your bedrooms. No one can have a clear skin who breathes bad air. Fresh air is a preventative of a multitude of diseases. Bad air is the cause of a great many premature deaths. Fourthly, Cleanliness of the entire body is of vast importance. Someone has said that cleanliness is next to godliness, and someone else has added, and soap is a means of grace. Handsome people not only eat regularly and simply, they do not only sleep regularly and look well to proper ventilation, but handsome people will take regular baths. Fifthly, more than all else, In order to look well, you must wake up in the mind and soul.

When the mind is awake, the dull, sleepy look passes away from the eyes. Keep thinking pleasant and noble thoughts. Do not read trashy novels or books. Read books which have something good in them. Talk with people who know something. Be often in the company of those who know more than you do. Hear lectures and sermons and profit by them. If we listen and understand and heed, the mind and soul are awakened. So much the better if the spiritual nature is aroused. Sometimes a plain face is really glorified with the love of God and of man which shines through it. Lastly, keep a strong and vigorous body by taking plenty of wholesome outdoor exercise, and do all the good you can. Why not begin to grow handsome today?

Patience is one of the marks of high character. It might well be called the habit of closing the mind against disagreeable and annoying conditions. To acquire this habit so effectually as to hide even from oneself any sense of suffering or offense from contact with such conditions is what the truly cultivated aim at. Life, it is true, is full of trying things. But to let the mind dwell upon them only serves to increase their offense to the feelings or the senses. There are people, of course, who are incapable of self-concentration, and whose imagination, if left free to gad about, seems always to fix upon and exaggerate every element of disturbance. They live in what is called an elementary stage of moral discipline, and are perpetually fretting about things they cannot help.

They are never able to shut down the will against any unpleasantness. They permit merely accidental conditions to exercise a kind of tyrannical sway over them, which, if their minds were once bent to the practice of putting up with things, would cease to present any annoyance whatever. It is difficult, no doubt, to acquire this habit, but this is what patience means in its highest sense. It is spiritual endurance, and its chief power consists not so much in adding to the number of our joys as in lessening the number of our sufferings. It is, therefore, a mark of power over oneself and a means of power over others. With patience, the outward success or failure of a man is a small thing compared with that success which he has achieved within himself.

And that kind of success The success which enables a man to laugh at failure and rise superior to discouragements and difficulties. That kind of success is a means of help and inspiration to all those about him. If we consider the works of nature, we shall see that nature's most beneficent operations are the results of patience. Anything which grows must have time. And the best things in the world are generally those things which demand the longest time for their growth and development. The rank and short-lived weed reaches its full development in the shortest possible time. But the oak, which is to stand for centuries, demands the sunshine and the storm of years before its strength is fully developed.

Now, boys and girls, one of the hardest demands which nature makes upon people, especially upon young people. Full of strength and energy and ambition, is to wait for the results of growth. No man becomes instantly strong morally. He must grow into strength. However great his ambition and his zeal may be, no man becomes a scholar in a year. It takes time, and lots of it. No man reaches at a single bound the full development of his whole nature. He grows into strength. A good soldier cannot be made without war, nor can a skillful seaman be made on land. So in the race of life, we must fight hard for all we get and be patient. Whatever else may be true, or may not be true, only patient and continued efforts, not hasty efforts, lead to success.

Before me lies a block of wood. It is full of knots. It seems to me I can never split it. But I bravely make the attempt. The first blow makes a little impression. The axe springs back with a bound. Again and again I strike. Then a tiny crack appears. A few more licks, and the block yields. I have succeeded. Can you tell me which blow did the work? Was it not the first blow and the last and all between? You have tried something and failed. Try again. If you fail, try once more, and on and on. Keep trying until you win the victory. Beautiful Eyes Eyes like the violet, in them I see, all that is fair, that is holy to me. Eyes that shed fragrance, so constant, so true, pure as a clear drop of morning dew.

Eyes like the violet, gently along, lead me to vespers, to prayer, and to song. Eyes like the violet, let me pray. Live within range of thy glances all day. Going with the Crowd But all the girls went, Mother. I didn't like to be the only one left out. Besides, when I said I wouldn't go, they all laughed at me, and said that I was a coward. It was Wednesday morning, before school time, and Anna was dreading to go back to school, dreading to meet her teacher. The day before, a circus had been in town. At recess, while the children were on the playground, they heard the noise of the band, and one of the girls said, "'Let's go and see the parade.' "'All right,' said Anna. "'I'll go and ask the teacher if we may.' "'No, don't ask her.

She might say no. We can get back before the bell rings, and she will never know we left the grounds.' Anna and one or two other girls held back. They all knew that it was against the rules to go off the playground at recess without permission. "'Oh, come on! Come on!' insisted one of the girls. "'You're afraid! You're afraid! Come on! Don't be such a coward! All the rest are going!' And so Anna went. When the girls saw the parade pass one point they wanted to see it once more, and away they went through the cross street to get to another corner ahead of the procession. School was forgotten, and when they did remember, recess time was long past, and it was too late to go back. The next morning, as Anna stood in the kitchen talking it over with her mother, her little heart was very heavy.

She knew she had done wrong. She dreaded to go to school, and she was very unhappy. Perhaps, said her mother, if you had been brave about not going, The other girls would have stayed on the school grounds, too. Or, if you had asked the teacher, I think she would have let you all go. But whether she did or not, it is never safe to do a thing just because all the rest do it. Going with the crowd is not a good plan, unless you are sure that the crowd is going in the right direction. The only wise thing for you to do is to be sure you are right, and then stick to it, and never mind what the crowd does. "'I didn't mean to do wrong,' said Anna, as the tears started in her eyes. "'I know that, my dear,' said her mother, "'but you were more afraid of being teased than you were of doing wrong.

I hope you will remember from this day forward that the brave girl is not the girl who dares to do wrong, but the brave girl is the one who does what she knows to be right, in spite of the taunts and jeers of her playmates. What shall I tell my teacher?' asked Anna in a low voice as she dropped her head. Oh, said her mother, kissing her, you go right straight to your teacher and tell her that you have done wrong and that you are sorry for it. Ask her to let you say so to the whole school. Be sure to beg her pardon and promise not to do so again. Little Anna did as her mother told her. That afternoon, when she came back from school, she ran into her mother's arms and said, Mother, I am so happy.

Teacher forgave me, and I mean to be good. And the smile on Anna's face spoke plainly of a happy heart. Mary and her dolls Was there ever a time when the first doll was born? Was there ever a time when little boys and girls, especially little girls, did not love dolls and did not have something of that nature to play with? It would appear that dolls or playthings somewhat like unto dolls, are as old as babies themselves. That is to say, boys and girls, that ever since there have been little children in the world, there have been little things for them to play with. And I never saw a sane person in my life who regrets that it is so. It is not only amusing. It is inspiring to see the little children making merry with their dolls and their toy animals, and their little express wagons and their wooden guns and their toy steam engines, and their whistles and their balloons, and their brownies, and their jumping jacks, and their hobby horses, and a hundred and one other things.

Mary had put away her dolls for the night and was cleaning the dollhouse when Papa came in. How many doll babies have you now, Mary? he asked. "'I have five dolls now, Papa,' said Mary, "'but only one is a baby. That is little Flossie. Robbie and Nell are three years older now. Maddie is two, and Jerusha is one year old. Flossie is now the only little baby.' The Reverend Dr. Smithson smiled. "'Well,' he said after a time, "'five dolls make a big family, I think.' "'I don't,' said Mary quickly. "'Rola Mays has thirteen girls and two boys in her doll family, and I haven't but five in all.' "'I shouldn't think,' said Dr. Smithson, "'that Rola would know what to do with so many.' "'Why, Papa, of course she does.' "'Mary,' said Dr.

Smithson, looking thoughtfully at his little daughter, "'I have a little girl in my Sunday-school class who hasn't a single doll. I thought you might like to give her one of yours.' You could spare one, couldn't you? Oh, Papa, I couldn't. Not a one, exclaimed Mary. Not a one? When this poor little girl hasn't any? Oh, Papa, I love my dolls so. How can I give them away? You'd have four left. Wouldn't that be enough? Mary thought a long while before speaking. She looked distressed. Papa, she said at last. Mrs. Grant was over here the other day, and she said that she wished you and Mama would give me to her because she didn't have any little girl of her own. You've got five children yourself, Papa, but would you give away any of them just because you would have four left?

Dr. Smithston took his little daughter in his arms and kissed her. No, dear, he said. Papa wouldn't give away any one of his children. You may keep all of your dollies, and we'll think of some other way to help poor little Hattie. The next morning Mary said, Papa, I've thought it all out for Hattie. You know I've been saving up a little money to buy me a little iron bank, but I can wait for that. I've saved up fifty cents. Don't you think that will be enough to buy a nice little dolly for Hattie, and let me keep my babies? Dr. Smithson knew that Mary had been long planning for the bank, so he asked, Are you quite sure that you want to spend your money in this way? Yes, Papa, I'm very sure, said Mary with a smile, though there was a hint of sadness in her eyes.

Dr. Smithson and Mary bought Hattie a pretty doll. Hattie was overjoyed when she saw it. Mary went back home. Glad that her papa had understood how she loved her dolls, and glad to find that not one of her beloved children was missing. Jakey Tolbert's Playmates. "'Well, Johnny, where are you going this morning?' asked Mrs. Jones as her little boy started towards the gate. "'I'm going over to Jakey's, Mama. You know I must go over to Jakey's every day.' "'What do you find at Jakey's to make you so anxious to go over there every day almost before you are out of bed good?' "'Oh, Mama, Jakey has the nicest playmates over to his house you most ever saw.' "'Who else goes over to Jakey's besides you?' asked Mrs.

Jones. "'Jakey don't have no regular visitor but me,' said Johnny proudly. "'Me and Jakey is the whole thing.'" Well, you are saying a good deal for yourself when you say that Jakey has the nicest playmates in the world, don't you think so? I didn't mean me, explained Johnny. Jakey's playmates ain't folks at all. Jakey's playmates is animals, just animals. But I do believe that they got as much sense as some folks I know. What kind of animals? asked Mrs. Jones, becoming interested. Then Johnny went on to explain. He said, Jakey's got chickens and dogs and cats and birds. He's got names for all of them, and they all know their names, and they just run to Jakey when he calls them. The chicken and birds, too, will just walk right up and eat out of Jakey's hand.

And his trained dogs and cats are just the funniest things I ever saw. His little dog, Trip, can carry a gun and obey the commands, carry arms, present arms, parade rest, Just like a little soldier. One time at a fair, he saw trained dogs and horses and elephants and even lions. Then he decided that he would train some animals himself. And Mama, he has done well. Why, he's got a cat that can spell some words. Jakey printed some letters of the alphabet on separate cards, and he's got a cat that will pick out the right ones every time. One of his little dogs can play the fiddle. It may seem strange, but he certainly can do it. He can hold the fiddle and draw the bow across it just the right way, and he can play a little tune.

Jakey calls it a dog tune, and I think he ought to know. You just ought to see Jakey's chickens. He's got six of them. He calls them and they all come running. Then he holds out his arm and calls them by name. And they will jump up on his little arm, one after the other, and will sit there until Jakey tells them to jump down. And Jakey is so kind to his two birds that they won't fly away when he lets them out of their cages for a little while. He can take them up in his arms and pat them gently, and then he puts them down. And they will lie still right by Jakey until Jakey calls them by name and tells them to go into the house. That is, I mean, into their cages. By the way, Mama, I forgot to tell you, Jakey is getting up an animal show, and he says that I am to be his manager.

He is going to print the cards today. He is going to call his circus, Jakey Tolbert's Great Animal Show, the greatest show on earth, and he's going to make me the manager of a circus. Won't that be fine? You'll come and see it, won't you? We are going to charge only one cent for you to come in. Oh, it's going to be great, and I don't want you to miss it. To be sure, I'll come," said Mrs. Jones. Tell Jakey I'm glad to hear about how much he loves the dumb animals. Every manly boy ought to love and protect them. I tell you," said Johnny, as he hurried out of the gate, Jakey will fight anybody who howls at one of his pets or mistreats one in the least. He is just as kind to them as he can be. Don't you forget the show.

It'll come off next week. A Valentine Party It was one week from St. Valentine's Day, and the buried children had already provided a number of the tokens, comic and otherwise, which they meant to send to their friends. Jack produced a grotesque and awfully exaggerated caricature of a withered, stoop-shouldered old woman, with some cruel lines of dog-girl printed beneath it. "'I'm going to send this to old Mrs. Gray,' said Jack, as he exhibited the comic picture. Nearly all the children laughed, and said that the picture and the words beneath it would just suit the old woman. Mrs. Gray was an old, poverty-stricken widow woman, and many of the children of the little village took delight in playing tricks on her on Halloween and Valentine nights.

In this way, the children, especially the boys, had made her life so miserable that the old woman often said that she hated even the sight of a boy. In the midst of the merriment over the proposed venture of Jack Berry, it was little Lily Berry who spoke up, saying, Jack, I tell you what I think. I think we ought to give Miss Gray a genuine surprise next week. She has had so many ups and downs in this life. I really believe that we can give her a little pleasure if we give her a true, true surprise. Of course, all the boys and girls will be invited to join in, but it is not going to be like a regular party, but something like the surprise parties or donation parties that we sometimes give the preacher.

We'll just put the things on the doorstep and run, the way we do with the Valentines, you know? What do you say to that, Jack, and what do the rest of you think? Very quickly the buried children agreed with what Lily had said, and immediately they set about planning for the Valentine party. The night of February 14th was clear, cold, and moonless. Across the fields in the darkness, a throng of merry young children with a wagon or two, little goat wagons, Piled high with baskets and bundles and wood, slipped silently toward the little house where old Mrs. Gray sat shivering over her scanty fire. A sudden knock on the door aroused Mrs. Gray from her musing. She hobbled painfully to the door. Opening it, she saw by the light of the tallow candle a basket of rosy apples and another of potatoes.

Nothing else was in sight. A second knock followed almost as soon as the door had closed on the two baskets which were hurriedly drawn inside. This time a can of kerosene oil held a lonely vigil on the doorstep. "'I haven't had a drop in my lamp for two weeks,' Jack heard the old lady say, as she peered out eagerly into the darkness before closing the door. As she was busy filling her lamp, She was interrupted by a third knock, which resulted in a basket filled with groceries and parcels in all shapes and sizes. Great tears stood in Mrs. Gray's eyes, and a great lump arose in her throat. At last knock, number four, revealed the real St. Valentine, a group of laughing boys and girls, every one of whom carried an armful of pine or oak wood for the stove.

Where shall we put it? asked Jack Berry, as eager now to help as he had been the week before to tease. Mrs. Gray was rubbing her eyes, and wondering if she could possibly be awake and in her right mind. "'Wish you many happy returns of Valentine's Day,' said Lily Berry, as she slipped into the withered hand a small purse containing the Valentine money of the boys and girls, and before the bewildered woman could say more than a fervent, "'God bless you.'" Her guests had melted away in the darkness, and she was left to weep tears of thankfulness among her new possessions. No Money Down Boys and girls, I suppose you are familiar with what is known as buying things on the installment plan. You have seen people in your own neighborhood, perhaps in your own homes, buy things that way.

Chairs, tables, bedsteads, rugs, pictures, Things for the kitchen and things to wear. And many other things are bought that way. Most people think they are getting a great bargain when they are able to buy things by paying a small amount of cash as the first payment, say 50 cents or a dollar, and then pay the balance in small weekly or monthly payments. And especially do some of our mothers and fathers think that they are getting a great bargain. If they are able to buy things they want for no money down, and so much a week. In such matters, my dear boys and girls, your parents are making a terrible mistake, and are setting you a wrong example. They lose sight of the fact, when they fall into the habit of buying anything and everything on the installment plan or the no money down plan, that a day of reckoning is sure to come.

That the time comes when they must pay for everything that they have been led into buying. Thoughtful people, wise people, prefer to pay money down when they buy anything. And this habit of paying as they go helps them in at least two ways. First, it saves money in their pockets, and secondly, it keeps them from running in debt. Children, these men who come to your homes with great packs on their backs. Always charge you double for whatever they may sell you on the no money down plan, no matter what it is. That is why they are willing to make the term so easy, as they say. In the end, they profit by their schemes, and nobody else does profit by their schemes except these peddlers. You ought to avoid them as you would a wild beast.

You do not know now, boys and girls, what a terrible thing dead is. I honestly hope that you may never know, and if you will take the advice of older and wiser persons, I am sure you will always be free from the bondage of debt. Not long ago, I saw two women standing at the window of one of these no-money-down or hand-me-down stores. One said to the other, I just believe I'll get me a new cloak this winter. My cloak didn't cost but three dollars, and it is so old and shabby that I am ashamed to wear it in the street. Look at that beauty over there in the corner. Only ten dollars and no money down." "'Yes,' said her companion, "'but I guess the money will have to come down sometime.' "'Oh, of course.

But you know, I won't have to pay it all at once. I could probably get it for fifty cents a week.' "'Well,' Why don't you just save the fifty cents a week until you have enough to pay cash down for the cloak, and in that way you would save, I'm sure, three or four dollars, because you can buy that same cloak for six dollars or seven dollars in cash. Oh," said the woman, I'd never save it as I would if I had the cloak and knew that I just had to pay for it. But Delia, the cloak would not really be yours until you had paid for it. And I would feel kind of cheap wearing a cloak that didn't belong to me. If I were you, I would stick to the old cloak until I could pay the money down for a new one.

That's what I would do. And that is exactly what anybody should do who wants a new cloak. It is what people should do, no matter what they want. I know a boy fifteen or sixteen years old who had the courage and the manliness and the honesty to wear a very shabby old overcoat all of last winter, rather than buy one on the no-money-down plan. It is always his plan to pay as he goes, and be debtor to no one. I heard the other day of a young fellow who goes two or three blocks out of his way to avoid passing certain stores because he owes the proprietors of those stores money he cannot pay. That boy, I know, is miserable night and day. Mr. Longfellow, in his The Village Blacksmith, tells us that the honest old blacksmith would look the whole world in the face because he did not owe anybody anything.

He was out of debt. And, boys and girls, if you are level-headed, you will fight shy of the no-money-down plan. By choosing the money-down plan, you will save your self-respect and your good name.

7 06 - Chapter 06 21:41

Floyd. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Tommy's Baby Brother For several months, Deacon Tadpole's little son, Tommy, had made constant and repeated reference to the fact that he had no little baby brother or sister to play with. One day, when he was feeling unusually sad over his misfortune, he said to his father, "'Papa, I ain't got no little baby brother to play with. You might at least buy me a little pony.' "'Papa can't buy you a pony, son,' said the deacon. "'A pony costs too much. I thought you wanted a little brother or sister.' "'I do,' said Tommy. "'But if I can't get what I want, I'm willing to take what I can get.' "'But you would rather have a little brother than a pony, wouldn't you?' asked Mr.

Tadpole. Tommy thought a while, and then said he thought he would rather have a baby brother than to have a pony. "'You see,' he said, "'it costs so much to keep a pony, and we would have to build a stable for him, wouldn't we, Papa?' "'Yes,' answered his father, "'and we haven't got any room in the backyard for a stable.' "'And we'd have to buy hay, too,' said the child." Yes," said his father. Well, I'd rather have a little brother. So the matter was left in abeyance until a month ago, when little Tommy was told one morning that a little brother had come to him. He was delighted. He danced around the hall and made such a racket on the stairs that the nurse threatened to have him sent away. When he was permitted to see the baby, Tommy went into ecstasies.

He wanted to kiss the baby, and cried because they wouldn't let him hold it in his arms. But Tommy's enthusiasm for the new baby began to wear off in about a week's time. It was always, shh, shh, you'll wake the baby, or, Tommy, you must be more quiet, or, you can't come into this room now. In fact... The little baby brother seemed to be interfering with little Tommy's fun to such an extent that he decided to go to his father and see if some new arrangement could not be made. He ran to Deacon Tadpole and climbed upon his knee and said, Papa, I don't believe I want my little brother anymore. I can't have any fun with him. I'll tell you what let's do. Let's trade him for a pony. Oh, we couldn't do that, said the deacon.

Tommy was silent for a time. Then he said, Well, I don't suppose we could find anybody that would want to trade a pony for him, but don't you think you could trade him for a goat? Keeping School Every boy and girl in America ought to go to school. The public school is one of the best institutions connected with the life of our nation. But did you ever hear of a little girl who went to school to herself? I have, and I want to tell you about it. We will call her Tootsie. There was no schoolhouse and no teachers. Nothing. Only just little Tootsie. Not even her dolls. Just simply Tootsie sitting all alone on the couch near the window. That was all there was to this little school, so far as anybody could see.

But Tootsie said she had a large school, with some sixty pupils. Sometimes she would say that her scholars had been naughty, and that they would have to stay in that recess. And then again she would say that they had been promoted to a higher grade. She often talked to her pupils as if they were real-life people, telling them how they should stand and how they should sit, and giving them permission to be excused, and so on. So, you see, it seemed in Tootsie's mind very much more like a real school than it could to us. Every morning, when Tootsie's sister would start for school, Tootsie would watch her until she was out of sight, and then she would go and sit down on the couch. Not having a true, true school book, she would take her Christmas storybooks.

At first, she would only look at the pictures and try to think what the story about them must be. Then she would ask Mama or Grandma, or whoever happened to be nearest, what the words of the picture story were. She would then say the words of the story over to herself and look at the picture. Next day she would read over the words of the same story as far as she could remember them, and when she came to a word that she did not know, she would jump up and go ask someone what it was. When she had learned a story herself, she would then talk to her sixty imaginary scholars about it. Showing them the picture and explaining the story to them, just as though the children were all there before her in her little schoolroom.

In this way, Tootsie went through one after another of her storybooks, picking out the stories that had pleasing pictures. But the nice thing of it all was that Tootsie was really learning to read, and she did get so that she could read real well, for she knew just what she was reading about, and often... When she would find a story that was funny, she would laugh right out, even if she was at school, and then she would find Mama or Grandma and read the funny part to them. Maybe one reason why Tootsie learned so fast was because her school was just like play to her and not like work. Of course, it is easier to play than it is to work. But could you think of anything better to play than to play keeping school?

Why not try it? It helped Tootsie wonderfully, and I believe it would help many other boys and girls. What do you think about it? The School Off the Street Little Joe, ten years old, had followed his business as a newsboy and boot-black in Smutville for three or four years, and, of course, had turned out to be a first-class little citizen of the street. He could curse and swear, and drink and smoke, just the same as any old hardened sinner. One day, after Joe had finished one of his daily fights with some other small boy, a kind-hearted gentleman stepped up to him and said, My little man, do you go to school? Nope, said Joe. Do you go to Sunday school? Nope. Well, said the gentleman, what do you expect to do when you are grown?

"'I ain't going to wait till I'm grown. I'm going to be a jockey. That's what I'm going to be.' "'How would you like to be a bank cashier or a president of a great bank? Wouldn't you like that better?' "'Yep,' said the boy. "'But a poor boy can't get no job like that. Now you know he couldn't.' "'Oh, yes, he could if he were to prepare himself for it. But a poor boy, and no other boy, "'Will ever be a great businessman if he's going to live forever in the street, cursing and swearing and fighting, and, it may be, stealing, and having no higher ambition than to be a jockey.' "'Are you a parson?' asked the boy, becoming interested. "'No, but I am interested in little boys. I am the secretary of the Young Men's Christian Association, and we have a boys' department.

I want you to join it.' I have found out about your habits and your surroundings. I was told of the death of your mother and father, and I made up my mind to come and ask you to come over to the Young Men's Christian Association and live with us. You may continue to sell your papers and black boots, but you see, living with us, you can go to school at night, and some day you will have a good education, and you might be a bank cashier. Little Joe took this good man's advice and went to live in the YCMA building. He did not turn out to be a bank cashier or a president. But what was better, Joe turned out to be a general secretary of one of the largest YMCAs among the colored people in this country, and in that way has been instrumental in saving a great many other boys from the gutter.

But Joe would never have amounted to anything if he had not been taken away from the wicked influences of the street and placed on the road to higher things. The worst school in this world that any boy can go to is the school of the street. The school of the street turns out the most impure, most dishonest, and the most illiterate boys. And those boys and girls who ever rise to be anything or anybody in the world are the ones who leave the influences of the street in due time, as Little Joe did. The street offers most of its work and most of its attractions at night, as many boys can tell. The life of the street leads to no career that is worth following. The good careers are made by those whom the street has not had a chance to spoil.

or by those who are taken out of the streets before they become hopeless cases. There is no greater error than the common notion that it is a good thing to let a boy run the streets and become hard and tough and have his wit sharpened and make a little man of himself, as some foolish people say. A boy learns more downright mischief in one night in the street than he can unlearn in the home in six months. And so, what will the teaching of the home? The public school and the Sunday school amount to, if we are going to give our boys in their young and tender years the freedom of the streets. If now and then a street boy, that is to say, a boy hardened in the ways of the street, does get a good place, in most cases he will lose it and fall back to the old, free life of the gutter.

The boys who succeed are the boys who get away from. Or are taken away from the influences of the street, and who are surrounded by better and more wholesome influences. Those who remain under the influences of the street become in the course of time members of the great army of beggars, tramps, and criminals. It is a great pity that there should be so many stories going the rounds which tell about newsboys and messenger boys and so on rising to be bank clerks and telegraph operators and so forth. On the whole, these stories are misleading. And for the reason that they seem to give the impression to many innocent boys and to many thoughtless parents that the surest way to give a boy a good start in life is to send him out into the streets to rough it and fight his way to the front over beer bottles, games of chance, the racetrack, and the pool room, to the accompaniment of vulgar jokes, profane swearing, and evil associates.

I repeat, the school of the street is the worst school in the world. And the sooner boys get out of it, the better it will be for them. The Fox Hunt Uncle Hambright used to pride himself upon his ability to invent amusing games for children. Sometimes he found it hard to think of anything new, but the demands of the children were so insistent and his desire to please them always so intense that it often happened that Uncle Hambright could almost make a way out of no way. Dinner time was fast approaching. All the morning, the half-dozen little children, who were spending the day with Uncle Hambright at the Sunday school picnic, had been playing every conceivable sort of game and had been enjoying every imaginable kind of story told in Uncle Ham's imminable way.

But still, the children were not satisfied. Just one more story, or just one more game, or give us your best game now for the last before dinner. The children clamored one after another. Very well, said Uncle Ham. You all wait until I come back, and then we'll play fox hunting. Uncle Ham went and told his sister and her husband, the parents of the little children. To take the dinner baskets far into the woods to the place which they had already agreed upon as the spot where the dinner table should be spread. Coming back to the children, Uncle Ham said, Now we are ready. Come close and listen while I explain. With anxious hearts and eager faces and clapping glad hands, the children gathered around Uncle Ham.

Now, he said, I have a piece of chalk here in my hand. I am going to make something like this wherever I go along. While he was speaking, he made a round ring on the fence close by. He put marks for the ears and feet, and a mark for the tail. Then he continued, This is the fox. I am going to make foxes along the path that I take into the woods. Sometimes these foxes may be on fences, sometimes on trees, sometimes on rocks, or anywhere I wish to place them. Whenever you find a fox, you will know that you are on the right road, and you must be sure each time to follow in the direction that the head of the fox points. Then you won't lose your way. You must give me a little start, because I must be out of sight before you all begin the hunt.

At the end of the hunt, if you follow carefully, you will find a large present waiting for each one of you. You may help yourself to whatever you like. And then we shall all come back together, because, you know, I will be at the end myself waiting for you when you come. It seemed that the ten-minute start that the children had agreed to give Uncle Hambright would never come to an end. So eager were they to begin the hunt. By and by the time came, and they were off. The first few foxes had been drawn on the boardwalk, so the hunters had easy sailing for a little while. Pretty soon, however, one of the girls discovered a fox on a tree, and the head of the fox pointed right into the woods. At first, the children halted.

The eldest girl said finally, after studying a few minutes, "'Let's go on. Uncle Hambright wouldn't take us where anything could hurt us, and besides, he said he would be waiting at the end.' Thus reassured, all of them plunged into the woods. Once in the woods, the little foxes drawn on trees and stumps carried them right along by the side of a babbling brook for a long distance. Sometimes they would find one fox, and then they would find it very hard to locate the next one. It was great fun for them to scurry about in the woods, examining trees, stumps, rocks, and everything, hunting for the foxes. Finally, one of the little girls found a fox on a fence. The head of the fox pointed upwards.

The little child said, This little fox seemed to be pointing to heaven. I'm sure we can't go up there. Oh no, said the oldest girl, again coming to the rescue. I think that little fox leads over the fence, that's all. So, over the fence they jumped and continued the chase. The course proved to be zig-zagged now for a few minutes, and the children found the foxes more and more difficult to locate. They felt safe again when the foxes were found on stones or rocks leading up the side of a hill. The woods began to thin out, and the children were no longer timid. Up the hill they went with a merry laugh and a shout. Once on top of the hill, they lost their course again. After a time, they found a fox, though, and that fox pointed straight down the hill.

The children bravely followed. At the foot of the hill, they came suddenly upon an open space, and close by there was a great big fox marked on a piece of black pasteboard and standing right over a bubbling spring of water. "'Uncle Hambright must have meant for us to stop here,' said One. Maybe he meant for us to stop and get some water, said another. One or two of the fox hunters stopped and drank some water. Then the oldest one said, Come on now, let's look for another fox. I guess we're most through now. About twenty yards away from the spring, the children came to another open space that was well shaded. What was their delight and surprise to find there stretched out before them on a large white tablecloth.

Laid on the bare ground, a sumptuous picnic dinner, and in the middle of the table there was a true, true stuffed fox with a large red apple in his mouth. For a few moments the children stood around the table in bewilderment, but they were not kept in suspense a great while. Pretty soon Uncle Hambright and Mama and Papa came out of the woods nearby. And such a laugh as went round that picnic dinner was never heard before or since. At the close of the meal, the children all voted that that was the best game that Uncle Ham had played during the day. A Bold Venture. Mr. Slocum, good morning, sir. I came around to ask you to lend me five dollars. Mr. Slocum, manager of the Harlem Steamboat Company.

looked up from his desk in surprise when he heard this abrupt announcement. What's that? he asked curtly. Lend me five dollars, said the little boy who first addressed him. Who are you? demanded Mr. Slocum. I'm nobody, said the boy. Nobody, but I want you to lend me five dollars. Mr. Slocum, who was generally said to be a hard man to deal with, was surprised at the boy's presumption. Yet, nevertheless, He was secretly pleased at the boy's frank and open manner. "'Do you know what borrowing money means?' asked Mr. Slocum, rising and looking down upon the diminutive figure standing before him. The boy was barefooted, held his hat in his hand, and his hair was nicely combed. Mr. Slocum continued, "'Don't you know when a person borrows money he is supposed to pay it back?' "'Oh, yes,' said the boy.

"'I know that.'" "'You lend me the money, and I'll pay it back all right. I only want it for three months. I'll pay it back.' There was something about the boy's face and general deportment that won Mr. Slocum's favor. He ran his hand into his pocket, pulled out a five-dollar bill, and handed it to the boy. "'Thank you, sir,' said the boy, as he turned to go. "'Thank you, sir. I'll pay it back.' Three months later, the same little boy entered Mr. Slocum's office. "'Here's your five dollars, Mr. Slocum,' said the little boy. "'I'm much obliged to you, sir.' "'Who are you?' asked Mr. Slocum as he reached out and took the money. "'I'm nobody,' said the boy. "'Well, why do you bring me this money?' "'Because I owe it to you,' explained the little fellow."

The boy told Mr. Slocum of the loan made three months before. And made Mr. Slocum recall the transaction. Mr. Slocum asked him to have a seat. Well, what did you do with that money? asked Mr. Slocum. Well, said the boy, I was hard up when I called on you. Me and my ma have been selling papers for a living up to that time, but somehow we got behind with our expenses. House rent was due, and we didn't have nothing to eat. I had to find a friend somewhere. So, after trying two or three places where I was known and failing to get any help, I decided to drop in here and see you. You know the result. Well, I paid my rent for a week, rented a little stand for my Ma to sell papers on the corner, while I continued to hustle in the street.

That five dollars you lent me give me good luck, and I've been going right up ever since. Me and Ma are living in a better place now. We've got plenty to eat, and we've got plenty of fine customers. I told you when I came here before that I was nobody then, but I'm somebody now, Mr. Slocum. Anyhow, I feel so, and I want to thank you again for the help you gave me." The boy's story pleased Mr. Slocum very much. It is needless to say that he took an interest in that boy, and continued to befriend him. This happened many years ago. Today, Tommy Tolliver, that was the boy's name, is the assistant general manager of the Harlem Steamboat Company, and a very well-to-do man. Mr. Slocum says that there is nobody in the world like him.

Tommy's mother died some years ago, but she lived long enough to see her little boy taken out of the streets, put to school, and started on his career of usefulness.

8 07 - Chapter 07 27:13

Floyd. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Road to Success The world is constantly looking for the man who knows the most, and it pays little regard to those who are proficient in the usual degree in the same things. One must excel, or, in other words, No more than his associates in order to succeed notably. The world will bid high for you if you know more than other men. So that boys and girls who are preparing themselves for the duties of life should not aim simply at being as good as somebody else, but they should aim at being the best that it is possible to be in any chosen line of life or business. I have noticed in my short lifetime that there is a great tendency on the part of young people to cut short their education.

Being able to shine in the intellectual and social worlds with the small attainments made in some college or normal school or industrial school, the average Negro man is content to stop with a diploma or certificate from one or another of these institutions. They will never realize what injury they have done themselves by doing so until it's too late. On the other hand, there is another large class of young people that stop short even before they finish the course in even any one of the normal or industrial schools. They must go out to work. They know enough to make a living. What's the use of so much education anyhow? This is the way some of them talk. This is what some of them believe. Boys and girls, no man or woman with such low ideals will ever reach the topmost round of the ladder of fame.

Such boys and girls will always play a second-rate part in the great drum of life. The boys and girls who are going to the front, the boys and girls who are going to have the leading parts, are the boys and girls who are willing to take time to prepare themselves. And preparation means hard work, and not only hard work, but hard and long, continued work. A person can learn a good deal in one year. A person can learn a good deal in two years. But nobody can learn enough in one or two years, or in three or four years, to make it at all likely that he will ever be sought by the great world. Aside from the rudimentary training, it ought to take at least ten years to make a good doctor. Or a good lawyer.

Or a good electrician. Or a good preacher. Four of these years ought to be spent in college, and four in the professional school, and the other two ought to be spent picking up a practical or working knowledge of the calling, whatever it may be. The young doctor obtains this practical knowledge in hospitals and in practice among the poor. The electrician obtains it by entering some large electrical industry or manufacturing. In which a thoroughly practical knowledge of mechanical engineering and electricity can be secured. It is true that some men have become distinguished in these callings without this long preparation of which I have spoken. Yet it is also true that they would have been better off.

They would have been more likely to have become eminent, if they had taken the longer course. College is a little world which everyone, other things being equal. Ought to enter and pass through before launching into the great world. Keeping One's Engagements What would happen if everybody should begin tomorrow to keep all his promises and fulfill all his engagements? I think it would make a new world at once. There is a great need that the attention of young people should be called to the importance of keeping engagements. Much of the confusion and annoyance and trouble of this world would be done away with if people would learn to keep their promises. The oft-repeated excuse, I forgot, is not reasonable.

If the memory is in the habit of playing tricks with you, then you ought to make notes of your engagements, write them down in some way, so that you will not forget them. Arnold of Rugby said, thoughtlessness is a crime, and he was right. The great Ruskin has also uttered strong words in condemnations of thoughtlessness in youth. He said, but what excuse can you find for willingness of thought at the very time when every crisis of the future fortune hangs on your decisions? A youth thoughtless, when the career of all his days depends on the opportunity of a moment. A youth thoughtless, when his every act is a foundation stone of future conduct. And every imagination a fountain of life or death.

Be thoughtless in any after years rather than now, though indeed there is only one place where a man may be nobly thoughtless, his deathbed. No thinking should ever be left to be done there. And then, boys and girls should remember that promptness should always accompany the fulfilling of an engagement, otherwise the engagement is not really kept. A person's time is a valuable possession, which should be respected by all. Who has not been exasperated by someone with apparent indifference in keeping an engagement a half or three-quarters of an hour late? And often a whole train of troubles will follow in the wake of tardiness. The punctual boy or girl in this life is the one who advances most rapidly.

The punctual boy or girl will make a punctual man or woman. A promise-breaker, or one who is late in keeping his appointments, cannot in the true sense of the term be considered a first-class person. A Midnight Mishap Uncle Ned returned from his possum hunt about midnight, bringing with him a fine, fat possum. He built a glowing fire, dressed the possum, paired and split the sweet potatoes, and pretty soon he had the possum and taters in the oven. While the meal was cooking, Uncle Ned amused himself with his favorite old banjo. When the possum had been baked brown and crisp, he took it out of the oven and set it on the hearth to give it time to cool. Mantley congratulated himself on the glorious repast he thought soon to enjoy.

He sat silently for a while in the old armchair, but presently he was snugly wrapped in the arms of tired nature's sweet restorer, Balmy Sleep. It happened that two young fellows who were pretty well acquainted with Uncle Ned's habits had been stealthily watching about the house waiting this particular chance. As soon as they were convinced that the old man was safe in the arms of Morpheus, they crept into the house and hurriedly helped themselves to Uncle Ned's supper, including the coffee and bread. When they finished the hasty meal, by way of attempting to cover up their tracks, They smeared Uncle Ned's hands and mouth with the possum gravy and then beat a retreat. After a time, Uncle Ned aroused from his peaceful slumber.

It is needless to say that he had dreamed about his supper. At once he dived down to inspect the viands, when, lo and behold, the hearth was empty. Uncle Ned steadied himself and studied a while. Well, he said finally, I muster ate that possum. I musta ate that possum in my sleep. He looked at his hands. They were greasy. He smelled his hands. As he did so, he said, That smells like possum grease. I sure musta ate that possum. He discovered grease on his lips. Out went his tongue. That tastes like possum grease, he said. He got up. He looked around the house. There was no sign of the intruders. He rubbed his stomach. He resumed his seat, and giving up all for lost, he said, Well, if I did eat that possum, it sets lighter on my appetite than any possum I ever ate before.

Frederick Douglass In 1893, the World's Columbian Exposition, or World's Fair, was held in Chicago in commemoration of the 400th anniversary of the discovery of America. A Negro man, the Honorable Frederick Douglass, attended that great exposition and delivered an address on Negro Day. Speaking of this great man's visit, the advance, one of Chicago's great religious papers said, It was fine to see at the Congress on Africa the tall form and magnificent head of the grand old man, Frederick Douglass, now 75 years of age, perfectly erect, kindly, majestic. The ancient fires of inspiration welling up all through his being yet. Affable to all, finding it still to be as natural to be eloquent as to speak at all.

Sympathetic to the core with the people of his own race, yet nonetheless loyal to the common interests of all the people of his country. Neither blind to the obstacles in their path and the cruel social injustice and meanness to which they are often exposed, nor, on the other hand, Unmindful of the friends they have in the South, as also in the North, or above all to the overshining care and purpose of God Himself. With the far-off divine intent that so clearly takes in the future of both the American and the American, Few Americans have had a more conspicuously providential mission than Frederick Douglass, and hardly anything in this remarkable Congress was more eloquent or more convincing than his personal presence.

Frederick Douglass was born a slave, and his life as a slave was one of peculiar hardship. Of it he himself says in his autobiography, I suffered little from any punishment I received, except from hunger and cold. I could get enough neither of food or clothing, but suffered more from cold than hunger. In the heat of the summer or the cold of the winter alike, I was kept almost in a state of nudity. No shoes, jackets, trousers, or stockings. Nothing but a coarse-told linen shirt reaching to the knee. That I wore night and day. In the daytime I would protect myself by keeping on the sunny side of the house, and in bad weather in the corner of the kitchen chimney. The great difficulty was to keep warm at night.

I had no bed. The pigs in the pen had leaves, and the horses in the stable had straw. But the children had nothing. In the very cold winter I sometimes got down the bag in which corn was carried to the mill and got into that. My feet have been so cracked by frost that the pen with which I am writing might have been laid in the gashes. With regard to his food he said that he often disputed with the dogs over the crumbs that fell from his master's table. Now this man, born so lowly and surrounded by such circumstances, Turned out to be, in the course of time, by hard work and self-application, one of the most influential American citizens and one of the greatest orators that this country has ever known.

Among other high offices of trust and responsibility, he was once Marshal of the District of Columbia, Recorder of Deeds in the District of Columbia, and United States Minister to Haiti. He died February 20, 1895. At his home in Anacostia, D.C., at the age of 77 years. A monument to his memory has been erected in Rochester, New York, where he once lived. What Frederick Douglass made of himself is possible for any American boy with grit. Every boy and girl in America should read the life of this prominent Negro and strive to emulate his virtues. His memory is worthy to be honored to the last day of time. Our Dumb Animals Domestic animals, like horses, cats, and dogs, seem to be almost as dependent upon kind treatment and affection as human beings.

Horses and dogs especially are the most keenly intelligent of our dumb friends, and are alike sensitive to cruelty in any form. They are influenced to an equal degree by kind and affectionate treatment. If there is any form of cruelty that is more reprehensible than another, it is abuse of a faithful horse who has given his whole life to the service of the owner. When a horse is pulling a heavy load with all his might, doing the best he can to move under it, to strike him, spur him, or swear at him is simply barbarous. To kick a dog around, to tie tin cans to his tail, or strike him with sticks, Just for fun of hearing him yelp or seeing him run is equally barbarous. No high-minded man, no high-minded boy or girl, would do such a thing.

We should never forget how helpless, in a large sense, dumb animals are, and how absolutely dependent upon the humanity and kindness of their owners. They are really the slaves of man, having no language by which to express their feelings or needs. The poet Cowper said, I would not enter on my list of friends, though graced in polished manners and fine sense, yet wanting sensibility, the man who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. Every boy and girl should be willing to pledge himself to be kind to all harmless living creatures, and every boy and girl should strive to protect such creatures from cruel usage on the part of others. It is noble, boys and girls, For us to speak for those that cannot speak for themselves.

And it is noble also for us to protect those that cannot protect themselves. A Plucky Boy The boy marched straight up to the counter. "'Well, my little man,' said the merchant, "'what can I do for you?' "'If you please,' said the boy, "'I came in to see if you wouldn't let me work for you.' The boy was not yet ten years old, and he was small for his age. But there was something in his speech or manner that held the man's attention. "'Do some work for me, eh?' said the man. "'What kind of work could you do? You can hardly look over the counter.' "'Oh, yes, I can,' said the little fellow, as he stood on tiptoe and peered over the counter. Out of sheer curiosity the merchant came from behind the counter, so as to get a good look at the boy.

"'Oh,' he said, "'I see you've got copper taps on your shoes.' "'I suppose your mother couldn't keep you in shoes if they didn't have taps on them.' "'She can't keep me in shoes anyway, sir,' and the little boy's voice hesitated. "'How old are you?' asked the merchant. "'I'm older than I look. Folks say I'm small for my age.' "'Well, what is your age?' "'I'm going on ten,' said Davy, with a look of great importance. "'You see,' he continued, My mother hasn't anybody but me, and this morning I saw her crying because she could not find five cents in her pocketbook, and she thinks she must have lost it, and it was the last cent that she had in the world, and I have not had any breakfast, sir. The voice again hesitated, and tears came into the little boy's eyes.

Oh, don't cry, my little man. I guess I can help you to breakfast. Here, take this quarter. He pulled a quarter from his vest pocket and handed it to the boy. The boy shook his head. Mother wouldn't let me beg, was his simple answer. Huh, said the merchant. Where's your father? We never heard of him, sir, after he went away. He was lost in the steamer city of New York. That's too bad, but you're a plucky little fellow anyhow. Let me see. And he looked straight down into the boy's eyes, and the boy looked straight up at him. Turning to the head man after a while, the merchant said, "'Palmer, is cash boy number five still sick?' "'Dead, sir. Died last night,' was the reply. "'I'm sorry, but here's a boy you might use.

Put him down in number five's place. We'll try him for a while anyhow.' "'What is your name, my little man?' He asked, turning to the boy again. "'Davey Thomas.' "'Well, Davey, we'll give you three dollars a week to start with. You come tomorrow morning, and I'll tell you what to do. Here's a dollar of your wages in advance. I'll take it out of your first week's pay. Do you understand?' "'Yes, sir, I understand, and I thank you, too. I'll be back in the morning.' Davey shot out of the store and lost no time in getting home. The old creaky steps in the old ramshackle house fairly sang with delight as the weight of the little boy hurried up them. "'I've got it, Mother,' exclaimed Davy. "'I'm a cash boy.

The man's going to give me three dollars a week, and he says I've got pluck, too. And here's a dollar to get some breakfast with. And don't you cry any more, for I'm going to be the man of this house now.' At first the mother was dumbfounded. Then she looked confused. And then she looked, well... It passes my power to tell you how she looked as she took Davy in her arms and hugged him and kissed him, the tears streaming down her cheeks. But they were tears of joy and thankfulness. A heart-to-heart talk. I asked you to remain after school a few minutes because I wanted you to help me rearrange the desks and furniture. But I had another reason for asking you to remain. And I think it is more important than the one I have just stated.

The desks had all been arranged according to the teacher's notion, and Henry Holt had gathered up his books to go home. It was then that his teacher, Miss Ada Johnson, addressed him. "'Won't you sit down here a minute, David?' she continued. "'I wish to speak to you a minute or two.' David quietly took a seat. He was one of the largest boys in the school, and had been given an unusual amount of trouble during the day. In fact, he had been a source of annoyance ever since the new teacher had taken charge. David, the teacher went on, I wonder if you realize how hard you have made it for me in school today. Is there any reason why we cannot be friends and work together? And I wish to be a friend to you, if you will let me.

You could help me so much, and you could help your classmates so much, if you only would. I want to ask you if you think your conduct has been manly today. Has it been kind? David said nothing, but hung his head. I heard before I came here that you were an unruly boy. People say you will neither study nor work, and some people say you are a very mean boy. Some of these things may be true, David. I'm sorry to say, but I want to tell you that you are the only hope of a widowed mother, and I want to say also that I think you are breaking her heart." The teacher's voice faltered at the last words. "'I know your father,' the low voice went on, "'was a brave and noble man, and when I hear people say, it's a good thing that Henry Oliver died before he knew what his son was coming to.'" I think what a pity it is that they cannot say, how sad it is that Henry Oliver died before he could know what a fine, manly fellow his son would be, and what a stay and comfort to his mother.

The boy's head dropped to the desk in front of him, and he began to sob. The teacher went over to him and said gently, You can be all this. It is in your power to be all that your father would have you, all that your mother would have you. Will you not turn over a new leaf now, not only in your behavior and work and school, but in your whole life as well? David raised his head. I am with you. I'll do it, teacher, he replied, a new resolve shining on his face. All that day he did some of the most serious thinking of his life, and he kept his promise. The years have been many since then. The little teacher has long since passed to her rest. But David Oliver is a living monument to the power of a few searching words, the potency of a little personal interest and kindness manifested at a critical time.

A Ghost Story Uncle Mos, an old-time colored man, once said in a company of people who were talking about ghosts that he wasn't afraid of any ghost that ever walked the earth. No, sir, not me, he said. I's got my first time to be scared of anything that's dead. Whereupon Noah Johnson told Uncle Moe's that he would bet him a load of watermelons that he couldn't spend one night in the widdor Smith's house. Now, the widdor Smith's house was said to be haunted, or in other words, it was filled with ghosts. Disnamed the night," said Uncle Moe's. I'll stay dar. No haunts won't bother with me. No, sir. Those ain't no bother with me, and your wad of millions is just as good as has gone already. The details were arranged, judges were appointed, and Uncle Mos was to stay in the haunted house that very night.

He got him some pine knots to keep a good blaze in the old-fashioned fireplace, carried along an extra plug of tobacco, secured a large dry-goods box to be used for a chair, and then he set out for the house. He made a blaze and seated himself on the pine box. For a time, he sung a number of old plantation songs for his own amusement, as well as to keep his company. About midnight, feeling somewhat drowsy, Uncle Mos got up, took a light, and went on a tour of inspection. He examined every room in the house. His search revealed nothing unusual. He wound up his search chuckling to himself. I sure is making this load of watermillions easy. Noah Johnson didn't know who he's fooling with. I'm a man myself.

I ain't afeard of nothing. I ain't. He sat down on the box, and pretty soon he was dozing. It was not very long before he suddenly awoke. He was at once seized with a strange and sudden fear. He was too frightened to move. Although he did not look around, he was conscious that there was another presence in the room. His hair stood on ends. He felt a cold chill run up and down his back. By that time he knew that the object in the room, whatever it was, was moving towards him. Still he did not move, because he could not. The ghost, for that was what all the people said it was, stood over Uncle Moe's for a little while. And then quietly sat down on the box beside him. Uncle Mos looked straight into the fireplace, but his heart was beating like a runaway horse.

The silence in the room at that moment was like unto the silence of death. Everything was still and solemn. Uncle Mos could almost hear his own heart beating. The ghost finally broke the silence by saying, with a loud sigh, There don't seem to be but two of us here tonight. It was then that Uncle Most looked around for the first time. As he did so, he exclaimed, Yes, and if I'm disouted, I won't be met one. And with that, he jumped through the window, taking a part of the sash with him. The judges had been waiting in the open air near the house, so as to watch the proceedings. They called to the fleeing Uncle Mos as he passed them and ordered him to stop. They said that they were all there and would protect him, but Uncle Mos, as he kept on running, hallowed back, "'I'll see you later.' He ran at the top of his speed for more than a mile, for he was well-nigh scared to death.

By and by, from sheer exhaustion, he was compelled to stop for a little rest. He was wet with perspiration from head to foot, and his clothes were as limp as a wet dish-rag. But the poor old man had no sooner seated himself on a stone by the roadside than up jumps the ghost and sits down beside him once more. "'Huh,' said the ghost, "'you seem to have made pretty good time to-night.' "'Yas,' said Uncle Mose, "'but what I has done ain't nothing to do with what I squinter to.' And up he jumped and let out once more. He had not gone far on his second trip before an old rabbit ran out of the bushes and took out down the road ahead of him. Uncle Moe's hallooed the rabbit and said, Get out of the way, rabbit, and let somebody run what can run.

On and on the poor old man, almost scared to death, ran and ran. Perhaps he would have been running until now, but for a very unfortunate accident. About five miles from the widow smith's house, he came in contact with the limb of a weeping willow tree that hung across the road. The poor old fellow, already tired out, was knocked speechless and senseless. Toward the break of day, the judges, who had followed him, found him lying on the ground doubled up near the tree. Them consciousness was slowly returning when they picked him up. They rubbed him and walked him around for a little while, and soon he was able to move himself. The first thing Uncle Mo said was, "'Tell Noah not to mind about them watermillions.

I stayed in dat house des as long as I could keep my conscious quiet. My old mammy always told me that it was a sin and a shame to bet, and now I believes it. And to this day, boys and girls, if you want to see a really mad man, You just ask Uncle Moe's if he ever saw a ghost.

9 08 - Chapter 08 21:39

Floyd. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Self-Help If there was one idea for which more than any other the public school system should stand, it is the idea of self-help. Self-help is the best kind of help in the world. One cannot learn this lesson too early in life. Even little children—three, four, five, six and eight years old—should be taught to work. Any little child is just as capable of doing the little things in work as he is in play. Why should not the little girl be taught to trim and wash the dress of her doll? Why should not the little children be taught to sweep up the dirt that they have scattered in play? Why should they not be taught to remove the dishes from the table, brush up the crumbs, Set back the chairs, pick up chips, put the kindling wood in its place, bring the potatoes in from the garden, help to pick over the berries, and so forth.

We might argue this question from now until doomsday, and nobody, I think, would be able to give any good reason why children should not be taught to do the little things. Children who are accustomed to having everything done for them by others are very soon beset with the rust of laziness and the canker of pride. Whereas, on the other hand, if children are taught to help themselves as soon as and as much as they are able, it will tend to improve their faculties, and will, at the same time, have a good influence upon their dispositions. Childhood and youth are periods of life which materially influence all of its following periods. And whether the earlier years of one's life be passed in idleness or indolence, or in well-directed industry, is a point on which greatly depends the worth or the worthiness of human character.

Where is the man who guides his affairs with discretion, or the woman that looketh well into the ways of her household? And yet was not in some measure emdued with industrious and provident habits in early life. On the other hand, who that has been treated until the age of fifteen or twenty like a helpless infant, and had every want supplied without being put to the necessity of either mental or bodily exertion, was ever good for anything afterwards? The tendency of age is by far too much in the direction of keeping our young boys solely for the purpose of loafing about the streets, or standing around the soda fountains on Sunday, and our young girls for parties, social entertainments, picnics, excursions, and the like, so that by the time our boys and girls reach manhood and womanhood, they despise honest labor and are afraid to engage in real hard work.

A young woman may know how to read and write, may understand grammar, history, and geography, may sing sweetly, and play the piano well. But whatever else she may know or may not know, if she does not know how to bake a whole cake of bread, make her little brother or sister a pair of pants or a plain dress, she is only half-educated. In fact... Every young woman should not only know how to perform every duty connected with the household, but every young woman should take some part in household work. No girl need tell me that she really loves her mother if she is willing to leave to her mother the work of washing the dishes, sweeping and scouring the floors, caring for the little children, doing the Monday washings, the house cleaning, and the like.

While she devotes herself to pleasure, novel reading, social calling, butterfly parties, or playing ragtime music or singing ragtime songs. The home and the public school are the two great agencies which are jointly engaged, or which should be jointly engaged, in teaching children to help themselves. If children are taught, as boys and girls, to think for themselves, speak for themselves, and act for themselves. When they are old, they will not forget the precious lesson, and will be less likely to become burdens on the community. The highest ambition of every American man and woman should be to be of some useful service to the world, and the first step will be taken toward this noble end when we have thoroughly learned the value and importance of the lesson of self-help.

First, learn to help yourself, and then you will be able to see more clearly how to help others. Aiming at something. It is true, boys and girls, that it is what you hit, not what you aim at, that counts. But, nevertheless, it is a very important thing to take the right aim. The man who aims deliberately at the center of the target stands a better chance, a hundred to one, than the man who shoots without taking aim. So in life, that boy or girl who has a purpose Who is aiming at something, will be more successful than those boys and girls who have no plans and who aim at nothing. It is not sufficient in the moral world to aim at something, but every boy and girl should aim at the best things.

The best and the highest things in this world are the unseen things, the eternal things, the things that will last forever. Money is a good thing, but there is something higher than money. A high position in the business or professional or political world is a good thing, but there is something higher and better than office and position. Character is the grandest, the highest, and the best thing in this world. We include in this one little word, character, a world of things. Honor, uprightness, speaking the truth, dealing fairly with people, being willing to help the lowly and unfortunate. Paying your debts promptly, these things, and many other things like them, are included in the one word, character.

And these are the things that are worthwhile in this world. These are the things that every boy and girl should aim at. It may not be possible for every boy and girl to become a millionaire. It may not be possible for every boy and girl to fill high offices in this world, or succeed in large business enterprises. But one thing is certain. Every boy can be a good and true boy. Every girl can be a noble and beautiful girl. Beautiful as to conduct, as to words and deeds, I mean. Good boys are the fathers of good men. Pure girls are the mothers of pure women. For what, after all, is a boy? And what is a girl? What is a man? What is a woman? I will tell you. A boy is a little man, that's all, and a man is a grown-up boy.

A girl is a little woman, that's all, and a woman is a grown-up girl. It is important, then, that boys and girls should aim at the right things, the good, the true and the noble things early in life. What boys and girls aim at, in nine cases out of ten, they will reach as men and women. And to help you in taking the proper aim early in life, I am going to give you something to aim at. Let every boy and girl make this little motto his rule in life. Know something, know it well. Do something, do it well, and be somebody. The Black Sheep of the Reynolds Family Will Reynolds was the black sheep of the Reynolds family. He knew it and felt it. Because he had been frequently slighted and treated with contempt by his relatives.

The only person who never lost faith in him was his mother. She always felt that there was something good in her wayward son, and often said that it would show itself some day. But Will's mother died in the early stages of his backslidings. Will's father married a second time, and the boy, finding it impossible to get along with his stepmother, left home. He went from bad to worse. Being arrested on the charge of drunkenness and vagrancy, he sent to his two brothers, who were prosperous brokers in D Street, asking them to pay his fine. Word came back that they would not interfere in his behalf. His brother sent word that he had brought the trouble upon himself, and he must get out of it the best way he could.

Will was sent to the workhouse for six months. And nobody's hand was raised to help him. While he was serving his time, his only sister, a young woman not yet grown, died. He knew nothing of it until about a month after it occurred, and then he read the account in an old newspaper which he had borrowed from a fellow prisoner. The news of his sister's death deeply affected him. His sentence was shortened by one month on account of his good behavior. The first thing he did on coming to the city was to visit the family lot in Myrtle Hill Cemetery. He carried with him some wildflowers and green leaves, being too poor to purchase a floral offering from the dealers in such things. With uncovered head, he knelt and placed these tokens of respect on the graves of his mother and sister.

This done, he stood in silence for a moment, and then wept like a little child. While riveted to the spot, he made a solemn vow that he would quit the old life and make a man of himself. "'It's in me,' he said to himself, "'and I'm going to prove it.' Slowly he turned away from the sacred place. He went directly to the offices of his brothers. He had been furnished with a new suit of clothes, according to custom, upon leaving prison, and so made quite a decent appearance. He found his oldest brother, John B. Reynolds, seated at a desk in the front office. He entered at once and said, "'Well, John, I suppose Sister is dead?' "'How dare you!' exclaimed John, rising to his feet. "'How dare you to speak of Annie as your sister, you jailbird, you miserable convict!

Get out of here this minute! Leave this room at once, and never set foot in it again!' There was fire in the man's eye as he spoke. Will attempted to speak, but was not permitted. With tears streaming down his cheeks, he left the room. He had gone to tell of his new determination and asked for another chance, and this was the reception which he met. On his way down the steps, he came face to face with his other brother, Thomas Reynolds. Thomas tried to pass without speaking, but Will intercepted him. "'Tom,' he said, "'I'm your brother still. I'm not asking help now. I only came to tell you that I'm going to do better. I thought you would be glad to hear it.' "'I want to hear nothing from you,' said Thomas.

"'You've disgraced us forever, and you can go your way. We don't want anything to do with you. We don't want to see you again.' Will went forth into the street weeping. Thirty years have come and gone since Will was driven away from the offices of his brothers. What changes have these years worked? Soon after leaving prison, Will was a constant visitor at the railroad men's branch of the YMCA. Through the secretary of the association, he soon secured a place as a day laborer in the machine shops of the Big Bend Railroad. After securing regular employment, He went to live in the YMCA building. At the close of his first year's service with the railroad, he was promoted from a common laborer and made an apprentice.

After four or five years, he had learned the trade and was receiving the daily wages of a machinist. After twelve years with the company, he was made the master machinist. At the end of fifteen years' service, he was made superintendent of construction. Five years later, he was made a division superintendent. At the expiration of more than 25 years of faithful service, Will Reynolds was able to write after his name, general manager of the Big Bend Railroad. He had also been married for several years, and was the father of five children. Will's father and brothers lost sight of him for nearly 12 years. or until the papers announced his appointment as Master Machinist of the Big Bend Railroad. They suddenly awoke to find that their conclusions that he had probably long since died a drunkard's death, or had gone off as a tramp and had been killed, or was again serving a sentence in prison somewhere, were wrong.

The same week that Will was made superintendent of construction of the Big Bend Railroad, the newspaper spread all over the country the news that Colonel Oliver P. Reynolds had committed suicide. According to their way, the papers gave all the sickening details of the tragedy, together with the whole family history. They said that Colonel Reynolds had been driven to suicide by his wife. They said that she was much younger than he, that she was extravagant, that she was a leader in gay society. They told how, on her account, Colonel Reynolds had driven his son away from home fifteen years before. They declared that the old man's life had been a hell to him, and that his wife had brought him almost to the verge of bankruptcy, and in order to escape facing open disgrace, he had murdered himself.

When Will heard of his father's death, he hastened at once to the city, but was denied admission to the family residence, and had to attend the funeral in the little church around the corner, not as a member of the family, but merely as an outsider. We are not concerned in this story with the fate of Will's stepmother. But, as to Will's brothers, well, the crash came eight or ten years after the death of Colonel Reynolds. Or a short while before Will became the general manager of the Big Bend Railroad. John B. Reynolds and Thomas Reynolds, members of the firm of John B. Reynolds and Brothers, had been arrested and placed in the tombs, charged with misappropriating $175,000 of trust funds. Again, the family history was rehearsed in the newspapers.

The papers did not fail to recall the suicide of Colonel Reynolds. Nor did they fail to tell how these two brothers had earlier in life turned their backs on a younger brother. Will read the papers, and saying to his wife, Well, Mary, perhaps they'll be glad to see me this trip. He went immediately to offer his services to his brothers. He had prophesied correctly. John and Thomas were very glad to see him. They had no friends among those high in financial circles, because they had for many years conducted their business in such a way that businessmen had no confidence in them. They had no credit and could get nobody to go on their bonds. Will took in the situation at a glance. He had been thoughtful enough to bring along with him the leading attorney of the Big Bend Railroad, and he put matters straight away into his hands.

Bail was arranged, the brothers were released, and the lawyer then turned his attention to the prosecutors. It was discovered that almost half of the amount stolen was the property of Simon B. Nesmith, president of the Big Bend Railroad. When Will Reynolds and the lawyer found that their own superior officer had been so heavily hit by John B. Reynolds and brothers, they came near fainting. Fortunately, Ness Smith, when he heard the whole story, agreed not to prosecute, and not only said that he would be satisfied with any settlement that the railroad's attorney might arrange, but also volunteered to see the others concerned and use his influence in having them do likewise. In a short time, matters were adjusted, and John Reynolds and Thomas Reynolds were saved from prison.

But they lost all their earthly possessions, and their brother, the black sheep of the family, had to secure them for the sum of forty thousand dollars besides. John B. Reynolds and Thomas Reynolds came to their senses. It was their time to cry now. Amidst great sobs, they said, We treated you wrongly, Brother Will. We ought to have helped you many years ago. We are so sorry we didn't, and it was such a small matter, too. But Will said, Don't talk about the past. I'm your brother still. Go and do as I did. Start over and make men of yourselves. You'll have enough time. That's all I ask. The Holy Bible I heard a minister say the other day that a mother had not necessarily done much for her boy because she had brought him a nice Bible and put it in his trunk.

When he was about to leave home and seek his fortune in the world. I think it wrong for anybody, minister or what not, to indulge in such loose and flippant talk. The effect is bad, always bad, and no hair-splitting, and no higher criticism, and no curiously ingenious explanations can mend the matter. As for me, give me the old-fashioned mother who sends her son out into the world with a Bible in his trunk. And give me the old-fashioned boy who reads that Bible every night with tears in his eyes, as he thinks of the old folks at home and of their simple lives devoted to Jesus Christ. Give me the man, woman, or child, whose hands touch the Bible reverently, instead of slinging it about as a dictionary or some common dime novel.

Give me the plain old fellow who quickly takes leave of that circle in which critics are proceeding to ably explain away certain chapters of the Bible. As for me, I want no new theories about the Bible, no new versions, no new criticisms. No man has a right to weaken the faith of others. No man has a right to knock away the staff that supports the crippled wayfarer. And no man has a right to tell an aged mother that it does no good to give her boy a Bible unless he can suggest a better substitute. Destroy the old-fashioned idea concerning the Bible, and we shall have a nation of infidels defying God, defying the law, and repeating the licentious and horrors of the French Revolution. We should make the Bible first in all things.

Make the Bible first in the family. In the Sunday school and church, make it first in state and society, and we shall have a republic that will grow brighter and brighter as the years come and go, and then we shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace, and the mountains and hills shall break forth before us into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands. Andrew Carnegie's advice to young men. Do not make riches. But usefulness your first aim, and let your chief pride by that your daily occupation is in the line of progress and development. That your work, in whatever capacity it may be, is useful work, honestly conducted, and as such ennobles your life. Whatever your salary be, save a little, live within your means.

The man who saves a little from his income has given the surest indication of the very qualities that every employer is seeking for. The great successes of life are made by concentration. Do not think you have done your full duty when you have performed the work assigned you. You will never rise if you only do this. You hear a good deal about poverty nowadays, and the cry goes up to abolish poverty. But it will be the saddest day of civilization when poverty is no longer with us. It is from the soil of poverty that all the virtues spring. Without poverty, where will your inventor, your artist, your philanthropist come from? There are three classes of young men in the world. One starts out to be a millionaire.

Another seeks a reputation, perhaps at the cannon's mouth. A third young man, who will be successful? He cannot fail to win.

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Floyd. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Directions for Little Gentlemen. One. The essential part of good breeding is the practical desire to afford pleasure and to avoid giving pain. Any boy possessing this desire requires only opportunity and observation to become a little gentleman. Never be guilty of what are called practical jokes. That is to say, never place a pin in a chair so that somebody may come along and sit on the pin's point. Never pull back a chair when a person is about to sit down, and in that way cause such a person to fall on the floor. No little gentleman will play such tricks. Three. Whenever a lady enters a room, it is proper for boys to rise, if they are seated.

But you must never offer a lady a chair from which you have just risen, if there is another chair in the room. Four. Never engage in conversation while the person is singing. It is an insult, not only to the singer, but to the company. Five. Always take off your hat when assisting a lady to or from a carriage. Six. If in a public place, you pass and repass persons of your acquaintance, It is only necessary to salute them on the first occasion. Seven. Do not wear anything that is so conspicuous as to attract attention, and particularly avoid the ruffian style. Eight. Do not lose your temper, particularly if you are playing innocent games for amusement, and happen to lose. Avoid the exhibition of anxiety or vexation at lack of success.

Nine. In all your associations, keep constantly in view the old adage, too much familiarity breeds contempt. The Right to Play The right to play is one of the divine rights of men and women, of boys and girls, and is just as essential to the peace, happiness, and prosperity of the world as it is the right to pray. Never be afraid or ashamed, my young friends. of honest, vigorous, healthy play. Dominoes, lawn tennis, baseball, football, ping-pong, golf, foot-racing, leaping and jumping, Boxing and wrestling, pole vaulting, punching the bag, swinging dumbbells or Indian clubs, and a hundred other things are perfectly sane and wholesome amusement for old or young. To refrain from all forms of amusement is just as destructive of happiness and interest to the character as is the extreme of indulging too freely in pleasures and pastimes.

Puritan austerity and unrestrained excess are alike to be condemned. But a certain amount of play, play of the right kind within proper limits, is a divine right of young people. Young people must have fun and relaxation. And if they do not find it in their own homes, it will be sought in other and perhaps dangerous places. For myself, I believe that anybody is an enemy to young people who desires to repress and crush out the naturally buoyant spirits of childhood and youth, and he is a benefactor of humanity who makes it a part of his business to see that proper places of amusement are provided for the young people. Aside from the physical advantages of play, There are moral advantages also.

A man who helps to keep his body in good condition by regular exercise is, in that way, beyond a doubt, adding to the number of his days. That is to say, he will live longer than the man who doesn't play. But beyond and above that, he is a happier man while he lives. He gets more joy and satisfaction out of life than the other fellow. Sane and healthy play tends to blot out the remembrance of cares and hardship. It gives our minds something else to think about. But young people must be careful not to become absorbed in these things. I believe in play. I believe in pleasure, in fun. But when I see young people, or old people for that matter, devoting all their time to wheeling, footballing, card parties, the giddy whirl of the dance, The bacchanalian hilarity of the dram shop, and so on.

I am forced to say that things which might be right when taken in moderation, and as a relief from the overtaxing burdens of life, are wrong when they become the chief object for which one lives. A Christmas Present A forsaken little kitten wandered up and down the street on the day before Christmas. It had no home. It had no name. It had no ribbon around its neck. And it had no saucer of nice milk in one corner. It began to grow dark and colder, too, and the stars came peeping out, and the first flakes of a real Christmas snowstorm began floating down through the air. The kitten mewed a trembling little mew, which told as plainly as it could that it was very hungry, and it fluffed out its fur to keep itself warm.

Now, somewhere along that street, up on top of a house, Hiding behind a chimney where he couldn't be seen was Santa Claus, getting everything in shape before starting on his evening round. When old Santa saw that lonesome little kitten strolling around, he smiled. Yes, old Santa Claus smiled. He smiled because he knew that two blocks up the street a little girl was standing with her nose pressed against the window, looking out into the deepening night. He had seen her as he went by. And he had also seen the poor little supper laid out for two on the table, and heard her say to her mother in a quavering voice, Not even one present, Mama. Not the teeniest little one. No, Susie, her mother had answered.

I'm sorry. I couldn't get anything for my little girl this year. But, you know, there wasn't any money, dear. And there was a tremble in her mother's voice, too. Susie wiped away the tears and turned to look out of the window. Perhaps, she said to herself, perhaps Santa Claus has something for me after all. Now, the sad, really dreadful part about it was that Santa didn't have a single thing for Susie in his pack. Perhaps it was because she had moved into that house since last Christmas, or perhaps, for once, old Santa had made a mistake. Anyway, he was just saying to himself, why bless me, what shall I do about it? When he caught sight of that shivering little kitten. The very thing, he thought.

I'll give them to each other. And he chuckled till his reindeer looked around to see what was the matter. And what happened next? Well, that kitten never really knew. It only seemed as if there was a sudden rush and jingle of bells, which frightened it so that it flew up the street as fast as its four little legs would carry it. Until it saw a small friendly face at a window, and rushed up some steps nearby. Then a door opened, and two soft little arms picked it up gently from the cold snow, and a voice cried, Oh, Mama! See the poor little kitten! It is so cold! Oh, we'll keep it, won't we, Mama? The poor little thing! Do you think it would drink milk? Would it drink milk? What a question to ask about a little kitten!

While the little kitten was nearly choking itself, trying to drink a saucerful of milk and purr at the same time, there was a jingle of bells outside, and Susie said, Mama, I hear old Santa's bells, and of course, this is the present he brought. The nickel that burned in Frank's pocket. Deacon Hepworth kept Little Fish Market. Do you want a boy to help you? said Frank Shaw one day. "'Can you give good weight to my customers and take good care of my pennies?' "'Yes, sir,' answered Frank. Forthwith he took his place in the little store, weighed the fish, and kept the room in order. "'A whole day for fun. Fireworks and noise tomorrow!' exclaimed Frank, as he buttoned his white apron about him for the day, before the Fourth of July.

A great trout was thrown down on the counter by Ned Tand, one of Frank's playmates. "'Here's a royal trout, Frank. I caught it myself. You may have it for ten cents. Just hand over the money, for I'm in a hurry to buy firecrackers,' said Ned hurriedly. The deacon was out, but Frank had made purchases for him before, so the dime spun across to Ned, who was off like a shot. Just then Mrs. Sinclair appeared. "'I want a nice trout for my dinner tomorrow. This one will do.' How much is it? she asked as she carefully examined it. A quarter, ma'am, and the fish was transferred to the lady's basket and the silver piece to the money drawer. But here Frank paused. He thought to himself, Ten cents was very cheap for that fish.

If I tell the deacon it cost fifteen cents, he'll be satisfied, and I shall have five cents to invest in firecrackers. The deacon was pleased with Frank's bargain. And when the market was closed, each went his way for the night. But the nickel buried in Frank's pocket burned like a coal. He could eat no supper, and was cross and unhappy. At last he could stand it no longer, but walking rapidly, tapped at the door of Deacon Hepworth's cottage. The old man was seated at a table, reading the Bible. Frank's heart almost failed him. But he told the story, and with tears of sorrow laid the coin in the deacon's hand. Turning over the leaves of the Bible, the old man read, He that covereth his sins shall not prosper, but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy.

You have forgiveness, Frank, he said. Now go home and confess to the Lord, and remember ye must forsake as well as confess. Here, you may keep this coin as long as you live to remind you of your first temptation. Monument In the city of Columbus, Georgia, there was erected in the year 1904 a monument to the memory of a colored man named Bragg Smith. Mr. Smith lost his life in the autumn of 1903 in an effort to save the life of the city engineer of Columbus, who had been buried under an excavation in the street. A large crowd of colored men was at work digging deep trenches in which were to be placed pipes for running water about the city. In some way, the sides of the narrow trench had not been properly supported by planks or otherwise, and by and by a great stretch of dirt caved in.

Unfortunately, the city engineer, a white man, was caught underneath the falling dirt. Bragg Smith did not stop to say, Oh, it's a white man. Let him die. But at once jumped down into the ditch and tried to pull the white man from under the heavy dirt. It was while he was engaged in his work that the dirt fell from both sides a second time, and Bragg Smith, in his effort to save the life of the white man, lost his own life. The Bible says, Greater love hath no man than this, that a man will lay down his life for a friend. The City Council, at its first regular meeting after the accident, voted to erect a suitable monument to the memory of Mr. Smith. The monument was dedicated in April 1904. The monument is of Vermont and Georgia marbles, and bears on one side this inscription, erected by the City of Columbus to mark the last resting place of Bragg Smith, who died on September 30, 1903.

In the heroic but fruitless effort to save the life of the city engineer. On the other side appears this quotation from Alexander Pope. Honor and fame from no conditions rise. Act well your part. There all the honor lies. The Bad Boy, Who He Is My dear children, I am happy to say that all boys who are called bad boys are not bad boys. There is quite a difference between a bad boy and a merely mischievous boy. A boy is not necessarily bad because he makes unearthly noises about the house, or now and then twists the cat's tail just to hear her mew, or muddies his clothes in an effort to catch crawfish. He is not bad just because he likes to play fantastic on the fourth day of July. So many people complain of their boys being bad when they are only mischievous.

That is to say, when they are only full of life. Some people think that a good boy is one who has a pale face and looks sickly, one that wears a sanctimonious look and moves along through the world as though he were afraid to put one foot in front of the other. That isn't my kind of a boy. I do not think that that kind of a fellow is a boy at all. He's almost a girl. A boy who never enjoys a romp in the woods. Who never climbs the apple tree before or after the apples are ripe. Who never plays ball. Who will not shoot marbles, etc. This sort of a boy usually dies young, or he grows up to be a male woman. I mean by that, that he grows up to be a man who acts like a woman, and that kind of man is hardly fit for anything.

But there are some bad boys, I am sorry to say. Really bad boys. Bad in heart and in deed. I have seen some on the chain gangs. I've seen some hanging around the street corners, especially on Sundays, with no clean clothes on. I have seen them smoking cigarettes, and a cigarette is something which no manly boy will use. I have seen them in saloons, drinking, playing pool, and playing cards. I have sometimes seen them shooting dice in the street for money. There are probably 1,000 boys in the jails, reformatories, and in the penitentiaries in the single state of Georgia. To form anything like an adequate estimate of the total number of bad boys in the South, we must add to the above number the boys imprisoned in the other states, and also that much larger number who have never been imprisoned because they happen never to have been arrested, or who have been arrested and have had their fines paid in money.

And finally, we must add those who have already served their time, and are again at large. So you see, there are many thousands and thousands of bad boys in this world, and they are very easily found. Are you a bad boy or a good boy? Isn't it better to be a good boy than to be a bad boy? The Bad Boy. How to Help Him. Almost anybody can make something out of a boy who is naturally good. But it takes one a very Christlike power and patience to make anything out of a really bad boy. Yet all boys may be reclaimed, reformed, saved, at least so I believe. And the first step in making a good man out of a bad boy has to do with the boy's body. The Bible tells us that our bodies are the temples, the dwelling places of the Holy Ghost, and every boy and every teacher of every boy In the same home or day school or Sunday school, should give more time and attention to the body in order to make it a fit place for such a holy being.

It is as true now as of old that plenty of soap and water will exert a wholesome influence in making bad boys good. Someone has said that cleanliness is next to godliness, and somebody has added that soap is a means of grace. A boy who was taught to bathe regularly and who was taught to keep his clothing neat and clean at all times will in that way learn the great lesson of self-respect quicker than in any other way. And, in my judgment, the shortest way to the purification of a boy's habits, a boy's morals, a boy's character, is to teach him first to keep his body pure. Keep it pure not only by baths and clean clothes, But keep it pure and sweet by keeping it free from whiskey and tobacco in every form.

Exercise, regular and systematic exercise, whether as work or play, will go a great way towards keeping the body clean and healthy. Every boy is mistaken, every parent is mistaken, who thinks that labor is unworthy, or that any kind of honest work is degrading. The body needs to be kept alive and vigorous by the frequent use of all its parts, and there is no better way to keep the body vigorous than by doing some kind of work. Work that requires the use of the hands and legs and muscles. Work that stimulates the blood and makes it flow freely through the body. Another step in the process of making a good man out of a bad boy has to do with the mind. The body grows not alone by exercise. But the body grows by what we put into it, the food we eat and the water we drink, etc.

We might say, I think, that the body grows on what it feeds on. It is the same way with the mind. The mind grows on what it feeds on. If we feed our minds on obscene pictures. On bad books, on vulgar stories, told by ourselves or our associates, we cannot expect to have minds that are keenly alive and active for good. Our thoughts control us, boys and girls, whether we understand the process by which they control or not. Our thoughts control us. If our thoughts are pure and sweet and noble, we will be pure and sweet and noble. If our thoughts are impure, vile, and ignoble, We will be impure, vile, and ignoble. Our thoughts rule us. So every boy should guard well his thoughts. Every boy should guard well what he puts into his mind.

Every boy's mind feeds on what he puts into it, and every boy's mind grows on what it feeds. It goes without saying, then, that a boy should not read blood and thunder detective stories. Stories about the James brothers and other outlaws and bandits. Nor should a boy read filthy so-called love stories. All such literature should be shunned, as a boy would shun deadly poison. A boy who desires to become a good man should read only those things which will give him confidence in himself that he can and may become a good man, good for the service of God and the service of his fellow men. Bad company must also be left behind if a bad boy wants to become a good boy. Those boys who tell smutty jokes and stories should not be allowed to associate with that boy whose eyes have been opened and who wants to feed his mind on good and wholesome food.

Character, boys, in its last analysis depends chiefly on three things—heredity, environment, and will. Now, you cannot do much to change your inherited tendencies, the tendencies you receive from mother and father at birth, but you can do much in the offsetting, in overcoming these tendencies. You can also do much with the aid of a generous and enlightened public to change your surroundings if they happen to be bad. I confess that your mothers and fathers, your teachers and pastors ought to do much more in this regard than you. But if they will not exert themselves to get you out of evil surroundings, then, as you value your own life and time and possibilities, by the help of God, try to get out yourselves.

The will is very largely influenced by your surroundings. Hence you see the importance of having good books and good associates. But whatever you do, boys, do not forget Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God, The Master said, Thomas Green Bethune, Blind Tom. I suppose there is not a little colored girl or boy in America who has not heard of the wonderful Blind Tom, one of the greatest musicians of the world. I wish that every boy and girl might have seen him and heard him give one of his remarkable performances with the piano. I had that high favor and privilege myself. During his life on stage, for more than forty years, Blind Tom was seen probably by more people in the world than any one living being.

His stage career was closed somewhere in 1900. Everywhere in this country and Europe, those who observed him most closely, and attempted to understand him, pronounced him a living miracle, unparalleled, incomprehensible, such as had not been seen before in the world, and probably never would be seen again. Thomas Green Bethune, better known to the public as Blind Tom, was born within a few miles of the city of Columbus, Georgia, on the 25th day of May, 1849. He was of pure Negro blood, and was born blind. He was little less than four years old when a piano was brought into the house of his master, for he was born a slave. As long as anyone was playing, he was contented to stay in the yard and dance and caper to the music.

Sometimes he was permitted to indulge his curiosity by being allowed to run his fingers over the keys. One night, the parlor and piano had been left open. Before day, the young ladies of the family awoke and were astounded to hear Blind Tom playing one of their pieces. The family gathered around him to witness and wonder at his performance, which they said was marvelously strange. Notwithstanding that this was his first known effort at a tune, he played with both hands and used the black as well as the white keys. Pretty soon he was allowed free access to the piano, and began to play offhand everything he heard. As young as he was, he soon mastered all of that and began composing for himself.

The record of his public life is too long for me to give, but that Blind Tom was known and honored around the world is known to everybody. But feeling that every colored boy and girl should be justly proud of Blind Tom's record, I will give some words from the book of Honorable James M. Trotter himself, A Colored Man. His book is called Music and Some Highly Musical People. He says, Blind Tom is unquestionably the most wonderful musician the world has ever known. He is an absolute master in the comprehension and retention of all sound. You may sit down to the pianoforte and strike any note or chord or disc chord, or a great number of them, and he will at once give their proper names, and taking your place, reproduce them.

Complete master of the pianoforte keyboard, he calls to us his melodious uses, with most consummate ease, all of its resources that are known to skillful performers, as well as constantly discovers and applies those that are new. Under his magnetic touch, this instrument may become, at his will, a music box, a hand organ, a harp or a bagpipe, a scotch fiddle, a church organ. A guitar or a banjo. It may imitate the stump speaker as he delivers his glowing harangue. Or, being brought back to its legitimate tones, it may be made to sing two melodies at once, while the performer, with his voice, delivers a third, all three in different time and keys, all in perfect tune and time, and each one easily distinguishable from the other.

He remembers and plays fully 7,000 pieces. Some persons, it is true, have had the temerity to say that Blind Tom is an idiot. Out with the idea! Whoever heard of an idiot possessing such power of memory, such finesse of musical sensibility, such order, such method as he displays? Let us call him the embodiment of music. The soul of music, and there let our investigations rest, for all else is vain speculation. No one lives, or, so far as we know, has ever lived that can at all be compared with him.

11 10 - Chapter 10 21:24

Floyd. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Not Fit to Know Susan and Mammy and Lillian and Marjorie were always close friends. They usually went together and played together, and it was very unusual to see one of them without the others. At school, they always made it a rule to lunch together and play together. One day at recess, they were standing in a little group all by themselves when Francis joined them. "'What are you talking about, girls?' asked Francis in cheerful tones. "'I'm telling them a secret,' said Susie, "'and will let you know, too, Francis, if you'll promise not to tell anyone.'" "'I'll promise not to tell anybody but my mother,' said Frances, "'for I have made it a rule to tell my mother everything.' "'No, you can't even tell your mother,' answered Susie.

"'You must not tell anyone in the world.' "'Well, then, I refuse to hear it,' said Frances, as she walked away, "'for what I can't tell my mother is not fit for me to know.' "'Don't you think Frances was right, girls?' "'I think so.' As soon as little boys and girls begin to listen to words and stories which they would be ashamed to repeat to their mothers, they are on the road to temptation, and nobody can tell how soon they will reach the end, which is always disgrace and death. I wish all the boys and girls who will read this book would make the reply of Francis their motto, What I cannot tell my mother is not fit to know. Stick to this rule through thick and thin. And you will avoid many of the snares and pitfalls by which many of your companions and playmates sink into shame and sin.

Don't read a note that you would be afraid to have your mother read. Don't look at a picture that you would be ashamed to have your mother see. Don't speak any word, and don't allow any to be spoken to you, that you would not like to have your mother hear. A girl's best friend is her mother. A boy's best friend is his mother. And, boys and girls, be very sure that if a thing isn't fit for your mothers to know, it isn't fit for you to know. The Right Way Henry Oliphant always considered himself lucky whenever he was able to get a ride on the streetcars without paying for it, or get a glass of soda water or be admitted to some public place, where an admission fee was charged, without paying the price.

He was bragging one day to some of his boyfriends that he had not paid anything to witness the school exhibition the night before. Frank Sewell was brave enough to chide him for having done so. Frank was a plain-spoken boy, and Henry didn't like what Frank had said. He thought what he had done was all right, while Frank had said it was all wrong. Anyhow, Henry decided to get his father's opinion on the matter. "'Father,' he said, when the night had come, "'I got in the hall last night for nothing.' "'How was that?' "'I just walked by the doorkeeper, and he didn't ask me for any money.' "'Did the doorkeeper see you?' "'Well, Father, that was his business. He was put there for that purpose. He ought to have seen me.' "'But I ask you, Henry, whether the doorkeeper saw you.

I want you to answer that question.' "'I don't know, sir.' "'Do you think he saw you?' "'I don't know, sir.' "'Well, Henry, if he had seen you, don't you think he would have asked you for your money or a ticket?' "'I guess so, Father, but he didn't ask me for anything.' "'Well now, Henry, you know that a charge of ten cents was made at the door, and that no one had a right to enter who had not paid the ten cents. You did go in without paying. Now, whether the doorkeeper saw you or not, Do you think that that was quite honest on your part? Was that the right way for you to act? Well, I would have paid him if he asked me. I wasn't the doorkeeper. I guess the man who stole our wood last week would have paid me if I had seen him and asked him, but we called that stealing.

But, Father, I did not take anything from the doorkeeper. Who gave you the money with which to pay your admission? Mother? Where is that money now? I have it, but I didn't take it from the doorkeeper. But you kept it from him, Henry. It belongs to the doorkeeper. He gave you its value. My son, the right way is, whenever you buy anything, whether it be a ride or a glass of soda water or permission to see a concert, whenever you buy anything, you ought to pay for it. If you don't, you are no better than a common robber. You must go today and give Mr. Hall that ten cents. Keeping Friendship in Repair. The Two Paths. I sometimes think that boys and girls, and even old people, are often careless in the matter of their friendships.

Not careless in the matter of selecting friends, though I am sure there is room for improvement along that line, but careless in trying to keep the good friendships we have already formed. We ought to keep our friendships in repair. Perhaps you think that our friendships are not things which need to be kept in repair. How foolish it is to think so! Does a garden need to be weeded? Does an old fence need to be kept in repair? Do we paint our houses only once in a century? What about the musician? Does he not need to keep in practice? Supposing that you never kept your muscles in repair by constant use or exercise, how long would you be strong and healthy? And do you think that your friendships, because they are in a way intangible, you cannot see them, handle them, or taste them, do you think that they grow and thrive of their own accord, and therefore do not need to be kept in repair?

Slight, snubs, angry words, unpleasant conduct. Long-continued lack of association, long-continued lack of familiar intercourse, and coldness, even where the meetings are periodic. These things, boys and girls, will kill the warmest friendship and choke the tenderest love. So we ought to be careful to keep our friendships in repair. If we had no friends in this world, no playmates and companions, No kindred spirits into whose keenest sorrows and highest joys we entered with deep and full sympathy, and who did not enter into our sorrows and joys in the same way. If we had no friends in this world, with all of its wealth and splendor, we should not desire to live very much longer. But to have friends and to be friendly goes a long way towards making the world a beautiful and blessed place to live in.

How, then, may we keep our friends? Easy enough, by cultivating them, and we cannot keep them in any other way. We should take time to be friendly. Little notes, little presents, little visits, little social entertainments, little kindnesses. These things, and things like them, go a great way in cementing our friendships, in tying people to us, as it were, with hooks of steel. We should not neglect these means of keeping our friendships in repair. Always give your friends a cordial welcome in your homes and your little children's parties. Let them feel, make them feel, that their coming adds to your pleasure without increasing your burdens. Don't be selfish and narrow. Be broad-minded and liberal.

Keep your friendships in repair, and then see if you do not find your horizons broadened. Your life sweetened, and the weary weight of this sad old world lightened. Little Annie's Christmas Christmas morning came. Daylight was just peeping into the room. Poor little Annie, the cripple, awoke and turned her eyes towards the corner where she had hung her stocking the night before. Surely, she thought, as she watched it, there could not be very much in it. Because it didn't seem to be any larger than it was when she had hung it up. After a while she crept slowly to where it was. She did not take her crutches, for fear she would disturb her mother, who slept in the same bed with her. It was hard for her to move around without her crutches, but she persevered and finally reached her stocking.

She put out her thin little hand and felt it. Yes, there was something in it. Then she put her hand inside, and took out something which seemed round and soft. She took it out and looked at it. It was a little cake. Poor little Annie smiled, and put her hand back into the stocking. This time she found something which was done up in paper. She opened the paper and found a whole dozen of gumdrops. How brightly her little eyes flashed. She was only six years old, and she had never had so much candy at one time in all her life. By and by, her mother awoke. She raised her head and saw Annie's happy face. Poor girl, she thought. How happy I would have been to have bought something else for her, but I wasn't able.

I hope she will be happy with what she has. See, mother," Annie cried. I have twelve gumdrops and a cake. We will eat half of the gumdrops to-day and save the other half for tomorrow. You'll eat three, and I'll eat three. "'No, Annie,' said her mother. "'You must eat every one by yourself.' Annie smiled, but did not say anything. Little Annie's mother was a widow, and she was very, very poor. There were many times when they had only a little dry bread and water for the day's food. For this bright Christmas season, there were many things besides food which she would like to have bought for her poor little crippled child, but she did not have any money to pay for playthings or toys. After breakfast on this Christmas day, Johnny Ray came to see them.

He brought with him a good thick shawl for Annie's mother, and four pairs of warm stockings which his mother had sent for Annie, and also a large package of nice candy. Little Annie's mother cried for joy. Little Annie was too happy to speak. She had never dreamed of having so much candy at one time. The Velocipede Race One bright day, Archibald mounted his velocipede and rode out into the long green lane, where he could ride for a long distance without interruption. He had left his coat in the house because he knew that riding would make him very warm. When he reached the lane, the Velocipede moved along so smoothly that Archibald was very happy. By the time he had gone nearly a half a mile, he was tired and stopped for a rest.

Pretty soon he heard a noise coming from behind, and he wondered what rider it might be on the same track that beautiful spring morning. He looked up and saw John Smith coming, riding a large Velocipede and going as fast as he could. Archibald quickly mounted his wheel and started on a swift run, trying to overtake the flying John. Before they reached the end of the road, they saw Clara Hampton, standing by the fence with her little velocipede. Clara watched the boys as they flitted past. She thought that she could keep up with John, but she was not sure she could ride as fast as Archibald. While she was meditating, Archibald cried out, You can wait until we finish the race, and then we three will go back together.

Archibald reached the end first, but John was not very far behind. When Clara reached them, Archibald said, Now we will all have a fair start, and see who will reach the other end first. So they all started in a line. Archibald knew he was the largest and could go the fastest, but as he had won the other race, He did not ride this time as fast as he could. He thought this was the right way to give the others a fair chance. Clara and John reached the other end of the lane at exactly the same time, with Archibald a short distance behind them. John and Clara were greatly delighted because they had won the race from the big boy, Archibald. Archibald was pleased because they were pleased. This was not the only time that Archibald had proved that he was a good and kind boy, and that he was thoughtful of little children younger than himself.

From this little story of the Velocipede race, many other little boys and girls may learn a good lesson, I hope, that will do them good all through life. Fault Finding Faults are the easiest things to find in all this world. A fault is something that can be found without looking for it. And I guess no little boy or girl in all the world knows anything that is easier to find than something that he or she doesn't have to look for. Well, faults are things that we can find without looking for them, so faults are the easiest things to find in all the world. Yet, boys and girls, the habit of fault-finding, or the habit of finding fault. is one of the worst habits that anybody could form. It stamps the person who is so easy to find fault with everything and everybody as being a mean, low, envious, evil-hearted person.

It is better to look for something to praise than it is to look for something to blame. Yet there are some people who are so constituted that they do not see any good in anything. When it is cold, it is too cold. When it is hot, it is too hot. They don't like the Vicki kid shoes. They want patent leathers. The singing at church or Sunday school last Sunday was just horrid. Old Mary Jones ought to be taken out of the choir. The preacher preaches too long, or the deacon prays too loud. The school teacher isn't any good. So they go on from day to day, finding fault with everything and everybody. Nothing pleases them. Nothing delights them. If by any chance or mischance they should get to heaven, they would, I believe.

Find fault with the way the Lord has arranged things up there. They are miserable people to have around. These good-for-nothing, lazy, and trifling fault-finders. If you try real hard, boys and girls, you can find something good in everything and in everybody. That is one reason why we do not always see the good in people or things. We don't look for it. We can find out what is bad, can find out the bad things without looking for them, but if we want to see the good things, we must be on the lookout for them. If we are on the lookout, if we make up our minds that we are going to see the good, and only the good, we are always sure to find it. There was an old woman once who was noted for being able to say something good about everything and everybody.

She was never heard to speak evil of anything or anybody. Once upon a time a gambler died in the city where she lived. He was a miserable sinner, and nobody liked him, and nobody had a good word to say for him, even after he was dead. Aunt Maria, the good old lady, went to see him after he'd been put into his coffin. The people who were present wondered what good thing Aunt Maria could possibly say about the dead sinner. Aunt Maria entered the room and walked around on tiptoe. After a while, she raised her head and said, "'Friends, I tell you, he makes a mighty nice-looking corpse.'" Gross Deception Wistfully down the street she strolled. From side to side her eyes she rolled. Till far away her eyes she cast.

On the grateful form of a man at last. She smoothed her hair, and she quickened her pace. Hoping she'd meet him face to face. But when she reached him, she felt awful sore. Twas a figure of wax in front of a store. Random Remarks. In the olden times, parents used to rule their children, but in these days and times there are many people who believe that the children rule their parents. So many misguided parents in these days and times believe in sparing the rod and spoiling the child. Boys don't get many whippings at home nowadays, and if a boy happens to get a good flogging at school, it will cause a big row, and sometimes cause the teacher to be threatened with arrest. Whenever my teacher used to whip me, I was always afraid to mention it at home for fear of getting another.

I heard a man say the other day, Never whip a child. Raise your boy on love and kindness and reason. Yes, and when that boy is twelve or thirteen years old, somebody will have to go to him and talk to him and try to persuade him not to whip his father or mother. I was at church the other day, and I saw two boys about ten or eleven years old. After service, they lit their cigarettes and went marching off as big as Trip. A man of the old school looked at them for a while, and then, turning away, he said, I just wish I could have my way with those boys for about two minutes. I didn't say anything, but deep down in my heart I sympathized with the old man and felt that both of the youngsters ought to have had a good whipping.

Some girls are almost as bad as some boys. Girls are most too fast in these days. As soon as they get their dresses to their shoe tops, they are gone. They go crazy over their clothes, for they think that they must keep in the fashion. They read too much trash. For they think that is the way refined and cultured people do. Old-fashioned modesty is at a discount. The girls don't wait for the boys to come now. That is, many of them don't. They go after them. I have seen some girls running around in these new-fashioned nightgowns, and they call it a Mother Hubbard party. If their mothers don't allow them to go with the boys, they will slip around and meet them somewhere anyhow. And where they are allowed to go with the boys, they generally go to extremes.

What business has a little girl, ten or twelve or fourteen years old, to be locked arms with the little stripling of a boy, going home at night from church or some social entertainment? It always disgusts me whenever I see it. Worse than a mannish boy is a womanish girl. What business has a little girl, or a larger one, To allow a man to throw his arm around her waist in the round dance. It is the modest to say the least, and there is not a good mother in the land who approves it. A girl who goes to a promiscuous ball and waltzes around with promiscuous fellows puts herself in a promiscuous fix to be talked about by the dudes and rakes and fast young fellows who have encircled her waist. Slander is very common, I know, especially slander of young ladies.

There are not many young ladies who escape it, but the trouble about it is that it is not all slander. Some of it is the truth. In olden times, when folks got married, they stayed married, but nowadays the courts are full of divorce cases. The land is spotted with what are called grass widows, and in many a household there is hidden grief over a daughter's shame. Why is it? What causes it? Lack of proper training and care of the young. Habits are great things, good habits or bad habits. If girls are reared to clean their teeth and keep their fingernails clean, they will keep them clean all their lives. If boys are reared to chew tobacco and smoke, they will never quit. The same about loving and courting and getting married.

Much depends upon training, upon habits. Young flirts make old flirts. Young devils make old devils.

12 11 - Chapter 11 19:29

Floyd. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Benjamin Banneker, the Negro Astronomer The little colored boys and girls of America should be proud to know, as I suppose the little white boys and girls will be surprised to learn, that the first clock of which every portion was made in America was made by a colored man. The colored children will also be glad to know, I think, that among the earliest almanacs prepared for general use in this country were those which were published for several years by this same colored man. His name was Benjamin Banneker. I have found a good and true account of this wonderful man in the Atlantic Monthly for January, 1863. I'm going to give a good portion of that account in this book.

Because I believe every colored person in America should be acquainted with that man's history. The account says, Benjamin Banneker was born in Baltimore County, Maryland, near the village of Ellicott's Mills in the year 1732. There was not a drop of white man's blood in his veins. His father was born in Africa, and his mother's parents were both natives of Africa. What genius he had, then, must be credited to that race. When he was approaching manhood, he went, in the intervals of toil, to an obscure and remote country school. At this school, Benjamin acquired a knowledge of reading and writing, and advanced in arithmetic as far as double position. Beyond these rudiments, he was his own teacher.

Young Banneker had no books at all. But in the midst of labor for a living, he so improved upon what he had gained in arithmetic that his intelligence became a matter of general observation. He was such an acute observer of the natural world, and had so diligently observed the signs of times in society that it is very doubtful whether at forty years of age this African had his superior in Maryland. Perhaps the first wonder amongst his comparatively illiterate neighbors was excited. When, about the thirteenth year of his age, Benjamin made a clock. It is probable that this was the first clock of which every portion was made in America. It is certain that it was purely his own invention, as if none had ever been made before.

He had seen a watch, but never a clock, such an article not being within fifty miles of him. He used the watch as a model for his clock. He was a long time at work on the clock. His chief difficulty, as he used often to relate, being to make the hour, minute, and second-hands correspond in their motion. But at last the work was completed, and raised the admiration for Banneker to quite a high pitch among his few neighbors. The making of the clock proved to be of great importance in assisting the young man to fulfill his destiny. It attracted the attention of the Ellicott family, who had just begun a settlement at Ellicott's mills. They were well-educated men, with much mechanical knowledge, and some of them Quakers.

They sought out the ingenious Negro, and he could not have fallen into better hands. In 1787, Mr. George Ellicott gave him Mayer's tables, Ferguson's astronomy, and Ledbetter's lunar tables. From this time astronomy became the great object of Banneker's life, and in his study he almost disappeared from the sight of his neighbors. He slept much during the day, that he might the more devotedly observe at night the heavenly bodies whose laws he was slowly, but surely, mastering. Very soon after the possession of the books already mentioned, Banneker determined to compile an almanac. That being the most familiar use that occurred to him of the information he had acquired. To make an almanac, then, was a very different thing from what it would be now, when there is an abundance of accurate tables and rules.

Banneker had no aid whatever from men or rules, and Mr. George Ellicott who procured some tables and took them to him, states that he had already advanced very far in the preparation of the logarithms necessary for the purpose. The first almanac prepared by Banneker for publication was for the year 1792. By this time his acquirements had become generally known, and among those who were attracted by them was Mr. James McHenry. Mr. McHenry wrote to Goddard and Angell. Then the almanac publishers of Baltimore and procured the publication of his work, which contained from the pen of Mr. McHenry a brief notice of Banneker. When his first almanac was published, Banneker was 59 years old and had received tokens of respect from all the scientific men of the country.

Among others, Thomas Jefferson, then Secretary of State under George Washington. Wrote him a most flattering and complimentary letter. In his letter Jefferson said, Nobody wishes more than I do to see such proofs as you exhibit, that nature has given to our black brethren talents equal to those of other colors of men, and that the appearance of a wand of them is owing only to the degraded condition of their existence both in Africa and America. Banneker continued to calculate and publish almanacs until 1802. Mr. Benjamin H. Ellicott, who was a true friend of Banneker, and collected from various sources all the facts concerning him, wrote in a letter as follows. During the whole of his long life he lived respectably, and much esteemed by all who became acquainted with him.

But more especially by those who could fully appreciate his genius and the extent of his acquirements. Banneker's head was covered with a thick mass of white hair, which gave him a very dignified and venerable appearance. His dress was invariably of superfine drab broadcloth, made in the old style of a plain coat, with straight collar and long waistcoat, and a broad-brimmed hat. His color was not jet black. But decidedly Negro. In size and personal appearance, the statue of Franklin at the library in Philadelphia, as seen from the street, is a perfect likeness of him. Banneker died in the year 1804, beloved and respected by all who knew him. Though no monument marks the spot where he was born and lived a true and high life, And was buried.

Yet history must record that the most original scientific intellect which the South has yet produced was that of the pure African, Benjamin Banneker. The above is the story of that wonderful black man told in splendid terms of high and well-deserved praise by a white man. Every little black boy in America may well be fired with inspiration to do something beyond the ordinary by reading the story of Banneker's life. A little child shall lead them. It's truly astonishing what a boy can do when once he has made up his mind to do his best. Dr. Lynn G. Broughton, the famous pastor of the Tabernacle Baptist Church, Atlanta, Georgia, in a little book, which he calls The Modern Prodigal, has told a very pathetic story about a little boy.

It is so true to life and so typical of what a black or white boy may do under similar circumstances, if he only decides for the true and the right, that I have decided to reproduce the little story in this book. It is well worth reading. Dr. Broughton says, Not long after I entered the ministry, I went to a certain town to hold a series of meetings. It was one of these good old southern towns. The inhabitants of which banked on aristocracy and fed their souls on the glory of departed days. They had never known what it was to be spiritually warm. The first night I was there I preached to a great audience. It was in my early ministry when I made many propositions. The first one I made that night was for anyone to stand who wanted prayers offered for their friends.

As soon as I made it, a little boy got up and walked out in the aisle where he stood looking at me square in the face. I said, God bless you, little man, and he sat down. I then asked anyone who wanted the prayers of God's people to rise. That boy got out in the aisle again and looked me in the face, and again I said, God bless you. I asked if there was anybody present who was willing to accept Jesus. That boy stood up again and looked me in the face, and again I said, God bless you. Nobody else stood up that night, and I began to think I had struck about the hardest and coldest crowd I had ever run up against. The next night I preached as hard as I knew how to sinners, and when I finished, I asked anybody who wanted to be prayed for to stand up.

The same little rascal popped out into the aisle. As he had done the night before, and stood looking at me until I saw him, and said, God bless you. I thought I'd vary the thing a little, so I asked if anybody present was willing to come forward and give me his hand. I saw smiles on the faces of some of the congregation. Nobody but the boy showed any interest, and I went off somewhat disheartened. The third night I preached, and when I asked all who wanted prayer to rise, that boy popped out into the aisle. The people had begun to regard it as a joke, and they nudged each other with their elbows, while a broad smile flared from one side of the house to the other. When I asked anybody who was willing to accept Jesus to come and give me his hand, that boy came.

And the congregation smiled broader than before. After the meeting, the deacons came to me and told me that the boy must be stopped, as he was half an idiot, and was throwing a damper on the meeting. I said, Stop nothing! How are you going to throw a damper on an ice house? For the whole of that week, that boy was the only person in the house who showed any interest in the meeting. Then he wanted to join the church. The pastor was absent, and I was to open the doors of the church. The deacons came to me and said that I must not receive that boy, as he didn't have enough sense to join the church. I said, Look here, brethren. I won't take this responsibility on my hands. I'm going to put that boy on you, and if you choose to reject him, his blood be upon your hands.

At the conclusion of the morning service, I invited all who wanted to unite with the Church to come forward. That boy came. I asked him if he had accepted Christ for his personal Savior. That's all I ever ask. He said he had. Brethren, I said, you hear what this boy has to say. What will you do with him? An ominous silence fell on the congregation. After a time, from way back by the door, I heard a muffled and rather surly, "'I move he be received.' Another painful silence followed, and then, from the middle of the church, I heard a muffled, "'I second the motion.' When I put the motion, about a half-dozen members voted I in a tone so low that it seemed as if they were scared. I gave the boy the right hand of Christian welcome, awaiting baptism, and then dismissed the congregation.

The next day the boy went out to see his old grandfather, a man whose whitened head was blossoming for the grave, and whose feet were taking hold upon the shifting sands of eternity. "'Grandfather,' said he, "'won't you go to church with me tonight and hear that preacher?' "'We always feel kindly towards those who are afflicted, you know, and are willing to please them.' So the old man agreed to go." That night I saw the boy and the old man sitting away back by the door. When the sermon was finished, one of the members of the church arose and said, I have a request to make. We have with us tonight Mr. Blank, one of our oldest and most respected citizens, but he is out of Christ. I want special prayer offered for this my special friend.

With that, he laid his hand upon the head of the old man. Down whose furrowed cheeks the tears were streaming. The next night I saw the old man sitting about halfway down the aisle. Then all who wanted to accept Jesus were invited to come forward and give me their hands. I saw the half-idiot boy coming down the aisle, leading the old man by the hand. That little boy's father kept a saloon. The following day the child went there, and climbing up over the high counter, He peeped down upon his father and said, Papa, won't you go to church with me tonight to hear that preacher? You get out of here, child, said the father. Go out of here. Don't you know you mustn't come in here? Strange, strange, how fathers will keep places where their children cannot go.

But, Papa, continued the boy, won't you go to church with me tonight? Yes, I'll go, but you get out of here. That night the man came with the half-idiot boy, and sat about where the old man sat the night before. When I asked all who would accept Jesus to come forward, he walked down the aisle and gave me his hand. He asked if he could make a statement, and when I said yes, he faced the congregation and said, My friends, you all know me, and I want to say that so long as I live, I will never sell another drop of whiskey.

The meeting warmed up at last. The town was set on fire for God. Every saloon keeper was converted, and every saloon was closed. The feeling spread, and a saloon seven miles in the country was closed, and the keeper was converted to God. At the close of the meeting I sat on the front seat and saw the pastor lead three generations into the baptismal waters, the old man in front, his son behind him, and last in line the little half-idiot boy. The only mistake that was made, to my mind, was that the boy who had led the others to Christ should not have been first in line. Where is the little half-idiot boy now? He has grown much brighter within the last few years, and is now going to school. He says he wants to be, and will be, a missionary.

What a lesson for the young today. Persistent self-surrender, ever doing the best we can, is a never-failing way that leads to victory. On Being Earnest Of ten men who fail in life, nine men fail for want of zeal, earnestness, Courage, where one man fails for a want of ability. This half-heartedness, this lack of zeal, this timidity, this shrinking from duty and hard tasks is seen on all sides and among all classes. But I tell you, boys and girls, that the least enviable people in all the world are those who think that nothing is particularly worthwhile, that it does not matter how much a thing is done if it is only done with. Who dawdle along in a shabby sort of way, considering only their own ease, with little sense of responsibility, and with no shame in being shirks.

Every boy should make up his mind to live a round, full, earnest, intense life. Every girl should do the same. Don't be satisfied, boys and girls, to be jellyfishes, with only a capacity for drawing in nourishment and lingering on until your time comes to die. Be vertebrates, people of backbone, purpose, aim, enthusiasm, earnestness. At a public dinner, President Roosevelt asked Governor Odell of New York if he knew anything worth doing that was not hard in the doing, and the governor could think of nothing. As a rule, perhaps, there is nothing, and yet things once hard in the doing become easy as a skill is gained by repetition. Be in earnest, be faithful and resolute, and it will act like a tonic, giving light to the eyes, springness to the step, and buoyancy to the heart.

Don't be overcome by your circumstances. No matter how distracting a man's surroundings may be, he may yet be able to focus his powers completely and to marshal them with certainty if he makes up his mind to do it. If things go hard with the self-mastered man or boy, he will be able to trample upon difficulties and to use his stumbling blocks as stepping stones. If a great misfortune overtake him, he will simply use it as a starting point for a new departure, a turning point for a more determined effort. He may be weighed down with sorrow and suffering, but he always starts anew with redoubled determination to do the thing he has set his heart upon doing. He will not be discouraged. He will not give up.

He will fight it out to the end. Put him in prison, and he will write the pilgrim's progress. Deprive him of his eyesight, and he will write the paradise lost. It was the spirit of earnestness which fired the soul of Martin Luther at the Diet of Worms, who, after being urged to recant, said, Here I stand. I can do no other. God help me. It was this spirit which characterized William Lloyd Garrison. The champion of the abolition of slavery, who, when he was urged to stop fighting slavery, exclaimed, I will not equivocate, I will not retract, I will not be moved one inch, and I will be heard. So be in earnest, boys and girls, at home, at school, at work, and at play. It will help you a thousand-fold.

13 12 - Chapter 12 16:57

Floyd. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Young People and Life Insurance Every little boy and girl, and of course, every man and woman, of the colored race in America should carry a life insurance policy of some kind in some reliable company. In this matter, the old people, as in some other things, ought to set the example for the young, but there are some reasons, growing chiefly out of their previous condition of slavery, why our mothers and fathers have not, as a rule, taken very largely to the business of having their lives insured. But because our parents have been negligent in this matter, there is no reason why the younger generation should be. Life insurance is a good thing, boys and girls.

One of the best things in the world. American life insurance companies alone pay to policyholders or estates of policyholders over $100 million annually. Only a very small and almost insignificant portion of this vast sum goes into the hands of colored people, and for the reason that very few colored people carry life insurance policies. Now use a little common sense about this matter. Whatever is good in life insurance for other races is good for our race. Whatever in life insurance benefits other races will benefit our race. In business, as in education, whatever is good for a white man is good for a black man. I would therefore urge every boy and girl to join a life insurance company. And where your mothers and fathers are not insured, I would urge you to do your utmost to persuade them to join at once.

For one reason, a life insurance policy is not expensive. You might well talk of the expense of buying bank stock, or the expense of putting your money into a savings bank, or any other safe place as to speak of the expense of keeping up a life insurance policy. It is accumulation and not expense. Every dollar put into life insurance is a dollar saved to yourself or your estate. For another reason, life insurance is a good business investment. Carefully collected statistics on file in Washington City prove that investments in life insurance are much safer and yield much larger returns than money placed in a savings bank. When you are older, you will perhaps be able to make these comparisons for yourself.

For the present, you can take my word for it. A third reason. Life insurance is cheap. You can in an instant create a capital of $1,000, though you may be ever so poor, by laying aside only a few cents a week. Young people chew up and drink up and smoke up and frolic up more money every week than would be sufficient to protect them against the rainy days that must come to everybody. And then... Life insurance has a character value. It makes a young man a better man. It makes a young woman a better woman. That is to say, it makes them more economical, more businesslike, happier, and I believe it will make them live longer. It is high time that black boys and girls were learning these things and acting upon them.

When God commanded us not to serve money as a false god, He did not say that money could not serve us, and I beseech the boys and girls, and the old people too, to exercise the same foresight and the same good sense about life insurance that other races exercise. The Little Sailor Cat In September, 1893. Grouped on the Fall River Line Pier at the foot of Warren Street, New York, there stood a party of twenty-three sailors waiting for the Puritan to take them to Boston. The central figure in the group, a short, thick-set man with bronzed and grizzled mustache, stood erect with arms folded over his chest. Upon the solid foundation thus made nestled a little white kitten. The man and the kitten were the Boston contingent of the crew of the steamship City of Savannah, which had been wrecked the week before on Hunting Island off the South Carolina coast.

The story of the beaching of the steamship and of the taking off of her crew by the City of Birmingham had been told in all the newspapers, but nothing had been said about the cat, so the Boston Herald said. Before the shipwreck, the cat was nothing more than an ordinary ship's cat, and the captain had named him Mascot, but that was the end of his distinction. After the disaster, nevertheless, all the sailors swore that the kitten was a good sailor as any of them. He is a wonder," said the short, thick-set man, surveying the cat proudly. Nobody thought of him in the rush, but he got there just the same. He climbed the rigging in that gale like an old tar and held on for hours. He wasn't a bit frightened, either.

Only he would caterwall when he got hungry. We were on board of the boat fifty hours after she struck before the sea was such that we could be taken off in boats. At night, the captain ordered all the crew into the rigging and made us stay there. We each took a piece of rope and lashed ourselves on. So as to keep from falling off when asleep. That's what the captain said the string was for, but I never slept at all. I don't think many others did. The cat got along without any rope, and she was there in the morning all right. When we got away at last, nearly crazy with thirst and so faint that we could hardly climb down the Jacob's Ladder into the Birmingham's boats, that little fellow climbed out of his nest in the rigging and wanted to go too.

We were glad to take him. Church. One. Be punctual and regular at all the services of your church. Two. Give close attention to the pastor in the public service. Good hearers make good preachers. Three. Whenever you are aided by a sermon, tell the pastor about it. In this way you will help him more than you think possible. Four. Do not neglect morning and evening prayer at home. Pray daily for God's blessing upon the preaching and other labors of the pastor. Five. In the world, let your light so shine before others that they may be led to glorify your Father which is in heaven. Let your light shine. Six. Invite your friends to attend divine services. A drawing congregation is as good as a drawing preacher.

Call for your friends often. Remember day by day that you are not your own, but have been bought with a price, and that you are Christ's servant. Watch and pray. If any service is required of you in the church or in the Sunday school, do not shirk it. Always say, I will try for Jesus' sake. In the prayer meeting, speak briefly and to the point. If you pray, ask only for what you want. Be short and direct. Ask, and ye shall receive. Ten. Never subscribe more than you are able to pay, and be sure to pay whatever you promise. Whether much or little, give it cheerfully. God loveth the cheerful giver. Eleven. Having found eternal life, use all appropriate means to develop Christian character. Prayer, reading the Bible, attending church and Sunday school, reading good books and Christian newspapers, keeping the best company, all these will help you.

A Word to Parents The Drummer Boy and His Dog Children are a gift from God. Children are a heritage from the Lord. It depends largely on parents whether they become a heritage of honor and delight or of sorrow and shame. It is not simply incumbent upon parents that their children be well cared for, fed and clothed, properly educated, and so forth. But more than this, they are to be brought up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. This being true, then, The highest aim of rearing children is not simply that they may win success and command respect in the world. Respect and success are greatly to be desired and sought, but beyond them and beyond everything else is the highest and chiefest aim of parental love and care, that their children may honor and command the righteousness of God in the life that now is and magnify the glory of God in the life that is to be.

This is the mark and prize of their high calling. Admitting this, then, the early conversion of children is all-important. But if they are to be early converted, is it not wise, nay, absolutely essential, that mothers and fathers prepare the way by restricting their natural impulses, by which they are led to desire indulgence in the gay vanities of life? Is it not positively wrong for parents to indulge that pernicious and destructive delusion, which some allow, of permitting their children to have their own evil way in the hope that in due time they will in some way see their error and turn to the right path of their own accord? Father, you are a Christian. Mother, you are a Christian. Now, in your home, in the management of your children.

Are you doing the best you can to show what a Christian family should be? How is it, my friends? I leave that question with you. The Unseen Charmer Carl Brickerman, a collection clerk in an uptown bank, in his accustomed daily routine, found it necessary, among other things, to call by telephone the downtown brokerage firm of Hope Good & Company. One day he missed the familiar feminine voice which had usually responded to his calls. But the new voice seemed sweeter and much more passionately penetrating. For two or three days Brickerman was puzzled, not only because of the change at the other end of the phone, but also because of the strange and uncountable fascination which the new voice possessed for him.

At length one day, Almost in desperation, he turned aside from his regular business inquiries to ask, Where is the other girl? Which other girl? asked the mellifluous voice over the articulate wire. The one who used to answer the phone for the Hope Goods, explained Brickerman. Promoted, came the response with a merry little laugh. And you have her old place, asked Brickerman, somewhat encouraged. Yes, for a while, said the same still, small voice at the other end, and it sounded more and more sweetly to the would-be masher. Well, said Brickerman, laughing the while, I used to know her quite well, and I should like to meet you face to face, if you don't mind. I am so charmed with the music of your voice, I am sure I should be perfectly entranced with the magic of your face.

A merry peal of laughter from the other end greeted this Sally. The young man continued, I used to come down some days about four o'clock to see Margie. Will you, my unseen charmer, grant me the same high favor? Why, certainly. Come any day," answered the sweet voice which had so strangely bewitched the young man. In ecstasy Brickerman shouted back, I'll be down this afternoon. Brickerman hung up the receiver, and chuckling with delight, he turned to his other duties with the clarity that a young spring chicken displays when it suddenly discovers a big fat worm. By 3.30 o'clock he had arranged his toilet, and stood before the mirror giving the finishing twirl to his budding mustache. He brushed his clothing the second time, brushed his hat, and, figuratively speaking, Arrayed in purple and fine linen, he sallied forth.

He boarded an elevated train bound for the downtown district. On his way down, he tried to picture to himself the kind of a girl he should meet at the Hope Goods. Would she be tall or short of stature, blonde or brunette, above twenty-one years of age, or only sweet sixteen? The quick arrival of the train at Park Place put a period to Brickerman's reverie. He went tripping across a few blocks to the place where all of his hopes had been centered during the past few hours, in fact days. Arrived there, he stepped into the front office where Margie had formerly presided. It was the same snug, cozy room, but he failed to behold there the eagerly expected young lady. Instead he ran amok a chubby little boy, with a ruddy face and curly hair, and perhaps not more than fourteen or fifteen years old, sitting in Margie's place.

Brickerman was visibly embarrassed. He did not know where to begin or what to say. He twitched nervously at the glove which he carried in his hand, and finally stammered, Is er Mr. Hope good in? No, sir," said the boy. Can I be of any service to you?" Brickerman's face turned blood-red, and great drops of perspiration stood out upon his forehead. The accents of the little boy startled him, for they were the same that had been wafted to him almost daily along the wire and with which he thought he had been enamored. In the midst of his confusion he managed to say, hoping almost against hope that his identity had not been discovered. Well, or I'll call again. And without waiting to hear the unseen charmer speak again, he hastily retired with as good grace as was possible under the circumstances.

Our Country Boys and girls, we are all American citizens, the last one of us. This is our country, as much as it is the country of any other race, and we should love it and fight for it as our fathers have loved. We fought and died for it on many a battlefield. We may be the descendants of Africans, but we are citizens of the United States. This is our home, our country. Let us believe it, in spite of what some foolish people say. Therefore, I'm going to give you one or two sentiments which you should learn early in life in order to stimulate your patriotism. One. May the honor of our country be without stain. May the glory of America never cease to shine. May every American manfully withstand corruption.

May reverence for the laws ever predominate the hearts of the American people.

The sons and daughters of America, may their union be cemented by love and affection, and their offspring adorn the stations they are destined to fill. Six. May the growth of the American Union never be prevented by party spirit. Seven. The boys of America, may they be strong and virtuous, manly and brave. Eight. The girls of America, May they prove to be such in heart and life as will make them worthy mothers of a strong and noble race. Nine. Health to our President, prosperity to our people, and may Congress direct its endeavors to the public good. Ten. May peace or America spread her wing, and commerce fill her ports with gold.

14 13 - Chapter 13 25:01

Floyd. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Directions for Little Ladies. 1. A little lady always says thank you, whenever anybody asks her in any way, and always says yes, if you please, whenever she makes any kind of request. 2. A little lady is never loud and boisterous on the streets, in public places, or at home. Sometimes girls are so rough that they are called tomboys. No tomboy ever was a true little lady. Three. A true little lady will always see that her linen is clean and spotless, collars and cuffs, aprons and dresses, handkerchiefs, and all articles of clothing. Every true little lady hates dirt. Four. A little lady will not be guilty of idle gossip. She will not tattle, will not go around hunting all the evil things that are said or known about other little ladies.

She closes her ears tight against the slanderers of the town. Five. A little lady will love the Sunday school and the church. She will love the society of good people and the society of good books. She will have higher notions of life than that life is something to be spent in a merry round of pleasure. Six. A true little lady loves her mother, and she will show that she loves her mother in various ways. She will help her about the housework. She will be fond of going out in company with her mother often. She will not think that anybody else's mother is or can be better than her own mother. Seven. Every true little lady will be a Christian. She will early give herself to Jesus. She will delight to help the poor, to visit the sick, carrying the cheer and comfort and something good to eat and flowers and many other things.

She will love everybody. Do you? Three words to young people. The first word is, be true. The second word is, be trustworthy. The third word is, dare to do right. First, be true. Be what you seem to be or what you pretend to be. Do not be a hypocrite. Be firm and steady in adhering to friends, promises, or principles. Be a true boy. Be a true girl. Secondly, be trustworthy. Be worthy of trust. Be reliable. Make your word your bond. Conduct yourself in such a way that people can depend on you. Thirdly, Dare to do right. Whatever comes or doesn't come, stand by what you believe to be right, even if you have to stand alone. Be honest, upright, faithful, sincere, abhor that which is evil, cleave to that which is good.

True boys and girls are scarce. They are not easily found. They do not grow on trees. But, to tell you the truth, we need good boys and girls, true boys and girls, much more than we do educated boys and girls. All education without character is dead weight. Let me give you one or two reasons why you should be true, trustworthy, and brave for the right. In the first place, for the sake of your influence, every boy and girl in this world has some influence. Every boy in this world, white or black, rich or poor, high or low, is helping his friends and playmates to grow better or worse, higher or lower in the scale of being. Every girl in this world is likewise helping or hindering others. If we are harsh and unkind, cruel and unjust, in every wrong, every baseness, meanness, selfishness, We are harming not ourselves alone, but the whole great family of man.

On the other hand, when we speak fearlessly a brave, true word, when we perform cheerfully a hard and trying task, whenever we are faithful, honest, earnest, patient, pure, trustworthy, whether we know it or not, we are strengthening the unseen impulses which make for nobility and higher manhood and womanhood throughout the world. In the economy of God, by His infinite wisdom, the humblest life reaches forward to the highest and the highest life reaches backward to the lowest. But perhaps you are saying that I am taking too much for granted. Perhaps you think that it is not true that there is not one of the very least of the great human family who is not every day exercising some personal influence for good or evil upon the world.

If you think so, boys and girls, or older people, you are mistaken. No human can escape from the world's atmosphere. Though you fly to the uttermost parts of the sea, or hide in the depths of the dense city, some life is affected by your life. Not only is some life affected by your life, but many lives are affected by your life. It is a thought of this kind that Charles Dickens beautifully expresses in his story called David Copperfield. He says, There is nothing, no, nothing beautiful and good that dies and is forgotten. An infant, a prattling child, dying in his cradle, will live again in the better thoughts of those who loved it, and plays its part through its body to be burned to ashes or drowned in the deepest sea.

There is not an angel added to the hosts of heaven, but does its blessed work on earth in those who loved it here. Dead. Oh, if the good deeds of human creatures could be traced to their source, how beautiful would even death appear! For how much charity, mercy, and purified affection would be seen to have their growth in dusty graves? No, children, it is no idle dream, no fancy story that I tell. When I say that the humblest member of the human family, as well as the highest, is exercising daily, whether he is conscious of it or not, some influence for good or evil upon the world. Viewed in this light, who can measure the possibilities, the divine possibilities, that are wrapped up in little boys and girls?

Viewed in this light, how the slightest action, the smallest of our little duties, takes on new importance. It was with this thought in mind that James A. Garfield said, "'I feel a profounder reverence for a boy than a man. I never meet a ragged boy on the street without feeling that I owe him a salute, for I know not what possibilities may be buttoned up under his shabby coat.' Yes, boys and girls, by every brave and cheerful effort that we put forth, we are reforming, uplifting, renewing, inspiring hearts and souls we never heard of, never knew, the whole world becoming stronger for every bit of moral courage we create, sweeter for every kindly look we give, and holier for every good deed we do.

And, of course, the contrary is true. When we fail, when we come short, when we sin, the consequences are not ours alone. They extend to all humanity. We are all, white and black, rich and poor, old and young, male and female, children of one family. Just as the quivering circles from a pebble thrown into a lake stretch on and on from shore to shore, so the silent impulse of a single breath thrills from heart to heart. Until the very edges of humanity are touched. There is another reason still why we should be true, trustworthy, brave. That reason is that somebody else takes us as his ideal, his standard. Poor as we are, weak as we are, as unworthy as we are, somebody else is looking upon us, especially those of us who have been favored with educational advantages and opportunities.

And if you know that failure of one who is invested in another's mind with ideal qualities is a failure beyond the actual. That is one reason why people say that, as a rule, a preacher's children are the worst children in the world. As a matter of fact, they are not the worst children in the world. But, being the children of preachers, everybody expects more of them than of others. They are taken as ideals, as standards. That's all. And what might be excused in others will not be excused in one who is taken as an ideal. Nathaniel Hawthorne, one of America's greatest writers, in speaking of this truth, says in his story called The Marble Fawn, The character of an individual, beloved one, having invested itself with all the attributes of right, that one friend being to us the symbol and representative of whatever is good and true.

When he falls, the effect is almost as if the sky fell with him, bringing down in chaotic ruin the columns that upheld our faith. We struggle forth again, no doubt bruised and bewildered. We stare wildly about us and discover, or it may be we never make the discovery, that it was not actually the sky that had tumbled down, but merely a frail structure of our own rearing, which never rose higher than the housetops. And has fallen because we founded it on nothing. But the crash, and the affright and trouble, are as overwhelming, for the time, as if the catastrophe involved the whole moral world. Remembering these things, let them suggest one generous motive for walking heedfully amid the defilement of earthly ways.

Let us reflect that the highest path is pointed out by the pure ideal of those who look up to us. And who, if we tread less loftily, may never look so high again. Now I have said my three words. You see, they have stretched themselves out to a great length, but I hope the boys and girls who read this book may profit by them. Strive to be true. Strive to be trustworthy. Strive to be brave. In the long run the prizes of this world, and of that which is to come, are won by boys and girls of strong moral character, not by those who are merely learned or rich. But, of course, I believe in education, and I believe in money. I think you ought to strive to attain both. Both are useful, and both are necessary.

But with all your getting, boys and girls, be sure to get those things which will reach beyond this world, and which will count for more than money or good looks or education or any such thing when the world is on fire, when the moon shall be turned into blood, when the trumpet sounds, and all must go to stand before the great King to give an account of his deeds done in the body. A LAMP UNTO MY FEET Once upon a time, so it is said, a little ragged boy was carefully printing these words with a stick upon the ground. Thy word is a lamp unto my feet. On looking up from his work, the little fellow was surprised to find a kind old man watching him. Where did you learn that, my boy? asked the man.

At Sunday school, sir. What is your name? Crawford. So, Crawford. You learned that text at Sunday school. Do you know what it means? No, sir. What is a lamp? A lamp is a thing that gives light. That's correct. Well, what is the word that the text speaks of? The Bible, sir. That's right. Now how can the Bible be a lamp and give light? I don't know, said the boy, unless you light it and set it on fire. "'There's a better way than that, my lad. Suppose you were going down some lonely lane on a dark night with an unlighted lantern in your hand, and a box of matches in your pocket. What would you do?' "'Why, I'd light the lantern.' "'Why would you light it?' "'To show me the road, sir.' "'Very well.

Now suppose you were walking behind me some day, and saw me drop a quarter. What would you do?' "'Pick it up and give it to you, sir.' Wouldn't you want to keep it yourself?" Crawford hesitated, but he saw a smile on the old gentleman's face, and smiling himself, he finally said, I should want to, sir, but I shouldn't do it. Why not? Because it would be stealing. How do you know? It would be taking what wasn't my own, and the Bible says we are not to steal. Ah, said the old man, So it's the Bible that makes you honest, is it?" Yes, sir. If you had not heard of the Bible, you would steal, I suppose. Lots of boys do, said Crawford, hanging his head. The Bible, then, continued the old man, shows you the right and safe path, a path of honesty, does it?

Like the lamp, exclaimed Crawford, seeing now what all the old man's questions meant. Is that what the text means? Yes, my boy, the man answered. There is always light in the Bible to show us where to go and what to do. Don't you think it would be a pretty good thing to take the Bible, the good old lamp, and let it light you right through life? Yes, sir. Do you think you will be safer with it? Yes, sir. Why? Because, if I am honest, I will never go to prison. And what else? asked the man. Crawford thought a while. By and by, he said, if I mind the Bible, I shall go to heaven when I die. Yes, and that's the best reason for taking the lamp. It will light you right into heaven. Three Brigades. There are three brigades, or three little companies, which I think ought to be organized among the boys and girls in every Sunday school in America.

Can't you form them in your Sunday school? It is a very simple matter. It will not cost any money, only a little time and forethought, and a will to do. One brigade is called the Rainy Weather Brigade, and all the little boys and girls who join this company pledge themselves to go to Sunday school every Sunday, when they are not sick, even if it's raining. The second brigade is called the Front Seat Brigade. And all the members of this company pledged themselves to occupy front seats in the Sunday School during the opening exercises before they passed to their classes. The 3rd Brigade is called the On-Timers Brigade, and the children of this brigade pledged themselves to be on time at the opening hour.

You can see at once how helpful these little brigades are in every Sunday School, where they exist, to the officers and teachers. Some children will not go to Sunday school when it is raining, or when it threatens to rain. Some will not go forward and occupy front seats when they do go. And there are others who are always tardy. What a blessing it would be if all the little children would organize these brigades at once in their schools, and try to get every scholar to join each one of them. Home Sweet Home. Go with me, boys and girls. To the gay streets and gilded saloons of the great city of Paris far across the sea. Here is said to be the center of all the world's follies and pleasures. It is at night.

An American, who has left his home and native land to view the splendors of the wicked city, is passing along the street. He has beheld with delight its paintings, his sculpture, and the grand and graceful proportions of its buildings. In the midst of his keenest happiness, when he was rejoicing over the most privileges which he possessed, temptation assailed him. Sin was presented to him in one of its most bewitching garbs, and he yielded to the voice of the siren. He drank wildly and deeply of the intoxicating cup, and his draught brought madness. Reason was overthrown, and he rushed out, all his scruples overcome, Careless of what he did or how deeply he became immersed in the hitherto unknown sea of guilt.

The cool night air settled damp and heavy upon his heated brow. Walking on and on, not knowing or caring where he went, by and by strains of music from a distance met his ear. Pretty soon, following in the direction from which the sounds came, he was able to distinguish the words and air of the piece. The song was well remembered. It was home, sweet home. Clear and sweet, the voice of some singer, using his native tongue, rose and fell on the air, and the poor wild man stopped and listened to the soft cadences of that lovely melody. Motionless he stood until the last note floated away, and he could hear nothing but the ceaseless murmur of the great city. Then he turned away slowly. With no feeling that his manhood was shamed by the tear which fell as a bright evidence of the power of song, and also as an evidence that he, the guilty sinner, was not yet absolutely lost beyond recall.

The demon of the wine-cup had fled, and reason once more asserted her right to control. As the soft strains of home sweet home had floated to his ear, memory brought up before him the picture of his own sweet home. He saw his gentle mother and heard her speak, while Anna's pride beamed from her eye. She seemed to speak again of her son, in whose nobleness and honor she could always trust. His heart smote him as he thought how little he deserved such confidence. He remembered her last words of love and counsel, and the tearful farewell of all those dear ones who gladdened that faraway home with their presence. The tide of remorse swept over his soul as he thought of what the sorrow of those at home would have been could they have seen him but an hour before.

Subdued and pendent, he retraced his steps, and with his vow never to taste the terrible stuff that could so excite him to madness, there was mingled a deep sense of thankfulness for his escape from further degradation. The influence of home had protected and shielded him. Although the sea rolled between. How strong such memories are to prevent the commission of crime! How powerful is the spell of home! How important, then, is it to make home pleasant and lovable? Many a time a cheerful home and smiling face will do more to make good men and good women than all the learning and eloquence that can be used. It has been said that the sweetest words in our language are, mother, home, and heaven. And one might almost say that the word home included the others.

Who can think of home without remembering the gentle mother who sanctified it by her presence? And is not home the dearest name for heaven? Oh, then, may our homes on earth be as green spots in the desert, to which we can retire when weary of the cares of life, and drink the clear waters of a love which we know to be sincere and always unfailing. Mid pleasures and palaces, though far we may roam, be it ever so humble, there is no place like home. Each one of us of importance. Never think yourself, whoever you are, of small importance. Never think that it is of little account whether you are good or bad, or what your example is to others. Each mere particle of dust, every tiny grain of sand, The minutest atom is an active agent in the whole universe.

So each one of us is of importance in our sphere, however isolated and insignificant that sphere may appear to be. A few particles of dust in a watch will stop its motion, small barnacles on a ship's bottom will hinder its journey, and a little shifting sand in the great river will change its current. So... Little boys and girls exercise their influence for will or woe upon the world. Don't you believe for once that the world is moved only by the great forces, the great men, and the great enterprises? Little folks and little things likewise help to move the world along. Great generals are necessary, but what would they be without the soldiers behind them? Every boy has his part to do in the great work of the world.

And every girl has her part to do. Every boy and girl is of importance. How important, nobody knows, and perhaps never shall know until eternity reveals it. There ought to be in this truth great encouragement and great comfort to all who think that they are insignificant and have no work to do in this busy world. Perhaps in the distant future many a man who estimated himself great shall be found to be insignificant. Because of unfaithfulness to his trust. And many another man who perhaps thought himself of little worth will find himself glorified because he did what he could. Sunrise. Poetry is more than verse-making, more than the jingle of words, more than the sing-song of meter. Sunshine and flowers, brightness and joyousness, the harmonies of passions and the inspiration of love.

These are the poetry of life. Without poetry, life is a treadmill, a veil of tears, a dreary waste. Even religion is only a crucifixion, a death to sin, if we have not the resurrection into the new life of joy. Many of us make hard work of life by bending our backs too much. We get dirt in our eyes by keeping them too near the dust. And we get narrow-minded and selfish by our narrow radius of vision. To become truly rich, we must stand in the dignity of our manhood, walk in the integrity of our calling, and run in the rhythm of a poetic nature. Out of harmony is out of sphere. The dignity, integrity, and poetry of life are all lost by in harmony. Only the ashes of disappointment are left. But with these we can dance at our work, and turn irksome duties into joyous privileges.

Instead of moping in the valley of the shadow of death, we may live in the sunshine, where beautiful flowers and luscious fruits and delicious sweets grow. Yes, yes, we might as well live in light as in darkness, make life a joyful song as a funeral dirge, live amid glory as shame. With a radiant countenance, a beaming eye, and a loving hand, we can do more work and have more to do. We can get more out of life and have more life to enjoy. We can scatter more sunshine and have more left for ourselves. Christ came to bring to every toiler heaven. Let us get into it quickly. It is here, and here only, that we find the poetry of life.

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Floyd. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Don't Care Girl About the worst girl in all this world is the girl who doesn't care what people think or say about her conduct, the girl who goes to every hop, to every party, who stays out late at night with the boys, who hangs over the gate and talks to them. And who cuts a number of foolish capers, and then when anyone speaks to her, shoots her head way up in the air and turns up her nose, if she can, and says boldly, Oh, I don't care. Nobody has anything to do with me. She is the worst girl in the world, and she will never come to any good end. Every girl who is a law unto herself in regard to all that she says or does is certain not only to bring upon herself the condemnation of those whose good opinion is worthwhile to have, but she will most certainly incur the punishment of a just God.

And sometimes, I'm sorry to say, I think that when a girl profoundly declares that she doesn't care for the good opinion of others, she does so because she knows that she has already lost all right to that good opinion. It is wrong, boys and girls, to undertake to run roughshod over the so-called prejudices of the public. It is a foolish thing to take delight in trying to shock people by your boisterous and unladylike and unbecoming conduct. Every really wise and nice girl does care a good deal for the good opinion of others, and particularly for the good opinion of persons older than she is. She recognizes the fact that the laws of conventionality and of good society are based upon what is right and what is proper, and that no girl can with propriety set them at naught.

Some girls go so far as to say that they don't care what their own fathers and mothers think. The wild girl who says this is setting at defiance not only the human parental law, but also the law of God, which plainly commands children to obey their parents. Haven't you ever seen a don't-care girl? She is nearly always reckless in manner and speech. She is bold and defiant. She is impudent beyond mention, and she is very fond of ridiculing girls who do care a great deal what others think about them. No matter whose children they are, no matter what schools they have attended, these don't-care girls are no good, and good girls ought not to associate with them. Every day such flippant girls are treading on dangerous ground, and some day, unless a merciful God prevents it, she will come to open disgrace and die and go into torment.

I am hoping to see the day when all the don't-care girls will have passed out of existence, and then all our girls will be of the refined and womanly kind who do care a great deal about their conduct, their manners, and their morals. I don't want my daughter to associate with any other kind. A Prayer As the potter molds the clay, slowly, gently, day by day, till at length he brings to pass beauty from a shapeless mass. So, dear Lord, with patient art, take thou now my forward heart, and, O Lord, in love divine, mold and make me wholly thine. Frederick Douglass to Young People Shortly before he died, Frederick Douglass made a tour through the South. Among other places he visited, Atlanta University.

At that place he made an address to the young people. It is so full of hope and help that I wanted to place it where every ambitious black boy and girl in America can see it. It has never been published before, except in the Bulletin of Atlanta University. Mr. Douglas said, My young friends, I see before me an assemblage of young people, full of the blood of youth, just entering upon the voyage of life. It is an interesting spectacle to me, as to us all, to meet such an assembly as I see before me this morning in an institution of learning, of knowledge, and of ethics, and of Christian graces. I experience great pleasure in what I see today. There is no language to describe my feelings. It was no mere image that John saw and described in the Apocalypse.

It was a new heaven and a new earth indeed. When I look back upon the time when I was a fugitive slave, I recollect the evils and cruelty of slave-hunting. No mountain was so high. No valley was so deep. No glen so secluded. No place so sacred to liberty that I could put my foot upon it and say I was free. But now I am free. Contrasting my condition then and now, the change exceeds what John saw upon the Isle of Patmos. A change vast and wonderful that came by the fulfilling of laws. We got freed by laws, marvelous in our eyes. Men, brave men, good men, who had the courage of their convictions, The people who were arrested and subjected to persecutions, mobs, lawlessness, violence. They had the conviction of truth.

Simple truth lasts forever. Be not discouraged. There is a future. The Negro degraded, indolent, lazy, indifferent to progress, is not objectionable to the average public mind. Only as we rise in the scale of proficiency do we encounter opposition. When we see a ship that lies rotting in the harbor, it seems yawning, its sides broken in, taking water and sinking. It meets with no opposition. But when its sails are spread to the breeze, its top sails and its royals flying, then there is resistance. The resistance is in proportion to its speed. In Memphis three Negro men were lynched, not because they were low and degraded, but because they knew their business and other men wanted their business.

I am delighted to see you all. Don't be despondent. Don't measure yourselves from the white man's standpoint, but measure yourselves by the depths from which you have come. I measure from these depths, and I see what Providence has done. Daniel Webster said in his speech at the dedication of Bunker Hill Monument, Bunker Hill Monument is completed. There it stands, a memorial of the past, a monitor of the present, a hope of the future. It looks, speaks, acts. So this assembly is a monitor of the present, a memorial of the past, a hope of the future. I see boys and girls around me. Boys, you will be men some day. Girls, you will be women some day. May you become good men and women, intelligent men and women, a credit to yourselves and your country.

I thank you for what I have experienced today, and I leave you reluctantly, and shall always carry with me the pleasantest impressions of this occasion. A Good Fellow. He was a good fellow. He spent his money like a prince. There was nothing too good for him to do for those whom he kept company. He lived rapidly, and had no thought of tomorrow. He burned the candle of life at both ends. Today he is dead, and those vampires who sucked his life's blood and helped him to spend his money have no time to give him one thought. Ah, how insincere and empty is the title of good fellow! When it is applied to the man whose money is always on tap for those who are desirous of having a good time. And how corrupt and undesirable are the so-called friendships which spring from a lavish expenditure of money.

Boys, the roof over your heads covers the best friend you could possibly have on earth. Those who slap you on the shoulder and say hilariously, good boy, are seldom ever worth their salt. They like you for what they can get out of you. That's all. Real happiness in this world comes, if at all, from living right and doing right. If you are a good fellow in the sense of giving everybody a good time with your hard-earned means, I warn you that, when your money gives out, all your friends will desert you, and when you die they will be the last ones to come near you, and may even laugh at what a fool you made of yourself. The Future of the Negro My dear boys and girls, I have written nearly 100 stories for this book, and I have not said one word about the so-called race problem.

I have done this on purpose. I believe that the less you think about the troubles of the race, and the less you talk about them, and the more time you spend in hard and honest work, believing in God and trusting Him for the future, the better it will be for all concerned. I know, of course, that the sufferings which are inflicted upon the colored people in this country are many and grievous. I know that we are discriminated against in many ways, on common carriers, in public resorts, and even in private life. The right to vote is being taken away from us in nearly all the southern states. Lynchings are on the increase. Not only our men, but our women also are being burned at the stake. What shall we do?

There are those who say that we must strike back, use fire and torch and sword and shotgun ourselves. But I tell you plainly that we cannot afford to do that. The white people have all the courts, all the railroads, all the newspapers, all the telegraph wires, all the arms and ammunition, and double the men that we have. In every race riot the Negro would get the worst of it, finally. But there is a higher reason than that. We cannot afford to do wrong. We cannot afford to lose our decency, our self-respect, our character. No man will ever be the superior of the man he robs. No man will ever be the superior of the man he steals from. I would rather be a victim than a victimizer. I would rather be wrong than to do wrong.

And no race is superior to the race it tramples on, robs, maltreats, and murders. In spite of prejudice, in spite of proscription, in spite of nameless insults and injuries, we cannot, as a race, afford to do wrong. But we can afford to be patient. God is not dead. His chariots are not unwheeled. It is ordained of God that races, as well as individuals, Shall rise through tribulations. And during this period of stress and strain through which we are passing in this country, I believe that there are unseen forces marshaled in the defenses of our long-suffering and much oppressed people. They that be with us are more than they that be with them. What should we care then, though all the lowlands be filled with threats?

If the mountains of our hope and courage and patience are filled with horses and chariots of divine rescue. The Training of Children My last word shall be to parents. Many parents neglect the training of their children until the boys and girls have grown to be almost men and women, and then they expect all at once to develop them into well-rounded characters, as if by magic. Others fix upon a definite time in life, say ten or twelve years old, before which time they say it is unnecessary to seek to make lasting impressions upon the minds of children, all unconscious of the fact that the character may have been long before that period biased for good or evil. I say it deliberately. It is a deep and abiding conviction with me.

that the time to begin to shape the character of children is as soon as they begin to know their own mothers from other mothers, or as soon as they become awake to the events which are taking place around them. The farmer who has the notion that his child can wait does not dare to let his corn and cotton wait. He has observed that there are noxious weeds which spring up side by side with the seed he has planted, and, marvelous to say, The weeds outgrow the plants. They must, therefore, be cut down and kept down, or else they will ruin the crop. Side by side with your tender babe in arms, there are growing now, dear mothers, the poisonous tares. They are rooted already in the child's heart, and unless they are stricken down pretty soon, they will dominate the child's life.

And, of course, there is only one way to destroy evil. That is, to plant good in its stead. If there is one untenanted chamber in your child's heart, inhabit it, I pray you, with nobler and purer thoughts which before long shall bring forth fruit unto God. Satan does not wait, I assure you. He never allows a vacancy to remain unoccupied in anybody's heart, old or young. He rushes into empty hearts and idle lives and soles tares thicker than the strewn leaves of autumn. It is an old and senseless and barbarian custom which has taught us that the child can wait or must wait. If anybody must wait at a table to be served, it is usually the little child, who may be the hungriest of all. If someone must remain away from church or Sunday school, It is often the youngest child, who perhaps needs most to go.

If someone must be kept out of the day school, it is the smallest child, of course. And during the year that he remains idle, he may receive impressions and learn lessons that will mar his whole future life. Let us have done with this barbaric practice. Make room for the children. Give them not only the first place, but the best place. In almost any city in the South, any Sunday in the year, you will find more children, more boys and girls, outside of the Sunday schools than you will find inside. There is a loud and crying call surrounding from the past and from the future, and bidding mothers and fathers to be more diligent in the matter of having their children embrace opportunities of growth and spiritual culture which are almost within a stone's throw.

If mothers and fathers will not hear and obey this clarion call, I believe they will be brought to account for it in the day of judgment. Not only so, but in the years to come they will be compelled to wail out their sorrow over prodigal sons and daughters, who might have proven to be ornaments to society and to the Church if their parents had devoted half the care upon them that they expended upon colts and calves, kittens and puppies that grew up with them. In all earnestness I implore those to whom God has given winsome little children to begin early, as early as they find it possible, to train their young lives for God and heaven. Let their little voices learn early to lisp the precious name of Jesus and be attuned to sing his praise.

If you leave them this legacy, than which there is none greater, there will come peace and joy to your old age and the light of heaven. And now, as I close these stories, there comes to me across the intervening space of silence and of tears fond memories of a sweet and patient mother. I cannot remember when she began to talk to me of Jesus, nor read to me the Word of God. I remember well when she taught me how to read. And the old-fashioned blue-back spelling book is as plainly before me now as in those long past days. But, long before that, I had heard her read the Bible and raise her voice in prayer for all whom she loved. And today those memories live when a thousand busy scenes of afterlife lie dead.

And when old age comes on, if God should spare me to be old. The memory of my mother's words and her reverential prayers will be at the brightest of all the joys that shall light up the evening of my life.

queue_music Chapters 15