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Ebook has 114 lines and 13549 words, and 3 pages

"I wish I were, with all my heart, old fellow," said Stuart, with the utmost heartiness. "I worked like a Jehu to get ready to enter, but I didn't accomplish it; never mind, just you look out for me next fall. I'll be there as sure as my name is Milburn."

"Stuart," his Cousin Robert said, a little later, as they were coming up the walk together, "I wish you were going this road to heaven with me," and Stuart answered nothing and looked annoyed and wished his cousin would let him alone. Now, if you see any sense to that you see more than I do.

As to the "old maids" there was only one of them in his uncle's family, and as she was his own mother's own sister, and he had often been heard to say that she was the very best old aunty that a fellow ever had, one would think he might have excused her for wanting him to go to heaven where his mother had been waiting for him for three years.

However he didn't. It was her softly spoken sentence as they rose from prayers that morning: "I prayed for you all the time, Stuart," that had sent him off in a pet with his fishing rod over his shoulder.

"You may go along," he said to Tiger; "thank fortune you can't talk; if you could no doubt you would ask me to go to prayer-meeting to-night. What a preaching set they are! I wish I had known it, and I would have steered clear of them and gone home with Randolph. Well, I'll have one good day; there isn't a house within four miles of the point where I am gointa and fishes can't preach. I will live in rest for one morning. We will have some good rational enjoyment all by ourselves, won't we, Tiger? And carry home a string of trout for Aunt Mattie, to pay her for looking so sober at us this morning."

Saying which he snapped his fingers cheerily at the dog, and sent him in search of a ground squirrel, and made believe that he was perfectly happy. What do you suppose came into Stuart's mind and heart before he had held his rod in the water ten minutes, and followed him up with a persistent voice all the morning? Nothing so very new nor strange, nothing but what he had known ever since he was a little boy five years old, and had stood at his mother's knee, one summer Sunday morning, and said it to her; it was just this little verse: "Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men."

It was wonderful with what a clear voice that seemed to be said over in his ear. He looked around him once, startled, half expecting to see some one, and once he muttered: "I was mistaken, I see, about the fishes; they have caught the preaching fever, and can do it as well as any of them."

But afterwards there came a wiser thought; those were the words of Jesus Christ; what if he were repeating them in his ear. Did he really and truly want him, Stuart Milburn, to follow him?

"Pshaw," said Satan, "that was said to the fishermen at Galilee hundreds of years ago." Still came the mysterious sentence: "Follow me;" "fishers of men!" he said over aloud; "what a strange idea. Worth while, though, to catch men. I should like to be able to lead people. They wouldn't be led, though, I suppose any more than I will."

Over and over sounded the verse, "Follow me." Stuart grew very grave. The moments passed; a fish jerked and wriggled at the end of his line in vain; he did not notice it. Tiger jumped at his heels and talked loudly in his way, but the fisher paid no attention. An important question was being settled.

Suddenly he jerked out his rod, threw back the fish into the water and wound up his line.

"Come, Tiger," he said; "let's you and I go to the woods and find the boys; I have made up my mind to 'follow.'"

Up in her own little room at home, his Cousin Sarah, who was just Stuart's age, and thought he was almost perfect, locked her door and prayed this prayer:

"Dear Jesus: He has got vexed at us all and gone off fishing, by himself. Don't let him have a good time at all; don't let him have any more good times until he finds them in thee."

RAY'S MORNING.

There is a little nestling among the bed-clothes, and then a ringing voice says: "Well, mamma, here I am; good-morning. Shall I tell you a nice pretty story this morning, while you comb your hair?"

"Oh, yes, indeed."

"Well, once there was a man named Peter, and a naughty king named Herod put him in prison. Prisons are great big stone houses with iron windows, where they put naughty men. Peter wasn't naughty, but King Herod was; and he fastened him to two soldiers; he put chains around his wrists, you know, and then around each soldier's wrist. Then they locked the doors and locked and bolted the great big gate, and went away. Peter went to sleep; and in the night he heard some one say to him, 'Get up, Peter, quick; and put on your cloak and come with me.' Then Peter opened his eyes, and there stood an angel; then he hurried and put on his cloak and his belt, and they went out, he and Jesus--the angel was Jesus hisself, you know--and they went by the soldier, and the soldier didn't say a word; and Peter wondered and wondered how they would get through that big gate that was locked up so tight; but when they came to it, open it swung--there didn't anybody touch it at all--then they went through and went down the street, and pretty soon Peter turned around to say something to Jesus, and he was gone! He had gone back to heaven, I suppose.

"A splendid story, darling; and every word of it is true. That was your own Jesus that you pray to, who took care of Peter and helped him out of prison."

"I know it am, mamma; I know all about him. Now, shall I tell you another story?"

"Oh, yes; I like your stories when they are as nice as this one."

"Well, now listen; this is my other story and it is all true:

'Neighbor Phinney had a turnip, And it grew behind the barn; And it grew and it grew, an' And it ne'er did any harm.

'And it grew, and it grew, As, until it could grow no better, Then Farmer Phinney took it up And put it in his cellar.

'And it lay, and it lay, Until it began to rot; And his daughter Sarah took it up, And put it in a pot.

'And it boiled, and it boiled, As long as it was able; And his daughter Mary took it up, And put it on the table.

'Then Farmer Phinney and his wife, When they sat down to dine, They ate, and they ate, And they thought that turnip fine.'"

"There, isn't that a nice story, mamma?"

Mamma, feeling a tremendous distance between that story and the last one, concludes that it is time to give the boy his morning bath, and kiss his little tongue into quiet for a few minutes.

NETTIE'S VISIT.

It was July, and the great city was very hot. Day after day the fiery sun rose and blazed away with all his might on the dusty pavements and heated houses. All the people too who could were leaving the city.

But the poor were obliged to stay, no matter how the sun beat down into their narrow streets and small stifling rooms. There had been no rain for a long time; many people were sick and dying, and the world looked very dark to some of them. Mrs. Holmes lived high up in the topmost rooms of a tall block of buildings. Her rooms were small and hot, for the sun shone into her windows and upon the roof all the long day. She was a seamstress and a widow with one little daughter, Nettie.

Mrs. Holmes was very sad and troubled, for Nettie had not been well all the spring, and now she seemed like a little wilted flower; no strength, nor appetite, though mamma denied herself everything that she could to get nice little things to tempt her darling. The doctor had said she must have change of air, must go into the country. He might just as well have said she must go to Europe, for Mrs. Holmes had no dear old home in the country waiting to welcome her; no uncles, aunts and cousins, writing "When will you come?" So she sat through the long afternoon and tried to sew as well as she could with the heat, and the flies, and her sad thoughts.

Nettie was lying on the bed asleep, her little face as white as the pillow.

"She is going to slip right away from me, and leave me alone," the poor mother groaned to herself. "Oh, Father in heaven, help me!" she cried. "Show me what to do for my dear little daughter." The help was nearer than she thought.

"Mamma," said Nettie, sitting up very suddenly, "I had a nice dream; I guess I was in the country, for there were trees all around, and green grass, and birds singing; and such beautiful flowers! Are there any flies there?" she said, as she brushed a troublesome one from her face.

The tears came in her mother's eyes, for she remembered dimly the pleasant cool rooms, darkened by blinds and shade trees, where scarcely a fly dared set it's foot, but that was long ago.

She sat and thought a long time of different persons, wondering what she could do for them. But the thoughts that came oftenest, and would not go away, were of poor sick little Nettie, and her sad young mother.

"Yes, I'll do it," she said; "I wonder I had not thought of it before." Then she went to her writing desk, and wrote a letter and sent it off.

Now let us go and hear it read.

The letter was from Mrs. Bertrand, and it said: "I want you and Nettie to come right away and spend the summer with me. I am sure the fresh air will cure her." But that was not all. There was money enough sent to pay their expenses, and buy them each a traveling dress, and some other things.

I can't tell you much about how Nettie screamed for joy, and how her mother cried, then both laughed, and both cried; but I know that not long after two very happy beings dressed in gray, took the morning boat and were brought safely to Mrs. Bertrand's door. Then how they rode and sailed, and took long rambles, and gathered flowers, and thought the time spent in sleep was wasted.

The favorite seat was in the balcony, where Nettie could watch the sea-gulls come and go, and where you may see them all this minute, Nettie, and her mother, and Mrs. Betrand, with her basket of flowers. Nettie's cheeks are getting round and rosy, and it is hard to say who is happiest of them all; but Mrs. Bertrand must be, because you know it says: "It is more blessed to give than to receive."

WARREN'S VERSE.

He is a little bit of a fellow. He can't read any more than a mouse can; but he is very fond of standing in this way, beside his mother, while she points to the words and pronounces them; then it is easy to read them.

Last Tuesday morning he was reading this verse: "A fool despiseth his father's instruction: but he that regardeth reproof is prudent." There were two listeners to this lesson. Warren's father in the study was having a great hunt after some papers, but in his haste he couldn't help stopping to listen to the sweet little voice repeating the long words.

"Mamma," he called at last, "seems to me that is a long verse, and one almost beyond the little man's understanding isn't it?"

Mamma laughed. "I think so," she said. "But the trouble is Warren doesn't; his sister Laura has been learning this verse, and he wants to."

In the little reading-room opening from the study, Uncle Warren, a gay young chap who was boarding at his sister's, listened and laughed over the words that sounded so queerly, coming from the baby lips. Over and over they were repeated: "A fool despiseth his father's instruction: but he that regardeth reproof is prudent." As he listened Uncle Warren's handsome face grew sober, he was writing letters, and many papers were strewn before him. He took up one of them and read it over:

"Dear old fellow:--You have buried yourself in your sister's arms long enough. Don't be tied to her apron-string; come down to-night, we are going to have a real jolly time in Joe's room. Mum is the word."

Uncle Warren laid it down again and took up another. It read:

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