With anxious hearts and eager faces, and clapping their glad hands, the children gathered around Uncle Ham.

“Now,” said he, “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’m 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 minutes 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 board-walk, 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 re-assured, 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 seems 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 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-zag 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 upon a piece of black paste-board 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 are 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 table cloth, 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 to be kept in suspense a great while. Pretty soon, Uncle Hambright and mama and papa came out of the woods near by, and such a laugh as went around 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 had 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?” as 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 had been selling papers for a living up to that time, but somehow we had 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 a plenty to eat; and we’ve got a 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.

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, know 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 life-time 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 young 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 so doing until it is too late. On the other hand, there is another large class of young people that stop short even before they have finished 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 drama 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 in 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 manufactory, 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 every one, other things being equal, ought to enter and pass through before launching in 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 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 condemnation of thoughtlessness in youth. He said: “But what excuse can you find for willfulness of thought at the very time when every crisis of 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 some one with apparent indifference 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.[2]

Uncle Ned returned from his ’possum hunt about midnight, bringing with him a fine, fat ’possum. He built a glowing fire, dressed the ’possum, pared and split the sweet potatoes, and pretty soon he had the “’possum an’ ’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. Mentally congratulating himself upon the glorious repast he thought soon to enjoy, he sat silently for awhile 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 even 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 awhile.

“Well,” said he finally, “I must ’a’ et dat ’possum; I must ’a’ et dat ’possum in my sleep!”

He looked at his hands. They were greasy. He smelt his hands. As he did so he said:

“Dat smells like ’possum grease! I sho must ’a’ et dat ’possum.”

He discovered grease on his lips. Out went his tongue.

“Dat tas’es like ’possum grease,” he said. He got up. He looked about the house. There was no sign of intruders. He rubbed his stomach. He resumed his seat, and, giving up all for lost, he said:

“Well, ef I did eat dat ’possum, hit sets lightah on my appertite dan any ’possum I evah et befo’.”

FREDERICK DOUGLASS.

In 1893 the World’s Columbian Exposition, or World’s Fair, was held in Chicago in commemoration of the four hundredth anniversary of the discovery of America. A negro man, the Hon. Frederick Douglass, attended that 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 seventy-five years of age, perfectly erect, kindly, majestic, the ‘ancient fires of inspiration welling up through all 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 none the less 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 over-shining care and purpose of God Himself, with the ‘far-off divine intent’ that so clearly takes in the future of both the American and African continents. 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 summer or the cold of winter alike, I was kept almost in a state of nudity—no shoes, jackets, trousers, or stockings—nothing but a coarse tow linen shirt reaching to the knee. That I wore night and day. In the day time I could 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 very cold weather 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 of the District of Columbia, and United States minister to Hayti.

He died February 20th, 1895, at his home in Anacostia, D. C., at the age of seventy-seven years. A monument to his memory has been erected in Rochester, N. Y., 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 pre-eminent 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 the 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:

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 peeped 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 that I’m small for my age.”

“Well, what is your age?”

“I’m going on ten,” said Davie, 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 a 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.

“Humph!” said the merchant. “Where is 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 awhile, the merchant said:

“Palmer, is cash boy No. 5 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 No. 5’s place. We’ll try him for awhile, anyhow. What’s is your name, my little man?” he asked, turning again to the boy.

“Davie Thomas.”

“Well, Davie, 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.”

Davie shot out of the store, and lost no time in getting home. The old creaky steps in the old ram-shackle house fairly sang with delight as the weight of the little boy hurried up them.

“I’ve got it, mother;” exclaimed Davie. “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 dumfounded; then she looked confused; and then she looked—well, it passes my power to tell how she did look as she took Davie 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.

“Henry, I asked you to remain after school a few minutes because I wanted you to help me re-arrange 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 school, and had been giving 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 schoolmates so much if you only would. I want to ask you if you think your conduct has been manly to-day? 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 that you will neither study nor work, and some people say that you are a very mean boy. Some of these things may be true, David, I am 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 that you are breaking her heart.” The teacher’s voice faltered at the last words.

“I know that your father,” the low voice went on, “was a brave and noble man; and when I hear people say, ‘It is 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 in 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 in 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 kindliness manifested at a critical time.

A GHOST STORY.

Uncle Mose, 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, sah; not me,” he said; “I’se got my fuss time to be skeered uv anyt’ing dat’s dead.”

Whereupon Noah Johnson told Uncle Mose that he would bet him a load of watermelons that he couldn’t spend one night in the “Widder Smith’s house.” Now, the Widow Smith’s house was said to be haunted, or, in other words, it was filled with ghosts.

“Des name de night,” said Uncle Mose. “I’ll stay dar; no ha’nts won’t bodder wid me. No, sah; no ha’nts won’t bodder wid me, an’ yo’ watermillions is des ez good ez gone already!”

The details were arranged; judges were appointed; and Uncle Mose 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 drygoods 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 him company. About midnight, feeling somewhat drowsy, Uncle Mose 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 sho is makin’ dis load uv watermillions easy. Noah Johnsing didn’t know who he’s foolin’ wid. I’m a man myse’f; I ain’t afeared uv nothin’—I ain’t!”

Down he sat on the box, and pretty soon he was dozing. It was not very long before he suddenly awoke. He was at once seized with 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 Mose for a little while, and then quietly sat down on the box beside him. Uncle Mose 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 Mose could almost hear his own heart beating. The ghost finally broke the silence by saying, with a loud sigh:

“Huh! Huh! There don’t seem to be but two of us here tonight!”

It was then that Uncle Mose looked around for the first time. As he did so he exclaimed:

“Yas; an’ f’um dis out dah won’t be but 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 Mose, as he passed them, and ordered him to stop. They said that they were all there and would protect him. But Uncle Mose, as he kept on running, hallooed back:

“I’ll see y’all 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 dishrag. 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 tonight.”

“Yas,” said Uncle Mose; “but what I hase done ain’t nothin’ to what I’se gwinter do!” And up he jumped and lit 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 Mose hallooed at the rabbit and said:

“Git out uv de way, rabbit, an’ let somebody run what kin 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. Dim 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 Mose said was:

“Tell Noah not to min’ ’bout dem watermillions. I stayed in dat house des ez long ez I could keep my conscience quiet. My ole mammy allus tole me dat hit wuz a sin an’ a shame to bet, an’ now I b’lieves hit!”

And to this day, boys and girls, if you want to see a really mad man, you just ask Uncle Mose if he ever saw a ghost.

GOOD CHEER.

Everybody loves the cheerful boy or girl, the cheerful man or woman; and everybody ought to love such people. I wish all the boys and girls in America would organize one grand SUNSHINE SOCIETY, whose chief object should be the promotion of good feeling, good cheer, peace and happiness among all the people everywhere. But, first, a boy or girl, man or woman, must have sunshine in their own souls before they can communicate sunshine to others. And, boys and girls, it would greatly assist us in securing sunshine in our souls if we looked at our mercies with both eyes, as I might say, and at our troubles and trials with only one eye. What we enjoy in this world is always a good deal more than that which we do not enjoy; but we do not magnify our blessings sufficiently. We do not make as much of them as we ought. We do not rejoice because of them as we ought. We ought to keep daily a record of God’s goodness and kindness and patience and love. The Lord’s mercies are new every morning and fresh every evening; but we do not realize that they are so, because we do not stop to count them up; we do not think about them. If we stopped to weigh the matter I think we should find more in our lives to be happy about than to be sorry about. Our good fortunes always outweigh our misfortunes; and we should find it so if we only acquired the habit of remembering God’s goodness to us as well as the disappointments and sorrows and afflictions which are for us all.

Then we should study contentment. We should study to be content. We must cultivate the habit of being satisfied with what we have at present, and we should not worry about those things which we do not possess. Worry because of things they did not possess has made countless thousands mourn. Let us enjoy what we have. Let us make the most of what we have. And let us not worry about things which we do not possess. No matter how miserable our own lot may be, there is always some one whose lot is more miserable still. Worry kills more people than work. In fact worry unfits a man for work. The man who has learned the philosophy of being content in whatsoever state he is is the man who is and will be happy. One of the things in this world that pays a hundred-fold is contentment, and there is nothing that casts so much blight and mildew upon life’s fairest flowers as discontent.

Again, it would help us to keep cheerful if we kept steadily engaged in some work of usefulness. Let us go about doing good. Let us go about seeking opportunities of doing good. Doing good makes the heart healthy, and heart-health makes sunshine, happiness and good cheer.

A little thought will convince you, boys and girls, that your own happiness in this world depends very largely on the way other people bear themselves toward you. The looks and tones at your breakfast table, the conduct of your playmates, the faithful or unreliable people that you deal with, what people say to you on the street, the letters you get, the friends or foes you meet—these things make up very much of the pleasure or misery of your day. Turn the thought around, and remember that just so much are you adding to the pleasure or misery of other people’s days. And this is the half of the matter that you can control. Whether any particular day shall bring to you more of happiness or of suffering is largely beyond your power to determine. Whether each day of your life shall give happiness or suffering to others rests with yourself. And there is where the test of character comes. We must be continually sacrificing our wills to the wills of others, bearing without notice sights and sounds that annoy us, setting about this or that task when we would rather be doing something else, persevering in it often when we are very tired of it, keeping company for duty’s sake when it would be a great joy to us to be by ourselves; and then there are all the trifling and outward accidents of life, bodily pain and weakness, it may be, long continued, losing what we value, missing what we desire, deceit, ingratitude and treachery where we least expected them; folly, rashness and willfulness in ourselves. All these little worries which we meet each day may lie as stumbling blocks across our way, or we may make of them, if we choose, stepping stones of grace.

I want all the little boys and girls who read this book to be joy-makers, to be burden-bearers, to be among those who shall assist in filling the whole world with good cheer. It is our duty to cheer and comfort others; it is our duty to make the world not only better but happier—happier because better—for our having lived in it. To all the other beatitudes might well be added this one: Blessed are the cheerful people, for they shall inherit the earth.

LIFE A BATTLE.

Boys and girls, I want to repeat to you now some words which were delivered long ago by the Hon. Schuyler Colfax, a man who was once the vice-president of the United States. These words are wholesome, and should be read and considered by parents and school teachers and by children themselves all over our land:

“Above all things, teach children what their life is. It is not breathing, moving, playing, sleeping, simply. Life is a battle. All thoughtful people see it so. A battle between good and evil from childhood. Good influences, drawing us up toward the divine; bad influences, drawing us down to the brute. Midway we stand, between the divine and the brute. How to cultivate the good side of the nature is the greatest lesson of life to teach. Teach children that they lead these two lives: the life without and the life within; and that the inside must be pure in the sight of God as well as the outside in the sight of men.

“There are five means of learning. These are: Observation, reading, conversation, memory, reflection.

“Educators sometimes, in their anxiety to secure a wide range of studies, do not sufficiently impress upon their scholars the value of memory. Now, our memory is one of the most valuable gifts God has bestowed upon us, and one of the most mysterious. Take a tumbler and pour water into it; by-and-by you can pour no more: it is full. It is not so with the mind. You cannot fill it full of knowledge in a whole lifetime. Pour in all you please, and it still thirsts for more.

“Remember this:

“Knowledge is not what you learn, but what you remember.

“It is not what you eat, but what you digest, that makes you grow.

“It is not the money you handle, but that you keep, that makes you rich.

“It is not what you study, but what you remember and reflect upon, that makes you learned.

“One more suggestion:

“Above all things else, strive to fit the children in your charge to be useful men and women; men and women you may be proud of in after-life. While they are young teach them that far above physical courage, which will lead them to face the cannon’s mouth; above wealth, which would give them farms and houses and bank stocks and gold; is moral courage—that courage by which they will stand fearlessly, frankly, firmly for the right. Every man or woman who dares to stand for the right when evil has its legions, is the true moral victor in this life and in the land beyond the stars.”

These brave and true words were spoken by Mr. Colfax long years ago. They were true then; they are no less true now. Every boy in America should treasure them in his heart. Every girl in America should commit them to memory and make them the rule of her life. Mothers and fathers, school teachers and preachers, and all who have the care of the young in any way would do well to study these wise counsels and reflect upon them and strive to impress upon those for whom they are laboring.

If you would win the victory in the battle of life, my young friends, you must watch the little things. It is said that there is a barn upon the Alleghany Mountains so built that the rain which falls upon it separates in such a manner that that which falls upon one side of the roof runs into a little stream that flows into the Susquehanna and thence into Chesapeake Bay and on into the Atlantic Ocean; that which falls upon the other side is carried into the Alleghany River, thence into the Ohio, and onward to the Gulf of Mexico. The point where the waters divide is very small, but how different the course of these waters! So it is with people, young or old. A very little thing changes the channel of their lives. Much will depend upon the kinds of tempers you have, boys and girls. If you are sour and cross and crabbed, no one will love you. If you are kind and cheerful, you will have friends wherever you go. Much will depend upon the way in which you improve your school days; upon the kind of companions you have; and upon the kind of habits you form. If you would win a great victory in fighting the battle of life you must look well to the little things.