All this happened years ago when the red men lived along the lake shores and hunted in the woods. The Indians still tell the tale and shake their heads sadly, whether because of the sadness of the story or because they sigh for the old days, I do not know.
Willow Wand was the daughter of old Chief Seafog. She was not like the other girls of the tribe. She was straight and lithe like a willow, and she looked more like a beautiful boy than she did like an Indian maiden. This is not strange when you think that she wore the leather leggins and the short jacket of the Indian boy and carried a bow and quiver of arrows thrown over her shoulder. And in spite of the fact that she shot a straighter arrow than most of the lads about her, they all loved her, for she would run with them and hunt with them, and at night, by the fire, she would tell them strange and beautiful stories. In her face they saw a light that they did not see in the faces of the other girls and squaws of the village, for Willow Wand had a secret which made her full of mysteries.
As Willow Wand grew taller, the time came when she thought of wedding. Young Fir Tree, the most daring of the young braves, loved her, and Willow Wand knew that she loved him. And when Fir Tree went to old Chief Seafog, Willow Wand went with him, which made it not difficult for them to receive the old man’s blessing. 70
So on one brilliant day in Indian summer, Fir Tree and Willow Wand were married. The fallen leaves danced at their wedding feast and the blue mists of autumn were the bridal veil. Every one was as happy as an Indian could be. And in the starlight, Fir Tree took Willow Wand to his tepee. He brought a great buffalo robe from the tent and spread it on the hillside, and they sat down close together and looked up at the stars.
“I love you, my brave Fir Tree,” said Willow Wand.
Fir Tree put his arm about her. “And I love you, my little Willow Wand,” he said. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world. I would not have you like the rest. They are good; they grind the corn; they do the work, but their faces are like stones. Yours is full of secrets and lovely memories. What makes you so different, my love?”
“My secret, Fir Tree. My father says that a woman’s secret is her beauty.”
“But a woman must tell her secret to her love,” and Fir Tree looked off into the distance.
“Willow Wand must not tell her secret even to her love,” she said very, very softly.
“You cannot trust me nor love me then, Willow Wand,” said Fir Tree, growing stiff and cold.
“I love you, Fir Tree. I will tell you my secret.”
Fir Tree continued to look off in the darkness, but he bent his head a little so that he might not miss anything she said.
“One night, long ago, I sat out in the evening like this with my father. ‘Father, I want to shoot your bow, your smallest bow,’ I said. ‘You haven’t the strength to draw it, even my smallest bow, little Willow Wand,’ he said. ‘Oh, but I have. I have tried it,’ and I ran into the tent and brought the little bow with the red bear painted on it. ‘See, I shall shoot that star, the red one there.’ I 71 pulled the string and the arrow was off. We waited to hear it fall. ‘It takes a long time to reach the stars,’ I said. Just then there was a splash in the jar by the tepee door. ‘There it is,’ said my father, ‘your star has fallen into the rain jar.’
“I looked, and, sure enough, there was the little red star, lying on the bottom of the crock, and shining so brightly that we could see it through the water. ‘My star!’ I said. ‘We shall always keep it here, my father. I brought it down with my arrow.’
“The next day my father took me hunting, and he gave orders that that jar was never to be moved from beside his door until I should leave him, and then it was to go with me. And always he has kept fresh water from the spring in the jar. See, he has brought it up here beside your tepee that it would be waiting for me. Yes, my Fir Tree, see, here is my own star still shining brightly—more brightly to-night because of my great happiness with you.”
“Dear little Willow Wand, what a beautiful child you are,” said Fir Tree, and he brushed back her black hair and looked into her eyes. “Don’t you know that the star in the crock is only a reflection of a real star above your dear head in the sky? No one can really shoot a star, Willow Wand.”
“But of course it is a real star, Fir Tree; we heard it splash as it fell into the jar, my father and I. And I see it now; it has always been here since that night. You are mistaken, Fir Tree.”
Fir Tree rose and lifted up the jar, and, tipping the water out, said, “See, I shall show you that Fir Tree is never mistaken. I shall empty the crock. See, there is no star left in the jar, nor has any red star tumbled out with the water onto the grass. Ah, your secret was very beautiful, little Willow Wand, but now you know the truth. The truth, too, is beautiful.” 72
There was a little moan of anguish, and Willow Wand disappeared into the darkness.
The next morning a tall squaw came out of Fir Tree’s tepee. She picked up the empty rain jar and with tired footsteps walked down to the spring for water. She was dressed in the conventional clothing of her tribe, and her face was dull and expressionless like the stones on the path over which she walked. Down the long trail to the spring she walked. It was very, very early, so the moon still shone and the little stars twinkled in the sky. Often she looked at them, longing for her little red star.
Slowly she stooped, filled the jar, and lifted it to place it on her head when suddenly she stopped, looked—then gave a cry of surprise and delight, for there, shining clear as crystal in the water of the pail, was the little red star.
Willow Wand set the jar carefully on the ground and then knelt long beside it. How she loved the little red star! How happy she was to have it once more beside her! And as she looked, the tired look left her face and a smile of joy and peace took its place.
Picking up the jar, she looked once more into the clear cold water. Then she said,
“Come, little star. Come with me to the wigwam of brave, strong Fir Tree. Together we will make it the happiest wigwam in the encampment. You shall still help me to be my best, for I shall still have a star.”
Reprinted from the Camp Fire Girls’ Magazine by permission. Revised by permission of the author.
Peter was tired of doing the same thing over and over and he wanted a change. Ever since he could remember he had fished and sold the fish he had caught. He had made nets and mended them. First he had done it for his father, and now he owned the boats and nets and fishing implements. But he stood on that bright summer day close by the beautiful Lake of Gennesaret in Galilee, wishing over and over that he could do something that was more worth while.
There was a reason why Peter was more discouraged than ever on this morning. He had fished all through the night before in the hope of getting a good catch so that he might skip a day’s work and go to hear the great teacher about whom men were talking and whom Andrew, his brother, had seen. But though he had worked hard, not a fish had he caught. So now he was mending the holes in the net with a very discontented look on his face. What was the use of it all, anyway? He twisted the rope this way and that, showing by the pulls that he made that his mind was full of trouble.
Suddenly he heard Andrew talking to him. “Peter,” he said. “Peter, see the crowd coming over the hilltop. Perhaps the teacher is coming. I do hope so, for I would hear more of the words he was telling us yesterday. Come, let’s go and meet him.”
“No,” said Peter, “I must finish this net. What will he care for us? We are only poor fishermen.”
But Andrew had not waited to hear his answer—he 74 had already begun to ascend the hill. How eager he was to hear another story from the great story-teller!
Peter mended one hole after another, keeping his eye on the crowd that was coming closer and closer to the lakeside. Then he heard a kindly voice say, “Would you mind letting me take your boat, for the multitude press upon me and I have many things to say to them. If I can get away from the shore, they can all hear and understand.”
Silently Peter brought the fishing boat to shore. The Master wanted to use something that he had. After all, a fishing boat was useful sometimes, even if he were tired of it. Of course he would be glad to help him. So Jesus, the teacher, sat in the end of the boat and Peter rowed him out in front of the crowd. Then Peter sat and listened and looked.
What a wonderful face the teacher had! Peter had never seen the like. It was browned by the sun but in the eyes there was a kindly light that made Peter love to look at him. When he smiled, somehow Peter felt the smile go all through him. How gentle his voice was! What made it so? How eagerly the people were listening, yet he was only telling them a little story about the love of his father, God.
“I wish I had a face like that and a voice like that and could teach like that,” thought Peter. “But I am only a poor fisherman. Oh dear, I wish I could be worth something.”
But Jesus had finished teaching and had bidden the people go to their homes. Peter turned to row to the shore, but Jesus was not ready for that. He had been teaching the multitude and now he wanted a chance to talk with Peter and Andrew. So he said to Peter,
“Launch out into the deep and let us fish for a while.”
Peter thought of the long night of useless toil, but 75 Jesus had asked him to go. This was a chance to stay longer with the teacher, so he said to him frankly,
“Master, we have toiled all night and caught nothing. Nevertheless, at your word, I will let down the net.”
So together the brothers let down the net and Peter began to row.
This was a good chance for Jesus to study Peter. How strong and weatherbeaten he looked! His was a good honest face, and Jesus saw there determination and courage and trustworthiness. Jesus was searching for men who could be trusted to carry in their minds and lives the most precious thing he had—his message to the world—so as he rowed out into the fishing grounds of Lake Gennesaret that day, he was searching Peter’s face. It would take courage, for some of his followers would even have to die for him. It would take determination, for there would be many things against them. Yes, Jesus liked Peter as he watched him and talked to him. Peter was one of the men for whom he was searching.
Suddenly the net was full of fishes—so full that Peter and Andrew could not manage it. Quickly they called to their partners, James and John, to come and help them. And when Peter saw the multitude of fishes that were in the net, he was overpowered with the greatness of the man who had helped them. Quickly he fell on his knees before the Christ and said, “Depart from me, O Lord, for I am a sinful man.”
Then Jesus turned to Peter and with a whole world of meaning said,
“Peter, it is a great multitude of fishes that you have caught, but you can do greater things than that. You can do far greater things than catch fish from the water. If you will come with me, I will teach you how to catch men and you shall be my worker. I need you, Peter. Will you come?” 76
Would he come? Peter, who had been longing to make his life worth while; Peter, who had been longing to know what it was that made Jesus so wonderful as he went among men. Would he go and let Jesus teach him? Would he be a follower of the Master and go out in the big world to help win men?
A great happiness filled the mind of Peter and when he lifted his face to the Christ, the answer to the question of the Teacher was written on it.
So Jesus found a helper and Peter found a task that was worth while.
“And when he had brought his boat to land, he gladly forsook all and followed Christ.” So well did he follow that we read in the Book of Acts that after Peter had talked to the multitude on the day of Pentecost, there were added to the church, at one time, three thousand persons who believed the word that he had spoken to them.
The Triangle Club of Center High School were all busily engaged in choosing the girls whom they should invite to go to the house party which Mrs. Warren was giving them. Mrs. Warren had a cottage on a lake, fifteen miles from the city, and she had written to the club saying that she wanted them all to spend a week with George, her son, there in the camp. And better still, she was ready to invite any ten girls whom they might choose. Mrs. Warren was the wife of the minister, so all the boys knew that the mothers of the girls would be glad to have them spend a week with her at the dear little camp in the pines, about which they had heard so much.
One by one they had chosen the girls, each boy having a choice, and now all that was left to be done was for Carl Green, their president, to choose. But Carl was in an examination, so they must wait for him.
“I think he will choose Charlotte Morey,” said one. “She is so pretty and Carl has taken her to several dances this winter.”
“Not a bit of it,” said another. “He will ask Helen Keats, for she makes such good marks in school that he is glad to be seen out with her. She is fine company and I hope he asks her.”
“I think he will ask his sister, Jane. Carl is always thinking of her and if she is at home, he will ask her first, I am sure,” said a third.
While they were talking, they saw the boy coming across the lawn in front of the school. Every boy smiled 78 and eagerly leaned forward to greet him, for Carl Green was easily their hero. He could lead in sports of all kinds, he was cheery and patient, he was a good student in school—he was an all-round boy and what he did was right in the eyes of the boys.
“Come on, Carl,” they called. “Here is a letter from Mrs. Warren telling us we can invite the girls up for the house party. Isn’t she a dear to think of it? We have chosen part of the girls and here is our list, but you still have a choice. Of course we know whom you will choose, but we thought we had better let you write the name. Come on! Hurry up.”
Carl took the list and looked carefully through it. Then he said,
“That will be a fine party, fellows. I like that list. Let me see. That is the last week in June, so Jane will be away. I’m sorry, for I should have liked to have given her the fun. Well, as long as she can’t go, I should like to ask Elizabeth Wyman to go with us.”
A chorus of boys’ voices sounded as soon as the name was spoken.
“Elizabeth Wyman! Why do you want her? She doesn’t go with our set. She refused to go to the dance at the beach with us, though the whole club was going. Said she didn’t like the movie we were going to see. She wouldn’t vote for the Sunday picnic that we wanted. Oh, Carl, you don’t want her. She would spoil our fun. Choose another.”
Carl let the boys talk all they chose and then he said,
“Fellows, if you insist, I will choose another, but I should prefer to take Elizabeth. I’ll be frank with you, I’m going to go with her if she will let me and this would be a fine opportunity to get to know her.”
“If she will let you—that is a joke. As if any girl would not let you,” said John. 79
“No,” said Carl, “I mean what I say. I am going to be her friend if she will let me. And I’ll tell you why—though I am not sure that she would want me to do it. Still she told me the story in a very frank way, so I don’t think she would mind. At least I hope not. But I want you to know her in the way I do, for if she is my friend you will be often with her. After I tell you, you will understand why I say, ‘If she will let me.’”
“It was the night of the snowstorm and I was coming up the street when I caught up with her. It was very cold and she was snuggling into a beautiful little neckpiece of ermine. I am fond of furs and so I said to her,
“‘I like the little ermine that you have about your neck. It is so simple, yet so beautiful. It is very different from the large ones that most people wear these days.’
“‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I like it too. Uncle sent it to me this winter and I love it because of the story he told me about the little animal whose fur it is.’
“‘Tell me the story,’ I said.
“But she smiled and patted the fur as she said, ‘I don’t think I could, for it is very personal. It was a message from Uncle to me, so it means much to me. To you, it might not mean anything.’
“‘But I should like to hear it,’ I said. ‘Please tell it to me.’
“‘Well,’ said Elizabeth, ‘Uncle seems very queer to mother because he wants a message to go with every gift, but I like it. When this came, his letter said:
“‘“Girlie: I wonder if you wouldn’t like to wear this bit of ermine. When the ermine is pursued by a larger animal and it comes to a puddle of mud, it will die before it will soil its coat. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you and all the girls who are your friends would be as careful 80 of your characters and never, no never, do that which would soil them?”’
“We walked part of a block before we spoke after she had told me of the gift, and then she said, ‘I am sure that the girls at school sometimes think me very particular because I will not do some of the things that they do. Perhaps they are all right for them but I feel that they would soil my coat, so I do not do them. I am trying to keep it white and this little bit of ermine helps a lot. Of course, I like to wear it, but it would be very uncomfortable if I did not try. I hope you don’t think me foolish, now that you know the story of the fur.’”
There was silence as Carl finished speaking. Then Carl Green threw back the long locks from his forehead as he said,
“I know a good thing when I see it, fellows, and the girl who would die rather than soil her character is a mighty good friend for a boy to have. She is worth asking to our house party. I’m thinking she is worth winning for a friend. Good-by, I am going to ask her before any of you change the name on your list.”
So Elizabeth Wyman went to the house party at Mrs. Warren’s, and to this day she wonders why the boys seemed so different from what they had seemed before. But because she knew no difference, she was sure that it must have been because she was invited by Carl Green, the leader of the Triangle Club of Center High School. But you and I know better.
Janie was sixteen years old, but she looked as though she might be only thirteen as she sat on the front seat of the little schoolhouse far up on the mountainside of Kentucky. Her black hair was plastered tightly to her head. Her calico dress was much too long and the sleeves were much too short. Mother had made it long so that she might wear it for several years, while the sleeves were short so that she might have no excuse for not getting her hands in the dish water. Her bare feet were very dirty but her face shone from its recent scrubbing.
This was a great day for Janie, for the missionary had once again come to the schoolhouse. It had been three years since she was there before, and all that time Janie had waited for her. So she had hurried with her work in order that she might sit on the very front seat and hear every word. Last time she had told much about the school many miles away and Janie had said over and over to herself, “I shall go there; I shall go there.” But of course it was foolish to say so, for there wasn’t any chance that she ever could go. Why, there were seven brothers and sisters younger than she, and she had to work all day long to help to get them enough to eat. She could never go.
But she listened eagerly as the missionary told of all that was being done in the little schoolhouses all about the mountains and of the need of teachers to do the work.
“We like best to take a boy or girl from some hamlet 82 and let them work with us for several years and then send them back to their own homes to serve there. I am wondering if there isn’t a girl here who would like to be the teacher here and help to make Round Creek what it ought to be. If there is such a one, send them to us and we will do our best. If you will pay $10 a term, we will do the rest.”
Janie’s little body was leaning far forward and her eyes were big with excitement. She knew a girl that would like to go. But $10 a term! Why, one dollar seemed big in their home. So she crept out into the darkness of the night without saying a word to any one about her great, big longing. But up in the loft of the log house she lay long after the rest went to sleep trying to think of a way. Auntie was coming to stay with them in the fall. If she could just get the ten dollars by that time, maybe she could be spared for a term. That would help a little, anyway.
In the morning she loosened one of the boards of the woodshed. Beneath it she placed a little tin can, and in the can she put the five pennies that she owned. It was berry time and she thought she knew of a way to earn some money that should be all her own. Near the mill, there were beautiful pieces of bark. In the woods there were many rare ferns. She would make some little baskets like she had made many times for the home, fill them with ferns and try to sell them when she went into the town with the berries. It meant getting up at four instead of five, but she could do that. It meant getting the ferns when the rest of the children were playing at lunch time—but that wasn’t hard. And after her first day in town she had fifty cents to put into the cup. Oh, how rich she felt!
An extra quart of berries here and there, some flowers sold from her little garden patch on the hill, two little 83 kittens sold instead of being drowned—and so the money in the cup grew very, very slowly and no one dreamed it was there. But her dream grew with the contents of the cup. She could see herself all dressed in a neat dress going up the hill to the school and the little children following her and calling her teacher.
But in August, George fell from the hay-mow and for days he lay there white and still. Mother had done all she could and there was no money to send for the doctor. Then it was that a little black-haired girl went out in the shed and for the first time counted the money in the cup—one, two, three, four, five, six, almost seven dollars. Long she looked at it. Then she went into town to do the errand for her mother and five of the precious dollars were counted into the hands of the doctor with the repeated statement,
“Tell mother that you happened to be going by and just stopped, so all she needs to pay you is a dollar, for she has that.”
So mother never knew, nor did the sick boy know, of the sacrifice the girl had made. Auntie came and went, and because it was winter the money in the cup hardly increased one bit. Sometimes she was almost discouraged, but then she would say to herself,
“Why, it took years and years for Abraham Lincoln to get to the White House. It doesn’t matter if it takes twenty years. I am going to get to that schoolhouse. I will be a teacher.”
She could crochet and she could embroider, so these helped a bit. She planted more things in her own garden and the money from these was her own. So again as the summer drew to a close, she knew there must be several dollars in the cup—but she daren’t count it, for if it should be ten and still she couldn’t go—oh, that would be worse than all! 84
It was five days before school was to open that there came a letter from grandmother saying that she was coming to stay for the winter, and while mother was happy over this, Janie asked if she might not be spared to go to school. At first there was a firm “No” for an answer. But she begged so hard to be allowed to go for only one term that she saw signs of relenting in her mother’s face. Then she ran to get the cup—and in it was nearly nine dollars.
Where should she get the rest? Mother had none—yet she must have it. There was only one way. She could sell Biddy, her pet hen whom she loved so much. She would ask her brother to take her in the morning, for she could never do it herself. So with tears in her eyes, she patted her pet and put it into a box ready for the morning. Oh! ten dollars was such a lot of money for a little girl to get!
It was thirty miles to the school, so she had only one day to get ready. But she had few clothes and so it was an easy matter. She put them neatly in a bundle and with a queer feeling underneath the little red dress, now too short instead of too long, she started bright and early to walk the thirty miles to school. Many times she turned to look back at the little log cabin till it was hidden from her sight by a turn in the road. Then somehow she felt very much alone in the world.
On and on she walked till at last, twenty miles from home, she came to the home of an old neighbor and rested for the night. It was two in the afternoon of the next day when she saw in the distance the large brick building which she knew must be the school. She longed to run to it but her feet were very sore and her body was very tired. So she trudged on till she came to the office.
“Please, Miss, I have come to school. I can only stay one term but I came anyway and here is the money. The 85 missionary lady said you would do the rest,” and she handed her the precious money.
“And to whom did you write about entering?” said the lady kindly.
“To nobody. You see I didn’t know I could come till Tuesday,” said Janie.
“Well, I am so sorry,” said the lady, “but you see we have all the girls we can possibly take. So we can’t have you this term. Perhaps you could come next term if you leave your name now.”
The whole world seemed to fall from under Janie’s feet. She was here, thirty miles from home. She had all the money—she had sold dear old Biddy—yet she could not stay. Not a word did she answer. She just stood and stared into space.
“I am very tired for I have walked thirty miles to get here. May I stay just for to-night?” she asked, rolling the ten dollars carefully in her big handkerchief.
“School doesn’t open till to-morrow but we will tuck you in somewhere for to-night. I am so sorry for you, but we just haven’t a bit of room after to-morrow. Sit down on the porch and rest yourself,” said the lady.
She brought her a glass of milk and then left her alone with her thoughts. How could she go home? Perhaps there would never come a time when she could be spared again. Was there no way in which she could stay?
Ten minutes later, a little girl in a short red calico dress went down the steps and along the street, looking for a doctor’s sign. When she found it, she rang the bell and asked for the doctor.
“Please, sir,” she said, “I thought you might know some one who wanted a girl to work for them. I want to go to school this term and I have earned the money to come. And now that I am here, there is no place for 86 me and I must walk the thirty miles back. But I am willing to work. I will work for nothing if only I can go to the school in the afternoon. Sir, I just must be a teacher and I just must stay now and get started.”
The doctor whistled a little tune before he answered. “And tell me how you earned the money to come.” Then he whistled another tune as she talked. “Stay here to-night,” he said. “I will find out at the school just how much they will let you come in the afternoons. I am sure you can find work enough, so don’t worry.”
And sure enough, he found a place for her and so she started with the rest on the very first morning. She was radiantly happy till she heard a boy say,
“Look at the red dress that is coming in! Better loan her a red handkerchief to piece it down with.”
Then she knew that she was different from the rest. Her shoes were coarse and rough. Her hair looked, oh, so different. Her hands were red and big. She was here where she had longed to come but oh, how unhappy she was! She was almost ready to cry. Instead she shook her head proudly and said to herself, “I will be a teacher. What do I care if they laugh?”
The lessons were very hard, for her preparation was not good; every minute that she could spare she must spend on getting ready for the next day, so she had little time to be lonely. But she still minded the fact that her clothes were so very different. Many a good cry she had in the quiet of her little room as she looked at the red dress laid out for the coming day.
The term sped by and she was making good. Oh, if she could only stay! But she had no money except the little that the good doctor had given her now and then for doing errands for him. She could take her books home and perhaps she could do it all by herself.
So she waited till almost the last day before she told 87 the woman for whom she worked that she was leaving.
“Why, girlie,” she answered, “you have much more than ten dollars coming from me. I have never paid you because the doctor told me you would ask for it if you needed it. I will give it to you and then you can go and pay your ten dollars. I wouldn’t have you go home for anything.”
Clasping her precious money in her hand, she flew up the stairs. Here was a letter from her brother also. What a happy day! Eagerly she opened it and read,
“Mother is counting on your coming home for we need your help badly. The cow has died and we are without milk till we can get another. Mother thinks she must spare you at home and let you work out to earn money.”
Oh! Oh! She was needed! She must take the money she had earned to help to buy a cow and again she must forget school. So she went again to her mistress, told her story and began to prepare for the long walk. She went to the school, borrowed the books, and promised them she would surely come again. Then she went again to the old doctor who had been so kind to her.
He listened thoughtfully as she told him of her new plans which still had not changed her vision of being a teacher.
“I will come back, even though it be after four or five years. I will come,” she said, and she rose to go.
Then the doctor turned to his desk and took from it the picture of a girl.
“That was my little girl,” he said. “She, too, wanted to be a teacher and she was in this very school when sickness and death came. When you came to me that first morning and said, ‘I just must be a teacher,’ I could hear her say to me, ‘Help her.’ So I did what you asked 88 me to do—got you a place to work for nothing though I knew you were to be paid. I have watched you work, I have watched you suffer because of the red dress; I have watched you try to do your duty at the sacrifice of yourself. And now that you have done all that you can, I am ready to do the rest. Send the money that you have earned to your mother to help to buy the cow. Come to live here and be my office girl. The money that you earn can go to your mother for I will do for you what I would have done for her and I will do it for her sake and because you have shown me that you are worth while. You shall be a teacher.”
So Janie lived in the home of her new friend. There was help on her lessons, the old red dress went back to the little home in the hills to be worn by some one whom it would fit and in her new, pretty things she could see more plainly—Janie, the teacher.
The banqueting hall of Hotel Northland was crowded to its limit. There were noted men and women from all walks of life. There were many from humble homes. There were those whose beautiful dresses showed that money meant little to them; there were others to whom the price of the banquet ticket had meant sacrifice. It was a merry company that awaited the coming of the guests of the evening.
Cheer after cheer arose when the tall, fine-looking young man took his seat near the center of the guest’s table. He was the newly elected mayor of the city—the youngest mayor they had ever had. He had risen from the ranks and many of the humbler folk knew him well as a boy. Oh, how proud they were of him!
Then again the cheers sounded as an old white-haired lady entered and was placed at the left of the mayor. She it was who had given them their college, their library, their playground. For years and years she had been living away from the town, but still she loved them all and gave of her wealth to make them happy. Her friends were many in the great banqueting hall.
The supper was served and the tables cleared and then the mayor rose to speak. He told of his boyhood, of his struggles at school and college, of his eagerness to enter the political field, of his happiness at his recent election.
“I believe that every man is master of his own fate. I believe in being a self-made man and I mean during these next years when I am to serve you to make it 90 possible for every boy to push his way to a career. One can make himself what he will if only he has grit and courage. I am here to serve you all,” he said.
Not once during the address had the eyes of the little, white-haired lady been taken from the speaker. She seemed studying him rather than his address. So intent was she that she hardly heard the toastmaster introducing her as the friend whom all delighted to honor. Dreamily she arose and said,
“Years and years ago, in this very town there lived a teacher who had ten bright, happy girls in a club. For four years they had played and worked together and they loved each other dearly. Then the husband of the teacher was taken ill and it became necessary for the teacher to go to another continent to live.
“How hard it was for the girls to have her go! But it was harder still for her, for she had wanted to help them through to womanhood. She had tried to help them to see the best but often she had felt that her efforts were all too small. The day came nearer for her to leave and she had asked the girls to spend the last evening with her in her home.
“And they came, each bringing in their hands a little letter, sealed tightly. They were steamer letters for their teacher and they had been written because they had heard her say that she wished she could take with her some idea as to what the girls wanted to be when they had grown, so that she might be thinking of their plans, even though she could not be there to help with them. One by one they laid them on the table till there were ten little letters—heart-to-heart letters to their dear friend.
“Five days later, away out in mid-ocean, the teacher opened the letters and read them over and over to herself. How much they told of the girls!
“Jennie wanted to be a great singer; she wanted to go 91 to New York and study and then go into Grand Opera.
“Katherine wanted to be a Kindergarten teacher. Ah! she had found that because of helping in the church.
“Mary wanted to be a lawyer—a criminal lawyer. Perhaps that desire had grown in their debating club.
“Louise wanted to be a nurse. What a dear faithful girl she had been in helping with the bandages after the great fire in the city!
“So one by one she read their letters and her heart was filled with gratitude that to her it had been given to mold in a little way their lives.”
Then turning to the mayor of the city, the little white-haired lady said,
“Sir, the contents of one of those letters will be of interest to you more than to the rest. I was the teacher of those girls, so I can give you the exact wording of the last letter that I read,
“‘Dear friend: You have asked us to give you our dearest wish. I have many wishes for the future but the wish that I want most of all is to be a fine woman and some day to be a real mother, the kind you have so often told us about.’
“The girl who wrote that letter, sir, became your mother. Fourteen years before you were born, your character was being formed, your ideals were being molded, your future was being safeguarded. I congratulate you, sir, on being elected to the office of mayor; but I congratulate you more for being the child of my little girl of the long ago who at sixteen could write, ‘I want most of all to be a fine, noble woman and some day to be a real mother.’ To her you owe much. Inspire the girls of the town if you plan for great men. A self-made man needs a real mother to build the foundations of his character. There is no other way.”
Then the speaker sat down and there was silence in the banqueting hall.
In their hands the girls carried a scroll; on their backs they carried a bundle, and they were five in number—five girls with rosy cheeks and healthy bodies. But now their cheeks were browned by the sun and their shoulders drooped as they walked by the way.
For they had walked and walked and walked as the morning had turned into noon, and now the afternoon shadows were already falling on the way. Then as the search seemed almost useless, they saw her—the one for whom they had come; the one into whose hands they wished to place their scrolls. Eagerly they watched her as she came slowly toward them dressed in shining white—the Angel Who Rights Things.
When she smiled, they found courage to speak.
“We have come to search for you but we thought we should never find you,” said the oldest of the girls. “We can never grow strong and beautiful if we carry these heavy burdens on our backs. They are much too large for us and we do not like them. We have come to ask you to take them away and make us free. Lo! we have written it all here in our scrolls.”
But the Fairy Who Rights Things drew back as the five handed to her the scrolls which they carried.
“Take away the burdens!” said she. “Oh, no, I could never do that. He that carrieth no burden gaineth no strength. All must carry if they would grow.”
“But we do not like them. If we must have a burden, might we not exchange them? Surely all our friends 93 do not have burdens to carry. We have watched them and we know they have none,” said another girl.
“You are quite mistaken,” said the fairy. “All have burdens to carry. But I can let you choose if you will exchange your own. Let me see what you have brought.”
“Well,” said the first. “Here is mine. I have to go to school. Now father has plenty of money and I shall never have to work. Why should I study and do all the hard work of the school? I hate it all and I want to be free from it. I want to live at home and read, and play, and do as I like.”
“And here is mine,” said the second, lifting it from her back. “I have to go to church every Sunday when I want to sleep. There is nothing there for me and I am so tired of it. But father and mother insist that I go, at least in the morning. I want to be free from the church.”
“Oh,” said the third. “I don’t mind school and I don’t mind going to church but I do mind having to help at home. It is iron and sweep and wash dishes; then wash dishes and sweep and iron. Always something to do when I am in the house. I hate housework and I want to be free from doing it. Mother says all girls should help at home. But it is a big burden.”
“My burden is quite different from the others,” said the fourth. “I cannot dress as I choose. I must wear heavy clothes and low heels. I must dress my hair as if I were old and tidy. All the girls do differently and I want to be like them. Really my burden makes me very unhappy. Please let me change it.”
Then the fairy turned to the last girl, who had been resting her burden against a stone wall.
“What have you here, dear?” she said kindly. “Your burden seems weighing you down. Let me help you open it.” 94
“Oh dear,” said the girl, and the big tears welled up in her eyes. “This is my home life. Nobody seems to understand me. They scold and fret and fuss all the time. Mother is cross and the children are always bothering me. I want to go away from home and work for my living and then board as the other girls do. I should love to have a little room in a boarding-house where the girls could come to see me. My burden grows heavier and heavier and I am also very unhappy.”
“Well, well, well,” said the Fairy Who Rights Things. “It looks as if I had a big task. All of you seem to be unhappy, but then we are usually unhappy because we look at ourselves instead of others. Let’s try what these magic spectacles can do. They will show you the burdens some of your friends carry and also show you how they carry them.”
Then she fitted a pair to the eyes of each girl and they looked at the passers-by.
There was Kate, who was always smiling and happy. Her burden was almost as large as she. There was a sick mother away back on the little farm in the country. Kate was trying to support her and still have enough to keep her own expenses paid. Her days were full of work. In her room, she was sewing to make extra money. She was very lonely, for she loved the little mother and longed to be with her, but she must earn money. Oh! what a pile of worries she had on every side! How could she ever carry them? But beneath the pile as it rested on her back they saw a little lever that was lifting all the time—and the lever was Love.
And here was May. They had money and automobiles and everything to make her happy. She had never seemed to have any burden but now she was carrying a very large one. She wanted to go to college, she wanted to make her life worth while, but her parents wanted her 95 to stay at home and play the hours away. They would not let her go and as the months went by she longed more and more to study and serve. Did she have a lever to help carry hers? Indeed she did. It was right under the burden and it was called Vision.
Then there was Tom, the baseball star. He too carried a burden. They had never known that he had a father. But he carried the burden of a father who drank and drank. Oh, what a shame to take him through the streets in such a helpless condition! Did Tom have a lever? All looked eagerly to see and they saw Ideals—he would have a spotless character and retrieve the family name.
And there was Helen. Her people used profane language and she loved the pure. They loved the world and she loved the ideals of the church. They made fun of her faith and tried to change it. How heavily she was loaded, yet they had never dreamed of it when they had seen her teaching her little class in the Church School. But Belief in God was helping her to carry her load.
So they passed along the way before the five girls. All were carrying something but not all were carrying their load alike. Some smiled, and some sang as they staggered beneath a heavy load; others groaned and fretted with the weight of a much lighter one. Some were not only carrying their own load but helping to carry others.
“And now,” said the Angel Who Rights Things, “do you see a load that you would prefer? If so, then I will ask the bearer to exchange with you. Will you choose by the size of the burden or the ease with which it is carried?”
But though they searched long and diligently, they found no load easier than their own.
At last one turned to the Angel and said, “We find no 96 one to choose. And since we must carry a burden, will you tell us how best we may carry these?”
Then the face of the Angel lighted with pleasure till it glowed like the sun. “When one asks how to carry and not why he must carry, already the load is lighter,” she replied. “If you will, your school can give to you a vision that will make your load seem very easy; your church can give to you a love that will make you eager to go there and learn to serve; your home cares can give you ideals for your own little home some day; your mother can show you how to grow into beautiful womanhood if you will but give her a chance; your troubles at home can give to you a sympathy that will not only lift your own burden but help with those of others. All these levers that you have seen helping to lift loads have been right at your hand to help you if you would only have given them an opportunity.
“How shall you bear your burdens? With a smile on your face, and love in your heart, and any lifter that you can find.”
Then the Angel Who Rights Things went on her way to find others who groaned beneath their burdens because they had never learned how to carry them.