.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 43387
   :PG.Title: Little Foxes
   :PG.Released: 2013-08-02
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: \E. \A. Henry
   :DC.Title: Little Foxes
              Stories for Boys and Girls
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1922
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

============
LITTLE FOXES
============

.. clearpage::

.. pgheader::

.. container:: frontispiece

   .. vspace:: 3

   .. _`"The little foxes that spoil the vines"`:

   .. figure:: images/img-front.jpg
      :align: center
      :alt: "The little foxes that spoil the vines"

      "The little foxes that spoil the vines"

   .. vspace:: 4

.. container:: titlepage center white-space-pre-line

   .. class:: x-large

      LITTLE FOXES

   .. class:: large

      Stories for Boys and Girls

   .. vspace:: 2

   .. class:: medium

      By
      E. A. HENRY, D.D.

   .. class:: small

      *Pastor, Deer Park Presbyterian Church, Toronto*

   .. vspace:: 2

   .. class:: medium

      Introduction by
      CHARLES W. GORDON, D.D., LL.D.
      (*Ralph Connor*)

   .. vspace:: 3

   .. class:: medium

      Thomas Allen
      366-378 ADELAIDE STREET, WEST
      TORONTO

   .. vspace:: 4

.. container:: verso center white-space-pre-line

   .. class:: small

      Copyright, 1922, by
      FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY

   .. vspace:: 4

.. container:: dedication center white-space-pre-line

   .. class:: medium

      *To the
      Girls and Boys of My Ministry*

   .. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center large bold

   Preface

.. vspace:: 1

The following short sermonettes or talks
to girls and boys were given as the children's
portion at the Sunday morning services.

As a child at church, the author remembers
sitting with pins and needles in his feet, which were
somewhere between heaven and earth, while he
wondered what the preacher was talking about.
He determined if the job was ever his, not to
neglect the little people.

These are some of his attempts to interest them,
and are given out in print because some seemed to
think them worth preserving.

If they are, and will help anybody, the author
will be content and happy.  It has been suggested
that the chapters might be used as bedtime stories.

There are some little gems used which are
anonymous or whose authors are unknown.  They
were used in the addresses and are passed on with
apologies for not being able to acknowledge authorship.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

E.A.H.
*Toronto*.

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center large bold

   Introduction

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent

*Winnipeg, 7th July, 1922.*

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

REV. E. A. HENRY, D.D.,
   Deer Park Presbyterian Church,
     Toronto, Ont.

.. class:: noindent

*My dear Henry*:

.. vspace:: 1

I have just looked into your "Little Foxes,"
and I am delighted to be able to say, with a clear
conscience, that you have done a fine bit of work.
The book is full of quaint philosophy, and it has
the heart touch, too, that will give it wings.

It was a happy inspiration that made you use the
vernacular of every-day boy and girl speech
without descending to the vulgarity that so often mars
the attempt to use vernacular English.  The
vernacular lends reality to your thought.

Then, too, I wish to congratulate you upon your
admirable selection of illustration.  Illustration in
literature is a very fine art, and you have got the
touch in your "Little Foxes."  After all, that is
the secret of interesting speech—the power of
concreting ideas.  A Congregation that will drowse or
gape over the most logical argument will suddenly
wake to alert attention in response to the phrases,
"Once on a time," "There was once a boy," "I
knew a man."

You have done a real service to the children, but
you have also done a real service to Preachers.
For many a Preacher who has been forced to
confess himself a failure in the art of interesting
children in sermons (And how terrible a failure is
that!), after reading "Little Foxes," will take new
heart because of the suggestions your book will
bring.

I venture to say that hosts of people, especially
little people and those who think little people
worth while, will come to know and love Dr. Henry
because of his "Little Foxes."

And so may "Little Foxes" run far and fast.

.. class:: noindent

Yours very truly,

.. _`Signature of Charles W. Gordon (Ralph Connor)`:

.. figure:: images/img-signature.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Signature of Charles W. Gordon (Ralph Connor)

   Signature of Charles W. Gordon (Ralph Connor)

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center large bold

   Contents

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

I.  `Little Things`_
II.  `"It's No Matter"`_
III.  `"I Don't Care"`_
IV.  `Temper`_
V.  `Selfishness`_
VI.  `Impurity`_
VII.  `"I Can't"`_
VIII.  `"I Forgot"`_
IX.  `"By-and-By"`_
X.  `Boldness`_
XI.  `Revenge`_
XII.  `Untruthfulness`_
XIII.  `"I Can't Be Bothered!"`_
XIV.  `Thanklessness`_
XV.  `Cruelty`_
XVI.  `Cowardliness`_
XVII.  `Dishonesty`_
XVIII.  `"Limpy Late"`_
XIX.  `"Sissy Slow"`_
XX.  `Shame`_
XXI.  `"A Battered Warship"`_
XXII.  `Boucher, the French-Canadian Voyageur`_
XXIII.  `One By One`_
XXIV.  `What Makes a Good Soldier?`_
XXV.  `The Soldier's Outfit—Shoes`_
XXVI.  `The Soldier's Outfit—The Rifle`_
XXVII.  `The Soldier's Outfit—The Belt And Puttee`_
XXVIII.  `The Soldier's Outfit—The Kit Bag`_
XXIX.  `The Soldier's Outfit—The Uniform`_
XXX.  `"Q" and "S" Grocery`_
XXXI.  `Betsy`_
XXXII.  `A Life Degree`_

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`LITTLE THINGS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   I


.. class:: center large bold

   LITTLE THINGS

.. vspace:: 2

In the second chapter of the Song of Songs
and in the fifteenth verse you may read these
words: "Take me the little foxes that spoil
the vines."

How often you hear people say, "Oh, well, it's
so little!  What difference will such a little thing
make?"  And yet—

Every girl and boy knows that the mighty ocean
is made up of tiny drops.  The great Niagara is,
too.  Its noise is simply the small patter of drops
multiplied into a thunder.

The little drops are made of molecules, which
though Science gives them a big name, are so small
you cannot see them.

A great castle or a mighty palace is built up of
small bricks and stones and pieces of wood and
iron, put together with small pegs and pins.

The lovely windows are made of panes of glass;
each pane being sand grains heated and fused.

The great Western harvests that cover the plains
with gold, and feed the world, come from little
grains of seed wheat, any one of which could be
lost and never missed.  But if all the little seeds
were lost, there would be no harvest.

These wonderful bodies of ours, Science says,
are built up of cells that are only known through
the microscope.

We are now told that the matter that makes our
bodies and the great world is a centre of the tiniest
bits of revolving force called electric ions, which
nobody has ever seen.  A pin-head is not very big,
but it has a whole system of these revolving little
things as wonderful as the way in which the
planets roll round the sun.

Across the continent stretches a great road of
iron called the C.P.R. or the National R.R., and
both never could have been but for littles.

The iron comes from ore in the mines, picked
out with small picks, one pick at a time.  The ties
on which the rails rest are trees that once were
little seeds.  The gravel of the road bed is made of
heaps of sand, shovelled with hand shovels, one
shovel at a time.

The engine strength lies in pins that couple, and
joints that unite all its wonderful parts.  When
the fire is started that makes the steam, the
fireman builds it with small sticks and pieces of wood
and spends his time shovelling little coals out of
the tender.

When the train is loaded, it has a mighty
weight; but each car was filled with bundles one
at a time.  The passenger coaches fill up one by
one, with persons who travel with a little piece of
paper called a ticket, that gives them right of way.

Little, you say!  Why, there is nothing real that
is little!  It only looks little on the surface.  Think
more deeply and you will see how big all real
things are!

So of your character and mine.

A big man is one who has big ideas and plans,
and these can never be weighed or measured.

Big events are due to little long continued acts
and thoughts, each of which looks small; but taken
together make the world go round.

So little kind words, gentle deeds, unselfish acts,
make life circles radiant and happy.  If we offer
nothing because what we have seems small, a lot
of happiness is lost to the world.

So, too, little white lies make big black spots in
character.

Little bursts of temper start fires that end in
murder.

Little wrong words and little nasty deeds make
wrong and nasty people.

Dear girls and boys, we are all bundles of
habits, good and bad, and they grow from the
smallest acts.

Just keep on doing a little deed day by day, and
soon you cannot stop, for you have the habit.

A boy puckered his face a little each morning,
and now he has a wrinkle he cannot iron out.

A girl puckered her life with an inside squint,
and now she has a squint habit in her soul.

For the next few pages we will study some of
the little things we need to be careful of.

The verse we have for a motto calls them "little
foxes that spoil the vines."

You have all seen a beautiful garden, and can
imagine what it would become if little
sharp-toothed foxes got inside the fence and bit away
leaves and stems and buds.  There would soon be
no garden.

The names and nature of some of these little
foxes appear in the following chapters.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"IT'S NO MATTER"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   II


.. class:: center large bold

   "IT'S NO MATTER"

.. vspace:: 2

When a girl or boy is slovenly, with
tously head and dirty hands; or washes
the face and forgets the ears; or leaves
a high water mark around the neck, and mother
makes a remark on the way things look to her, the
girl or boy says, "Oh, it's no matter."  And first
thing they know, a fox has bitten off a green leaf
in their garden.

Or John makes a mistake and the teacher
corrects it, and John says, "Oh, it's no matter."

Foolish John!

Say, boy, did you know an architect once made
plans for a great building and when he went to
work it out, nothing fitted, because away back in
the beginning he made a mistake of *one inch* with
his ruler, and it put the whole thing out of joint!

Or Mary, her mother's pride, did not put into
her work quite enough time.  She fooled over it,
and played with it—and when the examination
results came out, she failed.  And when she saw her
mother's sad face, she tried to comfort her by
saying, "Oh, it's no matter!"

It seems so dreadful to see a man who has
grown up to think things do not matter.  His
looks—"Oh, well, what's the odds how I look?"

Of course, it is only when he is married or else
settled into a grouchy old bachelor he says this.
If he is still looking forward—Huh!  That makes
a difference!

Some young fellows once were lounging about
the street corner, when one of them saw a bright
young girl coming down the street, and say! he
went away so fast his companions wondered what
had happened.  Well, he did not want her to see
him, for he felt it would matter very much for him
if she saw his careless street life.

Or his clothes.—Sometimes you can almost tell
what he had for dinner by the spots on his vest;
and the whole thing started a long time earlier,
when as a little boy he said, "It's no matter!"

And it is just the same with the girl.  She
grows up with a faded character and lopsided gait,
and looks as though what she wore had been
thrown at her with a pitchfork and sort of lodged
on her person.

Sometimes she is real clever and knows a lot,
but oh, the pity!  She did not think her appearance
mattered, and there she is, so that people look
at her when she passes, and laugh.

It is very much worse, though, to let that spirit
get past your body and your clothes and your
outer habits, into the inside of you.

For then, when people see you doing things and
saying things you should not,—things that make
people look at you—the old habit, started when
you were a girl or boy, comes out, and you think it
does not matter.

But it does.

It matters whether you are loving or unloving.
It matters whether you are kind or ugly in temper.
It matters whether you are at the foot of the class
or its head.  It matters whether you are neat or
just a disorderly heap.  It matters whether you
are a sunbeam or a shadow.  It matters whether
you are growing up straight or with a lean.

It makes a big difference.

Of course it matters, silly child!

If it didn't matter, God would never have given
us so many lessons in nature and history and biography.

Nearly everything in God's great world is telling us that—

   |  "Life is real,
   |  Life is earnest."
   |

And it has an end; and it will be a poor end for
her or for him who starts by saying, "It's no
matter!"

There was a fellow once did that in a great
Rugby game.  He failed, and the team lost the
match and the trophy.

A slip may seem small, but we can slip and fail,
and do slovenly work once too often—and lose the
game of life!

It does matter!  It matters to God!  It matters
to you, and it matters to all who love you!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"I DON'T CARE"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   III


.. class:: center large bold

   "I DON'T CARE"

.. vspace:: 2

That is one of the worst of all foxes,
with a very sharp tooth.

A horse lost a shoe once, and the
owner did not care.  And some one wrote this
verse—

   |  "For want of a shoe a horse was lost,
   |  For want of a horse a rider was lost,
   |  For want of a rider a battle was lost,
   |  And all for want of a shoe."
   |

When I was a student at Toronto University,
there took place one February night the great fire
that became a college date, and practically helped
to end the life of President Sir Daniel Wilson,
who saw the building of his life labour go up in
smoke.

It was the great social night of the college year.
There were no electric lights in those days, and
lamps were used.  The building was gaily
decorated with evergreens and bunting.

A college servant came down the east stair with
a tray of lamps, and making a careless step, he
stumbled, and the blazing oil started a fire, which,
fanned by the air pouring down the great windows,
soon destroyed the great building.  It all
came from a careless step.

Just think of a tailor who goes around with his
pants legs down over his heels and the edges all
frayed, and a pair of dirty cuffs down over his
wrists—what a poor advertisement for his trade
and all because he does not care.

And you have a trade, too!  Your business is to
show every other girl and boy what a girl and boy
ought to be; and if you don't care, then you can't
show them anything except what they should not
be.  They should not be like you.

Or think of a girl or boy who is always making
a mess of things.

They fail in school, and they grieve their
parents, and they are no use to anybody.  They get
into trouble, and they get others into trouble.
They miss the mark and are getting nowhere; and
worse than all, they blind their eyes and close their
ears.  They simply do not care!

A young fellow once went mountain climbing;
and I think he thought he was pretty sure-footed.
Anyhow, he would take no advice as to dangerous
places or how to watch his step, and one careless
moment he stepped into a great crack in the ice
called a crevasse, and it was twenty years before
they found his body, after the slowly moving
glacier brought it down to the place where the warmer
regions broke off the edges of the ice!

And life has a lot of danger spots too; and it
needs care in the step, and to say you don't care
may land you sometime in disaster.

In fact, if that spirit stays, I do not see how any
one can escape disaster.

"I don't care!"—What does that mean?

It means you would just as soon be bad as good!

It means you would just as soon see things go
wrong as right!

It means you would just as soon see things go
down as up!

You think it makes no difference.  But it does!

It means you shut your eyes and let things go!

Some great preacher tells of the wonders of the
eyelids.  They act so quickly and they can shut
out so much if closed;—all the glory of the
heavens; the wonders of the mountains and sea; the
books of a library; the great world of people;—all
shut out by closing the eyes!

You can shut your eyes if you like—and when
you say, "I don't care!" that is what you do.
You shut your eyes.

If you keep them shut long enough, you will go
blind!

You don't want to be blind, do you?  Then do
not say, "I don't care!"  Instead of that, Care.

Be careful—full of care!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TEMPER`:

.. class:: center large bold

   IV


.. class:: center large bold

   TEMPER

.. vspace:: 2

Temper is a fine thing to have.

A horse without any temper nobody
wants.  A man without temper is no good.

Temper is a word worth study.  It comes from
a root that means to control and not let get away
and run wild.  It means to mix up in the right
way so that there will not be too much of anything.

And so temper means to give a good form to,
by having just enough of what makes that form.

And perhaps because heat is used to mould
things and helps in mixing, temper sometimes
means heat; and when that heat gets inside us it
warms us.  And that inside heat is good.  A cold
heart or mind will not do anything.

Temper is not bad.

We get a lot of good words from temper; like
temperament—what your character is like; and
temperature—the amount of heat in the air; and
temperance—the amount of self-control you have.

Unfortunately, the heat gets often too hot.
And then we are people of bad temper.  And if
you get too much of that, it leads to very serious
trouble.

I went once to the gallows with a splendid-looking
boy who did not mix things right, and got so
much temper that he became a murderer!

Bad temper means lost control.  To keep your
temper is like riding a high mettled horse.—You
have to keep firm hold of the bit.

When the present King George was Duke of
York, he came to Western Canada, where I was a
young minister.  The people of Winnipeg gave
him a great reception.  The streets were lined,
and flags and bunting made gay the city.

It was interesting to see the man who was to
become the head later of the greatest empire in
history.  But I must confess there was a part of
the procession that interested me more than even
the Prince did.

It was his equerry.—The man who rode by his
side on horseback.  It was a wonderful sight.  He
was on the back of a magnificent black charger,
with glossy flanks, and flowing mane and tail, and
arching neck and prancing feet.  Powerfully built,
it seemed the ambition of the horse to hurl the
driver from his back.  The noise of the cheering
and the bands added to his restlessness.  He
curved to this side and that; stood up on his hind
legs; tossed his head between his feet; danced and
careered around until you would wonder how
anybody could stay on his back.

But that rider was a great horseman.  He sat
there as though he were part of the horse.  With
a firm hand and soothing voice, and a grip that
kept the bit solid in the mouth of his prancing
charger, he danced up the street a splendid sight.

And I thought, what a fine illustration of a
strong life he was.

The man who can sit on his fiery temper, and
hold it in control.

The Bible says: "He that is slow to anger is
better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his
spirit than he that taketh a city."

I suppose every boy here would envy Foch as he
swept back the tide and took trench after trench
until he broke the Hindenburg line.

But when you hold the bridle firm on your
temper you can be greater than Foch.

Only those who have been West have ever seen
a "stampede" where the cowboys undertake to
break a wild broncho, or to ride on the back of an
untamed steer.

I saw one once at Calgary, where a plunging
broncho brought his four feet together, and bucked
his back, and lowered his head, and the cowboy
was hardly on his back till he was off again, and
the broncho wildly galloping down the dusty
prairie.

But it was a thrilling sight when, without even
reins, just one little piece of rope, the skillful
fellow, with his knees dug deep into the broncho's
side, mastered him, and came galloping up the
track in triumph.

And it is just as fine a sight to see a girl or boy
who can use this wonderful gift of temper, and
never let it use them—who masters it and are
never mastered by it.

Watch your temper, girls and boys.  If it is
kept under control it is a splendid gift.  If it is
not, it may ruin you!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SELFISHNESS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   V


.. class:: center large bold

   SELFISHNESS

.. vspace:: 2

My, that is a nasty little fox!  If it gets
into your garden it will spoil it, sure as guns!

Not that you and I are to have no selves.  That
kind of a person is an empty, silly, shallow body.
You want the biggest self you can get.  And you
need to care for yourself.  For if you do not, you
will have no self with which to care for any one else.

And you need a true self-love, for if you stop
truly loving yourself, you will soon have nothing
with which to love any one else.

But selfishness means you cannot see anybody
else but yourself.

Selfishness means putting yourself in the centre
and expecting everybody and everything to dance
to your music.

A little boy said to his sister, "Mary, there
would be more room for me on this sofa if one of
us were to get off!"

Was he not a selfish boy?  Who would want to
have that kind of child around—that expects the
whole house to get out of his way so he could blow
himself?

Some one tells a story of the sweetness of the
unselfish life of a little ragged bootblack, who sold
his kit to get a quarter to pay for a notice in the
paper of the death of his little brother.  When the
kind newspaper man asked if it was his little
brother, with a quivering chin he said, "I had to
sell my kit to do it, b-but he had his arms aroun'
my neck when he d-died!"

The news went round and that same day at
evening, he found his kit on the doorstep, with a
bunch of flowers bought with pennies by his
chums, who were touched by his unselfish act.

There is something very attractive about a girl
or boy who thinks of others and forgets self.

I have read of the wonderful St. Bernard dogs
in the mountains of Switzerland.

There is a house called a hospice, 8,000 feet
above sea level, where the monks live who keep
the dogs to watch for lost travellers who may
perish in the snow.

The dogs have baskets strapped on their backs,
which contain food for lost men.  They are
trained so that they will find people and guide
them to the place of safety.

The story that interested me was of an Englishman
who wanted to see the dogs at work.

The monks told him that the best dog had been
out for some time and they were becoming
worried over his absence.

In a few moments, in the dog came, looking
completely discouraged.  He seemed to have no
spirit, although all his companions were barking
and jumping around him.  The old dog paid no
attention, but went and lay down in a sort of
hopeless way, without even wagging his tail—like all
good dogs do that are pleased with themselves.

The explanation of the monks made me think.

They told the Englishman that that was the way
the dog always acted whenever he had failed to
help any traveller.

Just think, girls and boys, of the instinct of a
well-trained dog—so deeply set on helping, that
failure, even when he was not to blame for it,
made him ashamed and sad!

Surely we will at least be equal to a trained
St. Bernard.

Surely we should far surpass him, by voluntarily,
of our own loving choice, seeking to help in
a life of shining unselfishness.

I do not know any one who should be better able
than a girl or boy to put into their lives the spirit
of this little poem, whose author I do not know,
but which I give to you:

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   LITTLE THINGS THAT CHEER

..

   |  Just to bring to those who need
   |    The little word of cheer;
   |  Just to lift the drooping head
   |    And check the falling tear;
   |  Just to smooth a furrow from
   |    A tired brow a while;
   |  Just to help dispel a cloud,
   |    Just to bring a smile—

   |  Oh, the kindly little deeds,
   |    As on through life we go,
   |  How they bring the sunshine,
   |    Only those who do them know.

   |  Just to do the best we can,
   |    As o'er life's path each day,
   |  With other pilgrims homeward bound,
   |    We take our steady way;
   |  Just to give a helping hand
   |    Some weary weight to bear,
   |  And lend a heart of sympathy
   |    Some neighbour's grief to share—

   |  Oh, those kindly little deeds,
   |    Our dear Lord notes each one,
   |  And sheds His blessings o'er our way
   |    Toward life's setting sun.

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IMPURITY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   VI


.. class:: center large bold

   IMPURITY

.. vspace:: 2

Once in California I visited the beautiful
gardens of San Francisco and saw a very
lovely flower.

Its petals were white, and when you opened up
the heart, away down at the very centre was a
shape made by the base of the pistil that looked
exactly like a dove.  It was a flower with a white
dove at its heart.  They called it the Holy Ghost
plant of South America.

It is a fine thing when a girl or boy carries
within them a white heart!

There is no sin that leaves a worse stain than
the sin of impurity.

It comes by unclean thoughts and words and
deeds; and when it comes, it is next to impossible
to wash it out.

A man once looked at a dirty picture, and years
after he had not forgotten it!  It made for him a
lifelong fight!

It is almost like putting nails in a post.  You
may draw them out, but you can never quite fill
out the holes left.  A growing tree may fill them
and a growing life may, but there is always a scar
left where the nail entered.

Some boys like to tell nasty stories, and if the
boys to whom I talk want to have white souls they
should turn from nasty story-tellers the way they
would from drinking poison.

It is awful the way a dirty story sticks.  It is so
hard to get rid of its memory.  It is like indelible
ink that you use when you want some writing not
to wear out.

The great General Grant, the United States hero
of the Civil War, was once at a party where one of
those men were who think it smart to tell such
stories.  Looking around, the man said, "I have a
story to tell you.  There are no ladies present, are
there?"  "No," said Grant, "but there are some
gentlemen."

That story was never told.

Dear girls and boys, when any evil breath like
that is around, think of your dear mother or your
beautiful sister, and tell your heart you must be
true to them.

   |  "I must be true, for there are those who love me,
   |  I must be pure, for there are those who care."
   |

A newspaper published these verses that I think
are so good.  I would like you to learn them.

   |  While walking through a crowded down-town street the other day,
   |  I heard a little urchin to his comrade turn and say:
   |  "Say, Jimmy, let me tell youse, I'd be happy as a clam
   |  If I only was de feller dat me mudder t'inks I am.

   |  She just t'inks dat I'm a wonder, and she knows her little lad
   |  Could never mix wid nothin' dat was ugly, mean or bad.
   |  Lots er times I sits and t'inks how nice 'twould be, gee whiz,
   |  If a feller was de feller dat his mudder t'inks he is!"

   |  My friends, be yours a life of toil or undiluted joy,
   |  You still can learn a lesson from this small unlettered boy.
   |  Don't aim to be an earthly saint with eyes fixed on a star;
   |  Just try to be the fellow that your mother thinks you are.
   |

And how can we keep the life straight, and in
a true direction?

You remember the story of Ulysses and the
Sirens—how he kept himself and his sailors from
the influence of the enticing music when the sirens
played on the dangerous rocks, by filling their ears
with wax; and having himself tied to the mast
till they passed in safety.

That is one way—the way of stiff stern duty
and obedience to law.  But there is a better way!

A boy once was trying to make a straight track
in the snow.  And he did.  While the other boys
left wriggling marks, his pressed straight on.
When they asked him how he did it, he said he
fixed his eye on a tree on the other side of the
field and walked to the tree without looking to
right or left.  That is the way always to make a
straight trail.  Look at something ahead and go
to it.

And we have that chance, for this is a splendid
text for a girl or boy, or man or woman—"Run
with patience the race set before us, looking unto
Jesus."

The eye fixed on Him and the feet moving
toward Him will help make a straight life.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"I CAN'T"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   VII


.. class:: center large bold

   "I CAN'T"

.. vspace:: 2

No girl or boy ever says this about
anything they love to do!

No matter how hard it is, if they like
it, they try at least to do it.  In fact, the harder
it is, the more they try.

Who ever cares how many bumps he gets when
learning to skate?

I saw a fellow once who was trying to vault
over a pole.  His chums laughed and jeered.
"You can't!" they called out.  Do you suppose
he stopped?  No!  He kept right at it until he did.

Edison, the wizard of electricity, wanted to get
a jewel point hard enough to be the right kind of
an end for a phonograph needle.  When it was
suggested he could not get one, he just looked at
the one who said it, and went right on and found it!

Every girl and boy should be like the man who
refused to let that word appear in his dictionary.

When I was a little boy, I was brought up in a
church where they would not sing anything but
psalms.  They called all others "man-made
hymns" and one member of the church had sewed
up all the paraphrases at the back for fear he
might open them by mistake.  That was a very
foolish, narrow way to act; but if you have
anywhere in your book of life the words, "I can't!"
just sew those leaves together so you will never
see them!

For you can—if you will, and if you want to!

And if you can't, it is only because you won't!

I do not know who wrote these verses and will
apologize for using them, but would like to pass
them on to girls and boys:

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   IT CAN BE DONE

..

   |  "Somebody said that it couldn't be done;
   |    But he, with a chuckle, replied
   |  That maybe it couldn't, but he would be one
   |    Who wouldn't say so till he'd tried.
   |  So he buckled right in, with the trace of a grin
   |    On his face; if he worried, he hid it.
   |  He started to sing as he tackled the thing
   |    That couldn't be done—and he did it.

   |  "Somebody scoffed: 'Oh, you'll never do that;
   |    At least, no one has ever done it.'
   |  But he took off his coat, and he took off his hat,
   |    And the first thing we knew he'd begun it.
   |  With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin;
   |    Without any doubting or quiddit,
   |  He started to sing as he tackled the thing
   |    That couldn't be done—and he did it.

   |  "There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done;
   |    There are thousands to prophesy failure;
   |  There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,
   |    The dangers that wait to assail you.
   |  But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
   |    Then take off your coat and go to it.
   |  Just start in to sing, as you tackle the thing
   |    That 'cannot be done'—and you'll do it."

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"I FORGOT"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   VIII


.. class:: center large bold

   "I FORGOT"

.. vspace:: 2

Oh, how much trouble this little fox causes!

Out West near Fort William, once occurred
a serious collision—all because an
engineer forgot to watch the safety signals!  A
great train was wrecked and a whole railway
district held up for hours; and some lives were
lost—because a brakeman forgot to guard an open
switch!

It's a bad fox, girls and boys!

It makes your character ragged and slovenly.
It wastes people's time.  It causes endless
confusion.  It holds up plans.  Somebody forgets to
do his duty and that upsets all some one else has
to do; and so it goes on and around, until things
become a regular mix-up.

There is a place for a good forgetter!

It is just to forget your worries and to forget
yourself; and to forget the nasty things people do
to you; and to forget your mistakes, if you are
sorry for them; and to forget that you were not
invited to somebody's party; and to forget that
you fell down yesterday, if you got up again and
are still on your feet!

But it is important to have a good memory too.

A little girl forgot to post her mother's letter,
and it stopped the chance of a pleasant holiday for
her grandmother, who was waiting for directions.

A little boy forgot to close the door of the
nursery when he was told, and the baby nearly
died of pneumonia.

In the days of the great war so recently closed,
they had to spend millions of dollars on making
shells.  They had to be very carefully made.  If
a shell was more than 3/1000 of an inch more in
diameter than was called for, it was sent back.  It
was important not to forget this.  In fact, they
had to watch against fuzz getting on the shell
from the gloves worn by the workers.

One day an inspector found a shell that would
not fit.  Some one forgot to watch against the
fine lint and sent in the shell which was at once
sent back.

And surely if it was so important to remember
all these fine points about a death-dealing shell, it
is just as important not to forget the little things
of life, that may spoil the whole day.

A bridge-builder made out all his plans and set
the men to work, and when it was put together it
was seventeen feet too short, because the
plan-maker forgot one little measure that knocked the
whole work out.

I read a rather strange thing that occurred
across the line among our Southern neighbours.

A bill was passed, allowing certain goods to
come in free of paying duty.  Among them were
what was called foreign fruit-plants.  You know
what that stroke between the two words is.  It is
a hyphen that joins the words and makes them
one.  A clerk was copying the bill and forgot all
about the hyphen, and made the bill read "fruit,
plants," etc., and for a whole year, until their
parliament met, all foreign fruit came in free;
and they say the government lost nearly
$2,500,000, all because a clerk forgot a hyphen
and put in a comma instead.

But it is not only the mistake that costs, but
if we will just think that it is the memories that
store up our thoughts.  It is the things marked in
memory that we use for all our mind's growth.

A girl or boy who is always forgetting will
some day find the life grown up and full of
emptiness; for it is what you remember that makes the
furniture in your soul's living-rooms; and if you
keep on forgetting, your soul will have bare walls,
and bare floors, and all you will hear will be echoes.

Be alert.  Keep your eyes open.  Attend to
business.  Put your mind on things.  Do not say,
"I forgot!"  Be ashamed to!  You have no right
to forget!

You can pardon an old man whose teeth are all
out and whose hair is all off, and who is bent with
age, but you have no excuse.

Your forgetter has no right to be working at all.

Stop forgetting!—Remember!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"BY-AND-BY"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   IX


.. class:: center large bold

   "BY-AND-BY"

.. vspace:: 2

"Oh, dear me!  What a child that is!
Johnny, will you please do that errand for me?"

"Yes, Mother, by-and-by!"'

"Mary, will you pick up your things and tidy
your room?  It looks as though a storm had struck it!"

"Oh, yes, I will, by-and-by!"

When are you going to do your home work?  By-and-by!

When are you going to start that job you
wanted to do?  By-and-by!

When are you going to be useful?  By-and-by!

When are you going to bed?  By-and-by!

When are you going to get up?  By-and-by!

When?  When?  When?—By-and-by!  By-and-by!  By-and-by!

   |  "By-and-by is a very bad boy,
   |  Shun him at once and forever;
   |  For he that goes with By-and-by
   |  Soon comes to the town of Never!"
   |

They say that Rothschild, one of the wealthiest
men of the world, made the beginning of his
fortune by acting at the moment.  He was in
Brussels and heard the report of the battle, and
spurred his horse and paid a large sum to be
ferried across a river; and got to London early
in the morning before the news was abroad; and
laid the foundations of his wealth in a few hours.

That is one of the roads to success—being prompt.

The dilly-dallying, shirking, waiting girl or boy
will always be at the tail-end of things, and will
never catch up enough to catch on.

Do you want to catch on?

Then do it now—not by-and-by!

There is a little poem printed in *Messenger for
the Children*.  I want to repeat it to you:

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   PUT-OFF TOWN

..

   |  Did you ever go to Put-Off town,
   |  Where the houses are old and tumble-down,
   |  And everything tarries and everything drags,
   |  With dirty streets and people in rags?

   |  On the street of Slow lives Old Man Wait,
   |  And his two little boys named Linger and Late;
   |  With unclean hands and tousled hair,
   |  And a naughty little sister named Don't Care.

   |  Grandmother Growl lives in this town,
   |  With her two little daughters called Fret and Frown;
   |  And Old Man Lazy lives all alone
   |  Around the corner on Street Postpone.

   |  Did you ever go to Put-Off town
   |  To play with the little girls, Fret and Frown,
   |  Or to the home of Old Man Wait,
   |  And whistle for his boys to come to the gate?

   |  To play all day in Tarry Street,
   |  Leaving your errands for other feet?
   |  To stop or shirk, or linger, or frown,
   |  Is the nearest way to this old town.

.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BOLDNESS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   X


.. class:: center large bold

   BOLDNESS

.. vspace:: 2

There is a splendid kind of boldness.

One day, years ago, sometime after
the death of Jesus, two of His disciples,
Peter and John, were arrested and brought before
their bitter enemies who were ready and able to
kill them.  And Peter, the noble soul, stood up
without a pang of fear and just told them face
to face what he thought; and then the New
Testament story says: "When they saw the boldness of
Peter and John they marvelled."

It is a fine thing to see men and women and
girls and boys who are not afraid to do and stand
for the right.

Listen to this story which I will give you just
as I got it:

.. vspace:: 1

He was small for his age, worked in a signal
box, and booked the trains.  One day the men
were chaffing him about being so small.  One of
them said:

"You will never amount to much.  You will
never be able to pull these levers; you are too
small."

The little fellow looked at them.

"Well," said he, "as small as I am, I can do
something which none of you can do."

"Ah! what is that?" they all said.

"I don't know that I ought to tell you," he
replied.

But they were anxious to know, and urged him
to tell what he could do that none of them were
able to do.  Said one of the men:

"What is it, boy?"

"I can keep from swearing and drinking!" replied
the little fellow.

There were blushes on the men's faces, and
they didn't seem anxious for any further
information on the subject.

.. vspace:: 1

Was not he the right kind of a bold boy?

Or what do you think of a lot of officers at a
dinner, drinking and telling unclean tales.

Everybody had to tell a story or sing a song.

One young, shy fellow said, "I cannot sing but
I will give a toast in water."  And the toast he
gave was "Our Mothers."

The rest were so touched by his splendid
courage that they shook his hand and thanked him,
and the Colonel said it was one of the bravest acts
he ever saw.

A great Scotch preacher was so brave that it
was said, "he never feared the face of man."

Every girl and boy should be bold in that
way—fearless, heroic, full of courage and with a stiff,
brave heart.

Some day you will read and study Shakespeare,
and he will give you this message:

   |  "What's brave, what's noble, let's do it, and
   |    make death proud to take us."
   |

Another writer, whose name I do not know, is
quoted as saying:

   |  "We make way for the man who boldly pushes past us."
   |

Dear girls and boys, was it not a great moment
for Canada when a little handful of Canadians
stood at Ypres, in the first poison gas attack and
dare to face it, and stand fast?  Their boldness
helped to stem the tide, and that first stand was
the beginning of the events that won the war for
the Allies.

That sort of a bold person makes history, and
makes the history of their country.

The poet Emerson puts it this way:

   |  "Not gold, but only men can make
   |    A people great and strong.
   |  Men who for truth and honour's sake
   |    Stand fast and suffer long.
   |  Brave men who work while others sleep,
   |    Who dare while others fly—
   |  They build a nation's pillars deep
   |    And lift them to the sky."
   |

But there is a boldness that acts on life like
foxes in a garden.

It is seen in the rude, rough, saucy, forward
girl or boy.

The boy who becomes a "smart Alec."  Sometimes
other boys call him "Smarty."

Or the girl who does not know how to blush;
with no sense of shame.  You can always tell
them.  She dresses loud, and laughs loud, and
makes a fool of herself on the street; and he stares
at you and acts impudently, and thinks he is manly.

They like to be looked at, and stare back.

They lack gentle, quiet refinement, and if that
spirit grows, it will ruin the character and make
the girl or boy disliked by everybody who cares
for a gentleman or a lady; and in later years they
will be ashamed.

Take a dictionary if you have one, and see the
two uses of the word.

   |  Bold—heroic, brave, gallant, courageous, fearless.
   |  Bold—rude, without shame, impudent.
   |

Which are you going to be?





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`REVENGE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XI


.. class:: center large bold

   REVENGE

.. vspace:: 2

This is a fox whose bite brings blood.

It represents a very bad spirit.

It means, "I am going to pay him
back."  "I am going to get even."  "You just
see, I'll catch him and make him sorry!"

It does make him sorry, not in the sense of
being penitent and wishing he had not done it, or
longing to undo it; but sorry because of the blow
he gets in return.

It is a bitter heart that takes revenge.  It goes
with a hard, unforgiving spirit.

It is an awful way for girls and boys to act,
because they should be so bright and smiling.
They are so fresh and sunny.  They are so young
they should not grow hard like an old shell.

They ought to be all mercy, forgiveness, kindness,
because they have so much of it shown to them.

I hate to see a kiddie who is always looking for
a chance to hit some one who happened to hit him.

Johnny Pay-him-back once was hurt when he
was playing with a schoolmate, and instead of
turning up a rosy face and laughing it off, the
way the sun does when a piece of mud flies up in
the face of the sky, he opened the door of his
heart and this little fox began to chew away all
his finer feelings.  As the fox chewed, Johnny
chewed on his hurt, just the way he was chewing
a wad of gum in his mouth.  The more he chewed
the hotter he grew under his collar.

You see, in your heart there is a cooling plant
called Love, but the pesky little fox chewed it all
up, and he got so hot that he paid the boy back
and sent him to bed for a whole month to suffer
pain; simply because he wanted revenge.

I read of a man once who was injured by
another man of high rank in society, and he said to
a friend, "Would it not be manly to resent it?"  The
friend answered, "Yes, but it would be God-like
to forgive!"

It is not easy to forgive.  It takes a real man to
do it, but it makes you very much like God, who
forgives us so much day after day!

And the gentle, forgiving spirit does so much
to make the world bright, while the revengeful
spirit adds so much to its gloom.  Put that in a
house or a school, and you pull down all the
blinds and stop all the music of life.

Part of the horrors of the war were bred of
revenge.

Germany had piled up all she could on France
in 1870.  France could not forget it, and the
terrible thing about revenge is it burns so long.
It may be that even now after victory, sparks of
that old fire are still burning in the heart of
France.  If it should blaze up nobody can tell how
awful the results would be.

Brighten up your hearts by keeping them sweet
with mercy.

Instead of making yourself dark with the desire
to pay back—just shine up a little.  Keep the air
fresh, and polish off your windows and put the
flowers of kindness on the sills and hand out
mercy to those who pass by.

Jesus said, "Blessed are the merciful for they
shall obtain mercy."  And if you and I can't
forgive, how can we hope to be forgiven?

Oh, there is nothing like the sunny life to cast
out the shadows of hate.

It was the radiant sunshine of Pollyanna that
changed a whole community and brought two
people together who had not spoken for years; so

Smile, don't frown.  Love, don't hate.


   |  "Are you feeling cross to-day?
   |    Stop and smile.
   |  And of course, if you feel gay,
   |    Why, you'll smile.
   |  You will find that it will pay
   |    If everywhere and every day
   |  At your work or at your play
   |    You will smile.  Just smile."
   |

It was a piece of fine advice one gave another.
It was this:

   |  "Smile a while,
   |  And while you smile
   |  Another smiles!
   |  And soon there will be miles
   |  And miles
   |  Of smiles.
   |  And life's worth while
   |  Because you smile."
   |

May I add:

   |  Don't frown and groan
   |  Or throw your stone.
   |  But pile up high
   |  Yes, just sky-high
   |  Your joy and love.
   |  Then by-and-by
   |  Down from above
   |  The holy dove
   |  Will come and move
   |  Our world with love.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`UNTRUTHFULNESS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XII


.. class:: center large bold

   UNTRUTHFULNESS

.. vspace:: 2

"Oh, what do you want to talk so much
about that?" said a boy to his mother.
"It was only a white lie!"

And the poor little silly thought that you got
your opinion of a lie by its colour!

A bad man may be white, or brown, or black,
or yellow, but he is a bad man all the same!  The
colour does not matter; and so is a lie a bad thing,
whether it is little or big, or white or black.
I'll tell you why, girls and boys!

1. White lies give you a habit of telling lies,
and when you get the habit you become a liar!
In fact, white lies are almost the worse of the
two, because a big black lie would scare you, but
the little white lie eats into you without you
knowing it.

2. White lies are like that awful disease called
Cancer.

We hear a lot about it to-day, and the doctors
are puzzled because they do not know how to trace
it.  But it eats and eats away until some of us have
seen most loathsome forms of it consuming the
poor body, while the life is still there, often in
very intense suffering.  And the doctors say,
"Take care of the first pimple and have it cut
out."  Cancer often starts in a tiny spot or the
smallest growth.

Now, the liar is just the same.  He starts with
lie pimples—just little white spots on his language
tongue, but they grow until they eat away his best
life.

In the East there is a dread disease called Leprosy.

It often begins with a little white spot, which
grows and grows until the body gets rotten, and
the poor fellow who has the disease has to be sent
away by himself.  And white lies grow and grow
until the man becomes an evil one, who sometimes
has to be sent off by himself in a jail, and
the boy is sent off to some industrial home to keep
him away so he cannot hurt others, until he has
learned a better way of talking and living.

Be afraid of a lie!

3. They make people whom you cannot trust,
and almost anything else I would wish for you
than to be one who cannot be trusted.

You can't rely on a liar.  Not only one who
lies with his tongue, but who acts lies.  He gets
by-and-by so full of lies that if you try to lean
on him, down you go!

Out in the West, one of the great wheat
elevators at Fort William suddenly slid down into
the river, because the foundation was too weak to
hold it up.

And a liar is like that!  He is a bad foundation
for home or school or society!

He caves in if any weight is put on him.

Let the girls and boys who study about these
foxes watch this bad one, and be straight and
true and upright and strong, so people can be sure
of them.

I like the story I read once of a Scottish
schoolboy who was called "Little Scotch Granite."  When
the boys were supposed to tell how often
they had whispered in school—and if they had not
at all, got a perfect mark called "Ten"—they got
the habit of saying "Ten," even when they had
broken the school rule.  Little Scotty came, and
although he was bright and full of fun he would
not say "Ten"—although his record got very low.

But he changed the whole school.

He was always a good sport, but he never would
tell a lie to save himself.

At the close of the term he was away down on
the list, but when the teacher said he had decided
to give a special medal to the most faithful boy
in the school and asked to whom he would give
it—forty voices called out together, "Little Scotch
Granite!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"I CAN'T BE BOTHERED!"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XIII


.. class:: center large bold

   "I CAN'T BE BOTHERED!"

.. vspace:: 2

Did you ever hear any girl or boy say that?

"Sonny, go and do that little job, will
you?"  "Oh, I can't be bothered!"

"Johnny, your sister Mary is having a hard
time with her home work.  Go and see if you can
help her."  "Oh, I can't be bothered!"

A load of firewood was dumped at the back
gate and Billy, who was lying kicking up his heels
on the porch in the sun, was asked to go and pile
some of it in the cellar.  "Oh, I can't be bothered!
Wait till Dad comes home, he'll do it!"

The next door neighbour had a sick baby and
Nellie was asked to go to the drug store for
something.  Now, Nellie really loved babies and she
was a good little kiddie usually; but she was busy
on some ribbons she was fixing for herself—so
busy she forgot to shut the garden gate and that
fox came in and bit one of the flowers off her
soul, and she said, "Oh, don't bother me!"

My, girls and boys, you let that fox loose in
your garden, and he'll make an awful mess of it!
He'll chew up the loveliest thing and leave a wreck!

If he gets abroad in the home or the church or
the city, or society, he'll ruin things without a
doubt.

Because:

1. If everybody said that nothing ever would
be done to help anybody, this poor old world would
be left so that none of us would want to live in it.

Of course, I know there is a lot of "bother"
that we should not bother with—the "bother"
that your mother means when she says, "Stop
bothering the baby!"—the "bother" that means
teasing, and vexing and annoying, and making
yourself a nuisance.

But think where you would have been if your
mother and father had never bothered over you.

Think of where the world would have been if
all men and women had refused to be bothered
about its history.  It would have had no heroes,
no authors, and no leaders, and what we call
history would have been a perfect mess!

It is because savages do not bother that we
have the dark places where the missionary goes
and bothers his soul to help; and if he did not,
there would be no progress; and if he never had
gone, you and I would still be savages!

Whenever you are tempted to say, "Don't
bother me!"—just remember and be glad that it
was bothering about things gave you home and
friends and school and all that makes your life
worth while!

2. There is another queer thing about bothering.

A lot of girls and boys never think it half as
much a bother to bother about some people
outside as they do to bother about people in their
own homes.  Some boys, and girls too, can be as
sweet as an all-day sucker when some other lady
asks them to go a message, and as sour as a dose
of vinegar when their own mother wants something done!

"Oh, yes, dear Mrs. Smith, it will be no trouble
at all to take that letter to the post.  I'll gladly go!"

"Oh, confound it, Mother!  I can't do that!
I wanted to go down to the pond to skate!"

Girls and boys!  Don't say, "I can't be bothered!"

Bothering for others is the bliss of life!

If you want to be happy, aid some one to-day!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THANKLESSNESS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XIV


.. class:: center large bold

   THANKLESSNESS

.. vspace:: 2

Don't you love to hear the gentle voice of
a child say, "Thank you!"?

Don't you like to see a girl or boy that
feels and shows gratitude?

Everything in Nature seems to have it!

The birds twittering in the tree-tops always
seem to be chirping, "Thanks."  The flowers
bordering the green lawn breathe out a fragrance that
makes you so glad, it must be the odour of thanks!
The sun is so glorious and scatters its rays so
brightly, I think if you could hear it speaking as
it shines, you would hear it saying, "Oh, I am so
thankful I have all this power of sifting down
these drops of sunlight!"  When the rain sees the
brown-burnt grass starting up into bright greenness,
how thankful it must feel for its ability to
refresh!  I think even the wind is glad it can
shake things up and scatter nasty germs and clean
the air that people breathe!

   |  "All things bright and beautiful,
   |  All creatures great and small,
   |  All things wise and wonderful,
   |  The Lord God made them all."

And I really believe there is not one that is not
glad and thankful for being and doing!

There is no spirit so dark, unhappy and
unattractive as the one that is thankless.

Shakespeare says:

   |  "Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend
   |  More hideous in a child
   |  Than the sea monster."

And again he says:

   |  "How sharper is it than a serpent's tooth
   |  To have a thankless child."
   |

Once Jesus cured ten lepers, and you know
leprosy was a dreadful disease that little by little
ate away the body and turned it into a rotting
sore; and of the ten who were healed of that
frightful trouble, only one came back to say, "I
thank you!"

Isn't it a lovely sight to see the sweet spirit of
a thankful heart saying it—to find people who
appreciate what you do—that is, who think it is
worth something, for appreciation just means
putting a value on, and they say so!

The Bible says, "Let the redeemed of the Lord say so."

Don't keep it to yourself.  Say so!  Pass it on!
Tell some one you are glad they did something
for you!

Everybody dislikes a girl or boy who is like a
sponge, always soaking in!

I saw a lovely flower once.  At first it was only
a dirty-looking bulb.  But it was put in nice clean
water, in a glass, and soon beautiful white rootlets
began to fill up the bottle; and one day the bulb
was so glad that it was no longer a nasty
earthy-looking brown bulb, but had graceful white roots,
and a bud shooting out that it burst in a splendid
poem of thanks; only the poem was called a
flower, and its name was Hyacinth!

We all love to see a thankful life—At home it
makes the atmosphere so soft and helpful—At
school it straightens wrinkles off the teacher and
fills the room with light—With one another it acts
like good oil in an automobile.  It makes things
run smoother.

And girls and boys, God likes it too!

There is a fable of a lion that lay hot and tired,
trying to sleep, when some field mice ran over his
body and made him so mad he clapped down his
paw and was going to tear it when the little mouse
pled for mercy in such a way that the lion set him
free.

Sometime later he heard a great roaring and
found it was the lion caught by hunters in a great
net.  He remembered the mercy of the lion, and
telling him not to fear, he set to work with his
little sharp teeth and gnawed away at the cords
and knots of the trap and set the lion free.

It is fine to be thankful.

It is even finer to prove it by doing things that
make others thankful.

Be thankful for home, and school, for church and gospel.

Be thankful you are not children in a heathen land.

Be thankful for your happy girl and boy life.

Be thankful God cares for you.

A minister once told a bishop of a wonderful
escape he had from a burning ship.  He called it
a "great providence of God."

"Yes," said the bishop, "but I know a greater.
I know a ship where nothing happened and it
arrived safely."  That was God's providence too, for
which he was thankful.

And all your life God is working over you.

Are you thankful?

And do you show it by helping others and being
kind to those who are kind to you?

There is a legend from Norway, that wonderful
sea-washed land in Europe, so full of tales that
girls and boys like.  It is called the legend of the
"Gertrude Bird."

It is a woodpecker that is said to have been a
woman once, who was making bread, when two
men passed by who happened to be Christ and His
disciple Peter, although she did not know.

They asked for some of the dough, for they had
had a long walk and fast; and she pinched a piece
off when lo, it grew till it filled the bake box.  So
she said, "No, that is too much," and pinched a
piece off it, when the same thing happened!
Three times it happened, and each time she got
more selfish and hard and stingy.  At last, as she
saw how much dough she was getting, she said to
the two strangers, "I cannot give you any.  Go
on, you can't stop here!"

They passed on and then she knew them; and
oh, she got humble and sorry, and fell down
asking for pardon, and the Christ said, "I gave you
much, but you had no thanks.  Now I'll try
poverty.  After this you must get your food between
the bark and the tree.  But because you are sorry,
when your clothing is all black with your sorrow,
it will stop, because then you will have learnt to
be thankful!"

And so she was punished for a while by
becoming a woodpecker, picking her food between
the bark and the tree, until as she grew older her
back and wings all got black; and then God turned
them all white again!

Dear girls and boys, God loves you and me to
be thankful!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CRUELTY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XV


.. class:: center large bold

   CRUELTY

.. vspace:: 2

There are two ways you can get a bad
bite from the fox called Cruelty.

(1) By being cruel to people.  Of
course, most normal girls and boys would hardly
like to be called cruel; and yet how often you can
be without just knowing its name.

A boy that is a bully is a cruel boy.  At school
he likes to lord it over other boys, especially if
they are smaller than he is.

I knew a boy once in a school in Toronto, who
at recess was knocked down by a bigger boy who
pushed his face into a snow bank and sat on him
until he was in an agony of suffocation.  I don't
suppose the boy realized what he was doing, but
he was a bully just the same.

He is the fellow who likes to see smaller fellows
afraid of him, and likes to strut around with the
feeling that he is cock of the walk!

I was going to a funeral one day, and saw a
large boy on the street, seated on a small boy who
was lying helpless on his back and enduring all
kinds of nasty actions by the young bully.  If I
had not been at the head of the funeral, I would
have stopped and gone and spanked him!

How boys hate a bully.  He is a coward, you
know, at heart.  A real brave boy will never take
advantage of some one weaker and smaller than
himself.  A real brave hero protects others.  The
boy who hurts some one who can't defend himself
is a mean coward.  It does not matter how big his
breast is or how far it sticks out, his inside heart
is small, and narrow and hard.  Now, don't you be
like that!

(2) You can be cruel to animals—torturing
them—loving to hurt them, just for the fun of
killing.  It is so strange the way some people
think they are having no sport unless something
is suffering.

"It's a fine day," some one is reported as
saying, "let us go out and kill something."

We live in a day when Children's Aid Societies
and Humane Societies are telling us of the beauty
of a kind life, and that even animals are God's
creatures and should be treated with reverence, or
at least with the gentleness that will not cause
unnecessary pain.

The cruel spirit hardens us.  It takes away what
learned men call sensitiveness; *i.e.*, it makes us so
we do not feel.  It makes our hearts like our hands
sometimes get when not cared for—it makes
callous marks; and when fine feeling is lost, we are
less than we ought to be.

A little Indian girl, the educated daughter of a
chief, said she could never forget the first time
she ever heard God's name.

In her play she found a wounded bird by her
tent and picked it up and said, "This is mine."  One
of the men who saw her said, "What have
you?"  "A bird," she said, "it's mine."

He looked at it and said, "No, it's not yours.
You must not hurt it."  "Not mine," she said,
"then whose is it?"  "It's God's," he said.  "He
can care for it.  Give it back to Him."  She felt
scared and awed.  "Who is God?  Where is God?
How will I give it back?"  "Go and lay it down
near its nest," he said, "and tell God there is His
bird."

She went very softly back and laid it down and
said, "God, there is your bird."—And she never
forgot!

Be kind to all things, girls and boys.

   |  "There's nothing so kingly as kindness
   |  And nothing so royal as truth."

And watch carefully that you may not be a cruel
girl or boy to any person or to any of God's creatures.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`COWARDLINESS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XVI


.. class:: center large bold

   COWARDLINESS

.. vspace:: 2

If there is any one in the world that a boy or
a girl admires, it is a hero.  You are all
hero-worshippers.

You know how big you feel if you ever get a
chance to shake hands with a great man who had
made a name for himself, and if he is a great
national hero and he speaks to you, why you never
forget it; and you blow about it to all your
chums!

When the Prince of Wales was in Vancouver, a
little girl presented a bouquet to him, and I fancy
she felt so big that her dress-waist grew very tight
as she swelled up.

When I was a little boy, I had a very learned
and eloquent minister; and I used to watch him,
and made up my mind to be just like him, and to
wear a gray silk hat some day.  He was my hero.

It is a fine thing to be a hero and to love a hero;
and one of the things we all believe our heroes
possess is bravery.

No girl or boy would ever knowingly worship
a coward.

The very fact that we have heroes that always
stand to us for big, brave, noble people, should
make us anxious to be big, brave and noble ourselves.

Everybody admires Scott who died in the search
for the South Pole; and Shackleton who died on
his way to explore that part of the earth.
Everybody has learned to think highly of the fearless
John Knox, who was not afraid to talk back to
the Queen when she did wrong; or Luther, who
defied the Emperor and the whole Empire because
he knew he was right.  It was one of the greatest
moments in history when the little monk stood
straight up and looked his enemies in the eye, and
said, "I will not retract.  I can do no other.  Here
I stand!"

When you think of people like that, how it
makes us ashamed of ourselves when fear grips
our heart.

And yet, cowardice is not quite the same as fear.

Wellington, England's great general, once in a
battle ordered a young officer to a dangerous spot.
The young fellow turned deadly pale, but put
spurs to his horse and went straight to duty.  And
General Wellington said, "There goes a courageous
man.  He is afraid, but he only thinks of duty!"

Nor is physical courage the highest kind.  That
is a matter of physical nerve and sometimes of
health.  But moral courage is still higher—the
very highest kind.

A poet once wrote:

   |  "One dared to die, a swift moment's pace
   |  Fell in war's forefront, laughter on his face,
   |  Bronze tells the tale in many a market-place.

   |  "One dared to live the whole day through,
   |  Felt his life blood ooze like morning dew,
   |  And smiled for duty's sake, and no one knew."
   |

Neither were cowards, but I think the second
was the braver, don't you?

Now, there are different ways of being cowards
and of being brave.  If you can't stand sneers
when you are right, but give in because of laughs,
you are a coward at heart.  If you are afraid to
do right, you are a coward, but if you can do it
even when you are afraid, you are a brave hero.

If you can stand against a crowd when the
crowd is wrong, and stand there even if you are
the only one, you are brave and will never have the
coward heart!

The coward spirit, especially the spirit of a
moral coward, eats the power out of your life,
and the only way to avoid it is to dare to do right,
and dare to be true.

Sometimes it takes a lot out of you, but it is
worth while.

The boys who stood the trenches and braved
bullets and shells and mud stains and never
faltered, were courageous.  Those who funked were
always despised cowards; and the girl or boy who
stands strong wherever duty calls is a brave life,
and will never be bitten by the fox called Coward.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`DISHONESTY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XVII


.. class:: center large bold

   DISHONESTY

.. vspace:: 2

Did you ever really hear in your heart and
believe in your very soul that "An
honest man's the noblest work of God"?

What is honesty?

It is the quality of your character that always
rings true.

You can always tell when a bell has a crack
in it.  It does not ring true.

And you can tell when a girl or boy has a crack
somewhere in his character.  He or she does not
give a clear ringing sound.  One of the worst
kind of cracks is dishonesty.

You can't trust that kind of person.  He always
has to be watched.

What a horrid kind of child that is, from whom
you dare never take your eyes!

But when you see a real honest girl or boy, how
you admire the sight.

They will not cheat.  They play fair.  They are
true sports.  They won't take advantage of you
when your back is turned.

You know how even in school games you like a
real sport, who plays the game and obeys the
rules of the game.

You can't have a game with any other kind.
He spoils everything and you can't have real life
with a cheat.  He spoils the school and disgraces
a house.

More than that, an honest person will not take
what does not belong to them.  A lot of girls and
boys forget the difference between "mine" and
"thine."

Then when they grow up they spoil society, and
if they go far enough, they become that awful
thing, "a thief."

An honest girl and boy is one with honour bright.

A looking-glass always shines when it is polished
bright.

A pool of water is very beautiful when you can
look right down into it and see clear through it—

And so is a boy and girl who has no mud in the
eye or in the soul.

It is simply great to be a life on the square,
aboveboard, with nothing to conceal; what is
called transparent, so that the light shines
throughout, with no pretending to be what it is not; no
scamping work and trying to get things without
paying for them.  You can't anyhow!  You
always get in the end what you pay for.

Did you ever hear some one described as "four
square"—standing true, upright, facing
everywhere with a clear eye and an undimmed soul?

It is a fine thing to have a life with no spots in
it, and one of the very worst spots is to be false and
dishonest—

And it always comes home some day—

A wonderful book called "Silas Marner" tells
of a young man who stole the money that old Silas
had gathered and kept under the boards of his
cottage floor.

For many years no one ever knew where it went.

It nearly broke the heart of Silas, only in
hunting for it he found the golden curls of a little
child who helped to save him and make a good
man of him.

Near by was an old pit, full of water, and some
years later in draining off the water, they found a
skeleton with a bag of gold beside him.  It was
the bones of the young fellow who stole it, and
who had fallen in, years before, and been drowned.

But there at last, it was all seen, and his
dishonesty was published to the whole district.

And dishonesty does come out, and even if the
dishonest act is never known in itself, it comes out
in the life that has lost its truth and beauty and
grown mean and unworthy, so that nobody believes in it.

It leaves a bad black stain wherever any one is
dishonest.

Therefore, dear girls and boys, be honest.

   |  "Be true, little laddie, be true,
   |  From your cap to the toe of your shoe."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"LIMPY LATE"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XVIII


.. class:: center large bold

   "LIMPY LATE"

.. vspace:: 2

There are some people who are like a
cow's tail—they are always behind.

They go to bed late and they get up
late.  They go to school late and to church.  The
only thing they are never late for is their meals,
and if their mothers were like them their meals
would be late too.

You sometimes read in the papers of "the late
Mr. So and So," which means they are dead and
are no longer Mr. So and So that used to be.

But there are some who do not have to wait
till they die to be called "the late Johnny" and
"the late Mary."  They come strolling along
after everything is started.

I taught school once, and had a scholar who
came in any old time.  He was a most trying sort
of a boy.  He always missed his lessons, and I
did not know what to do with him.  He loitered
on the way and was absent-minded; and spoiled
his class; and took up my time, for I always had
to say a thing all over again for him.

One day I saw him coming and met him at the
door with a very big welcome and offered to shake
hands, and told him how glad we all were to see
him; and he was so ashamed he cried and was
never late again.  He did not want any more such
greetings.

Even big people are like that.

If a Committee meets, they come in when it is
partly through and waste everybody's time by
asking what was done, and it has to be said all
over again, and is very hard on one's temper.

They are not often late for a party, or for
anything that is going to give them fun, but for real
earnest things, they are never early.

They are like the Irishman who came panting
to the station just in time to see the train moving
away up the yard, and cried out, "Hie, there!
There's a man aboard left behind!"—And girls
and boys, if you practice the habit of being late,
you'll be left behind too, and life's train will go
off without you.

It's a very bad habit.  It makes you slovenly.
It puts ragged edges in your work.  Nothing is
ever done.  You are always trying to catch up.
You knock everybody's plans in pieces.  It makes
a nuisance of you; for who wants girls and boys
who are always running up when they should be
running ahead?

It puts a limp into you, and you stay at the
tail-end instead of being what every bright smart girl
and boy ought to be—up in the van, right at the
front.

You don't want to be a tail-ender, I am sure—a
kind of "might-have-been."

You should have some business get-up to you.—

   |  "Alert and at the prow
   |  Of life's broad deck
   |  To seize the passing moment big with fate
   |  From opportunity's extended hand."
   |

Take care of being Limpy Late, for if you let
that spirit grow, some day you will be "Too late"
and that makes two of the saddest words in the
language.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"SISSY SLOW"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XIX


.. class:: center large bold

   "SISSY SLOW"

.. vspace:: 2

I really believe some people are so slow
they could not catch a cold.

If they ever get one, they really do not
get it,—it gets them.

They are like molasses in winter—there is no
run to it.—And the worst is, they do not think it
is very important.

But it is.

I know all about the old proverb, "Slow and
steady wins the race."  But I think the real word
of value there is "steady" and the proverb was
never meant to tell any one to tie up their feet and
crawl along.  It was meant to tell you to keep at
it.  Even if you are not clever and brilliant you
can get there just the same.  And so you can.

Lots of girls and boys have had bright brains
and great gifts, but they do not use them, and
somebody who has less gifts passes them, because
they work hard, and stick to it.

They are like postage stamps.  They stick!

Their perseverance conquers difficulties, and
keeping at it steadily, readily, constantly, they
arrive at the goal, while the more gifted ones,
trusting to what they think is their inspiration, forget
the need of perspiration, and never get anywhere.

That is all true, but it is a mistake just the same
to be slow.

In fact, the successful people are not slow.
They are quick to see the end and march straight at it.

Quick does not necessarily mean galloping.
Quick is just another word for alive.  The quick
girl and boy have life in them.

The slow girl and boy are only half alive.
Their step has no spring.  Their eyes have no
gleam.  Their movements have no brightness.
They never do anything.  It is impossible to do
unless you are alive.  It is the lively, lifelike
people who do things.

Life always is like that.

Wherever you have life, you have action.

And it is so unnatural for you; for if there is
anything that should describe a natural normal girl
or boy, it is liveliness!

Sometimes, what people call "lively kids" are
a trial.  They keep you on the run looking after
them, but I tell you, if they are guided and
controlled, they become splendid men and women.

It is very queer to see a sit-still boy.  You feel
he must be sick.  It used to be thought a very
becoming thing for a girl to be a sort of lovely,
good-for-nothing sort of wall flower.  It was not
supposed to be ladylike to be too stirring.

But now we look for the red-blooded, red-cheeked,
blooming, alert, bright, breezy girl as
much as we do a boy like that.  That does not
make a girl unladylike.

You can be a lady and still be alive.  What's
the use of a dead lady?

There was once a boy who came into the office
of a big business place, carrying a notice that said,
"Boy Wanted."  He asked the manager if that
was his sign, and the big man said, "Yes, you
young monkey.  What did you take that off the
door for?"  And the boy answered, "Well, I'm
the boy!"  And I think he got the job.  He should
have, anyway, for he was alive.

Oh, stop your slowness!

What do you want to shuffle along in that
snail-like way for?  Pick your feet up!

Get a move on!

Quicken your steps!

Opportunity lies just around the corner.—Run after it!

Things do not just happen.  You have to seek things.

Jesus once said:

   |  "Ask and it shall be given you,
   |  Seek and ye shall find,
   |  Knock and it shall be opened unto you."
   |

May I add just one word?

Do you know, girls and boys, the future of the
Church is in your hands?  We elders are going to
drop out soon, and we want you to be ready to
take our places.

Do you know, moreover, that you get to a very
important age between twelve and sixteen?

You make great choices then.  It is called the
age of adolescence.  You are flowering out; and
around those ages the highest of all choices are
made—The choice for God and a religious life.

As we grow older we get set, like plaster, and it
is hard to change.  But you are plaster, like clay,
and are being formed now.

If you let these days pass by you may never
choose, and if you do not choose the Church, your
country will lose what it sorely needs.  Therefore,
be quick now to make your choice.

Slowness here is fatal.

For you it is literally true,

   |  "Now is the accepted time, and now is the day of salvation."

And if a girl or boy is speeding up religiously,
do not let any parent or any older person put
anything in their way.  Help them make the choice
and in the days of youth remember their Creator.

Do not say, "Go slow."  Say, "Certainly, 'Go Sure.'"

But let them come with all the sweet swiftness
of these lovely, impressionable days, and help
them speedily lay their lives at Jesus' feet.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`SHAME`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XX


.. class:: center large bold

   SHAME

.. vspace:: 2

It seems queer to call shame a fox, does it not?
For a girl or boy without sense of shame
would be in a sad state.

But a lot of foxes look at first like something
else.  I have seen a fox that at a distance looked
like a little dog.

There is a real shame that every one should
have.  But there is another kind just as bad as the
vine-spoiling fox.  It is the shame of the life that
is afraid to show its colours.

You know in the war how proud every loyal
person was to wear a little flag in the buttonhole;
how we hung flags in our churches so every one
could see where we stood.  On all our public
buildings the nation's flag was flung to the breeze,
and even in our schools the girls and boys were
proud to stand up and salute, and sing the national
anthem.

You will see men everywhere who wear pins or
seals or rings that show they belong to some
society; and in college, the students hang on the walls
the pennants with the names of their home town
or their college, and nobody blushes because they
are there.

But, oh, how many girls and boys get so
different when asked to show where they stand on
questions of right and wrong.  They blush, and
apologize, and look so shy, and feel so queer—with their
ears red and the goose-flesh running up and down
their backs.  They are out and out for some
things, and very neutral for others.

Neutral may be a rather big word, but your
mother will tell you about it when she goes to the
dry-goods store.  There are some ribbons whose
colour you are not sure of.  They are of no
outstanding tint, a sort of dull gray with no mark to
it.  They call them neutral colours.

They may be all right.  But girls and boys like
that are a terrible sight.—Neither this nor
that—ashamed to come out; afraid to say where they
stand.

In the war, at one time, there were prominent
people who were afraid to have a conviction on
Belgian and French outrages, or on the sinking of
the *Lusitania*, and it did not add to public opinion
about them.  It was called spiritual neutrality;
which is just a big learned way of saying it had no
character.

That spirit nobody in his heart admires.  You
girls and boys do not.  You love to read about the
knights of old, and how they wore their armour
and rode their chargers, and carried their spears,
and did not blush to let everybody know who they
were.  Sir Walter Scott describes one in these words:

   |  "Proudly his red-roan charger trode,
   |  His helm hung at the saddle-bow;
   |  Well by his visage you might know
   |  He was a stalwart knight and keen,
   |  And had in many a battle been.
   |  His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire,
   |  Showed spirit proud, and prompt to ire;
   |  Yet lines of thought upon his cheek
   |  Did deep design and counsel speak;
   |  His square-turned joints, and strength of limb,
   |  Showed him no carpet-knight so trim,
   |  But in close fight a champion grim,
   |  In camps a leader sage."
   |

Not a single one but threw his boast to the
world of his plans and purposes.  They were not
ashamed.  Their hearts were brave and the world
saw the brave hearts through noble knightly deeds.
They never tried to hide them.  What a splendid
sight to see one who wears his colours outside, and
never lowers his flag!

A lot of soldiers won V.C.'s in the war and
deserved the honour.  Some who deserved it never
got it; and some deserve it in peace as well as in war.

A disaster took place in a mine where eleven
men and a boy were working.  Ten died, leaving
one man and the boy.  The man wrapped his
overcoat around the boy, covered his own eyes with his
sleeve, turned his back on the flames and backed
through it all and brought the boy to safety,
although his skin was charred.

He was a hero equal to any V.C.  He had a
brave heart, and was not ashamed to do what it
told him.

Do you show your colours?  Are you afraid to
let people see the real thing in your heart?  You
want to be kind and good and true.  Does
anybody know?  Do you keep your colours waving?

In the Great War, how we all shouted, "We'll
never let the old flag fall."  That was fine, and we
did not let it fall, and we were not ashamed.

Will you be ashamed to do the right or speak
the right?  Will you fear the face of some other
girl or boy, and slink away from your duty?

If you do, that wretched fox of shame will have
given you a bite that will take a long time to cure.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"A BATTERED WARSHIP"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXI


.. class:: center large bold

   "A BATTERED WARSHIP"

.. vspace:: 2

In the days of the Great War I was a minister
in Vancouver.  One day I went to Esquimault,
which was the station for the Pacific
squadron of the British Navy.

There entered the harbour one of the cruisers
which had passed through a naval battle.  It was
H.M.S. *Kent*.  It was a touching spectacle to
me.  In appearance she showed all the marks of
the experience she had gone through.

Painted in the dull gray of the navy, she stood
at anchor, scarred and marred by service.  The
enemy shot had set ablaze her gun cotton; enemy
shells had punctured the magazine; and through
her funnels the cartridges of hostile ships had
plowed their way.  Decks were soiled and
rigging torn; and her keel was covered with the sea
growths that accumulate with long voyages.

She was so different to the spick and span
vessels of pre-war days, with their fresh paint and
shining spars and burnished brass fixtures and
trimmings.  But as I looked at her, I will tell you
what I thought.

1. I said, "There are the marks of service."  And
it was a long service, for she was one of the
older ships, but they were splendid marks.  They
showed she was no harbour vessel or a parade
ship.  She had not dodged the issue or slunk away
from storm and conflict.  She had watched for
the enemy and when sighted, she turned her prow
in the direction of the fight.

You see in all our cities and towns the scarred
veterans with their wounds and disabled bodies.
And when you see them, take your hat off, for you
are in the presence of the servants of liberty.

There are some marks that are always a disgrace.

A life marked by sin; a face that shows the
sway of selfishness that cannot be hid; a body that
carries the signs of living for mere pleasure—these
have no honour with them.

The marks of evil always come, until if it
continues, the forehead shows the mark of the beast.

But, thank God, marks of goodness are just as
sure; and they are seen in the eye, on the face, in
the walk, in one's carriage, the way one conducts
oneself; and if it goes on, by-and-by the forehead
will show the marks of God.

One of the very finest marks is the scar of
service.

That grand old ship brought me a lesson to live
not to be served, but to serve, so that the world is
a little larger, better, stronger place because I have
been in it.

2. I thought of the glory of being a defender
of one's country.  Some people think a patriot is one
who shoots firecrackers and sends up rockets, and
pitches up his hat and hurrahs for things, and has
a glorious time on a public holiday.

But a real patriot is a man who loves his
country so much that he does all he can to ward off
dangers from her.  That was the glorious,
wonderful, immortal work of the British Navy, not
only for the Empire, but for the world.

She kept the sea paths open; she convoyed troop
ships; she sank submarines; she blockaded enemy
ports; she joined the allied navies in protecting the
world's freedom.

And the old battle-worn vessel spoke to me and
said, "What are you doing for your country?
Are you defending her from her enemies?  Do
you know what her enemies are?  Or do you care?"

Some poet speaks of,

   |  "The inextinguishable spark which fires
   |  The soul of patriots."
   |

And Shakespeare said:

   |          "I do love
   |  My country's good, with a respect more tender,
   |  More holy and profound than mine own life."
   |

That is a patriot, and when we are loyal to that
spirit we win a true place on the honour list.

The man of highest honour is the one who
serves his country for his love of her, and stands
up against every foe that threatens her.

And you girls and boys can have a name on the
honour list of your city.  You do not need to die
in battle to be an honour to your country.  Sometimes
it is as much an honour just to live for her.

In your private life, as a girl or boy, be and do
your best; and in your outward life, stand always
for the right and the true, and you, too, will be a
defender of your country.

3. Then finally, I thought of the unassuming
way in which it was all done.  That is the case
with all our best men.

A wounded soldier once after an operation,
suffering agonies, told me it made him sick to have
people come and slobber over him their sympathy.
He did not want that.  There is hardly a veteran
who can be got to tell what he did.  He just did it
and let it go at that.

When one of the ships in a battle was so sorely
battered that it was seen she must sink and be lost,
the noble captain said, "Keep cool, men.  Be
British!"

Just doing your duty, without noise or parade;
whether applauded or not; whether known or not;
whether in public or obscure places—that is all.

When I left the harbour and turned my back on
the old warrior vessel, the setting sun, that shines
in such glorious colourings on the Pacific, bathed
the gray ironclad in an outline of glory, and I saw
the H.M.S. in new meanings, which I give to you.

.. class:: center

   Humility—Manhood—Service.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BOUCHER, THE FRENCH-CANADIAN VOYAGEUR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXII


.. class:: center large bold

   BOUCHER, THE FRENCH-CANADIAN VOYAGEUR

.. vspace:: 2

I want to tell the girls and boys a really true
story, not taken from books, but told me
from life by the man whose name is at the
head of this tale.  And I am going to let you draw
your own lesson about the spirit that made possible
his act.

You know the voyageur was a man used by the
fur traders to bring the furs from the Indian lands
to the settled parts of civilization.  They ran the
rivers and shot the rapids and travelled the woods,
away from the far north Hudson Bay forts down
to Montreal and Quebec.  They were brave, rough,
hardy men who shot rapids in birch-bark canoes,
hunted for bear and muskrat and otter and beaver,
and lived a wild, free life in the open.

I spent three months once, far north of Winnipeg
in the Keewatin territory, among the Indians,
and there I met Boucher, who told his story in
broken English, a sort of mixture of English,
French and Cree.

He sat in a little wooden shack with an old pipe
between his fingers, a bed covered with mosquito
netting in one corner and a table and stool in
another.  His thin gray locks of hair were brushed
back, and shaky fingers passed his pipe at intervals
between his teeth.

The bare rocks behind and the deep Northern
river in front; the cry of the loon one moment and
the intense stillness of the loneliness the next, gave
a weird feeling as the evening twilight added its
shadows to the picture of the old man telling his
strange story.

Sir John Franklin and his band of men had been
lost in their quest for the Northwest passage.
Boucher was one of those who formed a search
party to try to recover the bones of the great traveller.

The journey tried their strength and heroism;
provisions were used up and their safety became a
matter of anxious concern.  Their boots were
torn off and their moccasins torn into rags.  He
told me how for hours he travelled the river,
where blistering sands were varied by floating ice,
and where the eyes were blinded by the shadeless
heat of the sun and the reflection of ice and water.

They became mere skeletons, until at last the
leader said some would have to go and hunt for
food.  Boucher volunteered, but in his search he
lost his way.

With bleeding feet he climbed the rocks to peer
out into the distance, looking for his companions.
No one can know what it feels like to be lost,
except those who have had that dreadful experience.
Lost in the wilderness, with no grub, no companion,
nothing but what seemed a pitiless heaven
above and a heartless nature all around, he shouted
into an unheeding air, and only heard the sound of
his own voice.

After hours of weary pain, he saw tracks which
proved to be traces of his companions who had
also left camp to hunt for grub.  Following them
in the hope of reaching camp, he was looking away
over the horizon when he saw something dark.
"Was it man or beast, dead or alive?"  Soon he
saw it move, and raise itself, and to his horror he
saw it was a man, who turned out to be one of his
own companions who had fallen exhausted and
been left to die on the lonely trail.

What was he to do?

He could not leave him to perish; he could not
stay long, for death was staring him in the face.
To leave meant dark inhumanity; to help meant
fearful suffering!  But he was a hero, and took
but a few moments to make his choice.  He would
stay with him and help him through, or perish in
the effort.

The exhausted man said, "Leave me; we will
both die if you stay."  "No," said the brave hero,
"I'll help you.  Ah!  I know how.  My back is
still left."

It took a lot of persuading, but at last, bending
low, with all his wretchedness and hunger, with
his bleeding feet and staggering body, he pulled
the man upon his back and started to trudge over
that awful road.

Miles he travelled until the very flesh peeled off
his feet—but he never stopped until the tracks led
him back to camp, where he laid tenderly down his
burden and fell in exhaustion that nearly proved
his end.

It was all told me in the plainest and most simple
way, with no boasts—just the quiet eloquence of a
story of a deed done, because there was nothing
else to do.

As I heard it I fancied I could hear the Indians
up the hill in the little mission chapel singing, and
this is what they seemed to sing:

   |  "Then scatter seeds of kindness
   |  For the reaping by-and-by."
   |

For he who scatters help and service may suffer,
but the glory of the crowning will more than make
up for all the pains of heroism.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ONE BY ONE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXIII


.. class:: center large bold

   "ONE BY ONE"

.. vspace:: 2

The first thing we all do is to learn to
count one by one.

At school when I began as a very little
boy, they had an object called an "abacus."  I
hardly know where they got the name, but it was
made of wires with beads strung on them, and it is
found away back in the time of Greece and Rome.

These beads could be moved along the wires and
so we learned to count, moving one bead after the
other, one by one.  I suppose girls and boys are
not taught that way now, but we still have to learn
to count one by one.

You can't multiply or divide or do any other of
those lessons you all so dearly love in arithmetic
until you can count.

All girls and boys love to count and add—stamps
and pennies, birthdays and holidays; and
nearly every little child loves to look at a calendar
and number off the days.  You just watch a boy
with a bag of marbles or a purse of pennies, and
see how often he counts them.

The love of a home is a love one by one.  Your
parents count their children that way.  They never
mix people up.

I read in some book lately the story of a man in
New York State taking the census; that is, making
a list of the people who live in the country.
"How many children have you?" he asked.
"Well, let me see," she answered, "there's Tom
and Bessie and Billy and Jean and——"  "Oh!"
he said, impatiently, "just give me the
number."  "Number!" the woman said with indignation.
"We've not got to numbering yet.  Do you think
we have run out of names?"

The dear mother knew her girls and boys one by
one, name by name.  One will not do for another.
Each one is loved, no matter how many there are.

It is always one by one.  *You* count for something
at home.  You would be missed, even if there
were a crowd.  You have your place.  The only
thing is, are you filling it?

Often I have been visiting in a home where at a
sick bed a mother has said, "It does not matter
how many you have.  You could not care to give
up any one."

The names given to people nowadays are only
tags, to keep them apart so we can distinguish
them.  They do not always really tell what a child
is like.  Bible names were supposed to do so.
To-day, because a girl is called "Dora," which
means a gift, she may not always act as though she
were a precious gift to her parents.  She may act
like a boss instead.  But the idea of a name at first
was to let that child stand by himself alone.

They are not like policemen or even car conductors,
marked by a number, but are known by name.

   |  It is each by each and one by one.
   |  So all the work of the world is done.

   |  "One thing at a time, and that done well,
   |  Is a very good rule, as many can tell."
   |

If you let the one thing at your hand go, you
will not get very far ahead.

   |  "One step and then another,
   |  And the longest walk is ended;
   |  One stitch and then another,
   |  And the longest rent is mended;
   |  One brick upon another,
   |  And the highest wall is made;
   |  One flake upon another,
   |  And the deepest snow is laid.

   |  "Then do not look disheartened
   |  At the work you have to do,
   |  And say that such a mighty task
   |  You never can get through;
   |  But just endeavour, day by day,
   |  Another point to gain,
   |  And soon the mountain which you feared
   |  Will prove to be a plain."
   |

When I first went to college and looked over the
four years' work I was nearly paralyzed.  And
when I began my ministry and thought of all the
years of making two and three new talks every
week, and going to scores and hundreds of homes
every year, I almost got into a panic until a
sensible thought came into my head, and I said,
"Now, old boy, do not be silly.  Just read one
book at a time and go to one lecture at a time, and
pass one year at a time, and make one sermon at a
time, and visit one home at a time,"—and I have
done that ever since, and the years have just gone
by with the speed of a streak of lightning.

Girls and boys often look far ahead and picture
what wonderful things they will do when they
grow up, and they wish they were women and men
to do a great world's work.

Well, the way it all comes is one at a time.
Each day's task and each day's duty brings you to
the next, and so it goes, and life moves on grandly
and surely—one by one.

   |  "Would'st shape a noble life?
   |  What each day needs that shalt thou ask.
   |  Each day will set its proper task."
   |

And finally, God's love is a love for each of
us—one by one.  He says not a sparrow can fall
without His will and the very hairs of your head are
numbered.

Do you not love the little hymn which says:

   |  "God sees the little sparrow fall,
   |  It meets His tender view;
   |  If God so loves the little birds,
   |  I know He loves me too.

   |  "He paints the lily of the field,
   |  Perfumes each lily bell;
   |  If He so loves the little flowers,
   |  I know He loves me well."
   |

The same great power that makes the sun and
planets roll round on their path also controls a
little child's toy.

The smallest atom is as much under God's rule
as the mightiest world in the universe.

God knows you by name—just *you*.  You, out
of all the world!

The telescope shows us one hundred million
stars, and telescope photographs add millions more.
And when we say millions, it is hard to just grasp
it all.  But every single one is the object of God's
eternal care and is not lost in the many.  Neither
are you nor I.

Some child story-teller has a beautiful message
of an African chief who had a lot of oxen.  Some
one said, "How many have you?"  "I do not
know," was his answer.  You see he could not count.

"How, then, do you know if one is missing?"
he was asked, and with a shining eye he replied,
"By the faces I would miss."

Is that not beautiful?  The old chief knew the
face and probably had a name for every animal.

Dear girls and boys, God knows you and cares
for you, and has you all down by name and will
miss your face if you are not near Him!

That is a wonderful love, and being a love for
each of us one by one, we may well pray:

   |  "Lord, for to-morrow and its needs,
   |      I do not pray;
   |  Keep me, my God, from stain of sin,
   |      Just for to-day."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WHAT MAKES A GOOD SOLDIER?`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXIV


.. class:: center large bold

   WHAT MAKES A GOOD SOLDIER?

.. vspace:: 2

Please note the word "good."  There are
soldiers and soldiers, but the best kind is
the good kind who never brings shame to
his regiment.

A story is told of a "parson in arms" who
enlisted as a private because he loved the boys.  He
lived a fine clean-cut life of inspiration, became a
captain and went over the top.

When the roll call took place after the battle
there was no answer to his name, but later he was
found with his forehead pierced by a bullet.  Just
before the charge he said, "Boys, we are about to
charge.  Commit yourselves to your Saviour.  If
you die it will be well; if you live it will be well."

He hated war, but did his duty, and told the
men "there is no fitter place for a man to die than
when he dies for men."

He was a good soldier and a good man.

First.  He remembers the honour of the regiment
is in his care.  Some people call that "esprit
de corps," which is the French way of describing
the spirit that enters into and fills a body of men.

It is that spirit that makes the character of any
collection of people.  In your home, in your
school, in your church, in your club, in your class,
in your country, there is a hidden spirit, just as
your soul is hidden in your body.

To keep that spirit strong and noble is the
ambition of every loyal person, and to do anything that
spoils it hurts the school or the club or the home.

Now, a good soldier wants to keep the spirit of
his company high.  His question should be what
kind of a company will this be if everybody was
like me?  And after all, it is what all are like that
makes the real character of the whole.

Then second: A good soldier listens to the commands.

There are three leading commands.

(*a*) "Attention."  That means keep yourself
ready; put your heart and head into your work.
It is the same thought that is often written on the
corner of the streets where the cars cross.  "Stop,
look, listen."  Get your mind on the job, and
make it thorough!

(*b*) "Eyes front."  Why does the soldier keep
his eyes looking straight forward?  Simply
because side glances spoil attention.  To keep
looking around distracts, a word that means "draws
apart."  Instead of looking at one place, the eyes
look everywhere and see nothing distinctly.

(*c*) "Obedience."  Just think of a company
with no discipline, where every man does as he
pleases, and where orders may be followed or may
not.  Do you suppose the glorious Canadian army
could have followed the barrage at Vimy if they
had not been trained to obey orders?

The good soldier is under orders and

   |  "Theirs not to make reply,
   |  Theirs not to reason why."

They are to take the order and carry it out and
the objective is won.

Then third: After all the training, the good
soldier adopts four attitudes.

(*a*) Ready for inspection.  How the boys used
to hate polishing buttons and smoothing puttees
and brushing up, but it was all good and necessary.
It made the soldier who could pass muster and
who showed care for himself and the appearance
of his regiment.

Are you ready for inspection?  It takes place.
Would you like to think that the Great Inspector
of life is looking at you, and if He does, could you
stand that look?  What about your thoughts?  If
the full light were turned on, would you like them
to shine out just as they are?  A good soldier is
never afraid of being looked at.

(*b*) "Semper paratus."  When you get to the
high school you will learn that that means "always
ready."

When I was a little boy I used to love to watch
the parade of the Tenth Royal Grenadiers, and
when I hear yet the band play "The Grenadiers'
March," I can still feel the thrill of that wonderful
regiment.  Their motto on their crests and on
their flags is, "Semper paratus."  Whatever comes
or goes; whatever orders are given; whatever
work is to be done; we are ready.

(*c*) "Carry on."  That means, push the job
through.  In rain or shine, in camp or trench, in
defeat or victory, keep a-going.  The war is not
yours.  It belongs to your country, and winning it
depends on no one giving in.

(*d*) "Over the top."  That is the end of it all.
All the drill, all the discipline, all the training, all
the marching, all the weapons; even all the rest
times are to issue in the final charge.

The war is not for fun.  It is desperately in
earnest.  It is meant to attack the enemy and
wrest victory from him.

We all have sometime or other to come out into
the open; out of the dugouts and trenches into the
front firing line, and then over no man's land into
the lines of the enemy.

Girls and boys, your battle is ahead of you.
Now is the time to get ready.  You are in the
training camp.  Home and school, and even street,
are part of it.  Would you not like to be ready for
it all?  Do you not think the end is worth all the toil?

Enrol to-day; listen to the orders; undergo the
hard toil; be a good soldier; take the oath and live for it!

Many years ago every youth in ancient Athens,
as soon as he was old enough, took a great oath.
Here it is:

"I will not dishonour my sacred arms.  I will
not desert my fellow-soldier, by whose side I may
be set.  I will leave my country greater and not
less than when she is committed to me.  I will
reverently obey the laws which have been established,
and in time to come, shall be established by
the judges.  I will not forsake the temples where
my fathers worshipped.  Of these things the gods
are my witnesses."

That is a fine oath for such early times, and
filled with the modern Christian spirit.  If you
will take it, it will make of you a good soldier.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SOLDIER'S OUTFIT—SHOES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXV


.. class:: center large bold

   THE SOLDIER'S OUTFIT—SHOES

.. vspace:: 2

Some one says an army moves on its
stomach, and I guess it does, for an empty
stomach makes a poor traveller.

But it also marches on its shoes.

A poor fellow came to my church office one day
to see if I could get him a pair of strong shoes.
He was getting a job and his boots would not
stand the strain.

In the army the boots are most necessary, because
of long marches, and wet roads and soaking
trenches.

One of the worst of all crimes was to make and
issue bad boots to our fighting men.

There was an army rule that demanded care of
the feet.  Every man had to watch that part of his
body, and the medical men were always seeing to it
that that rule was kept.

Many a soldier had to leave his post because he
had trench feet.

Donald Hankey, who wrote "A Student in
Arms" and who was later killed on the Somme,
gives a very tender tribute to the beloved Captain.
He tells how careful he was of his men, how
thoughtful and wise, how his smile encouraged
them, how he bucked them up when tired, and
always played the game and tried to make every
man do the same.  Among other things he says,
"When we started route marches, and our feet
were blistered and sore, as often they were at first,
you would have thought that they were his own
feet from the trouble he took.  After a march
there was always inspection of feet.  If any one
had a sore foot he would kneel down on the floor
and look at it carefully as if he had been a doctor."

It was all because he knew the feet were so
important, and you can be sure he was greatly
interested in the shoes the men wore.

Now, at home, boots are also important.
Sometimes it is a problem to know just how to get
enough of them; but every parent likes to see his
girls and boys with feet well shod and comfortable.

If they are bad, they develop corns and sores,
and they go to pieces, and then what use are they?

One day I was playing in a football team, and I
guess the shoemaker did not put his best into his
job, for my right boot cracked and the sole fell in
pieces, and if I had not borrowed one from
another chap I would have been out of the game.

We all feel sorry for a poor fellow who has no
good shoes.  Somehow or other, even if the rest
of your garments are threadbare, one does not
look quite so badly off if the feet are well shod.

There is an interesting Bible story in Joshua of
some of the people in Palestine who heard of the
great deeds at Jericho and got afraid of Joshua
and his army; and so they fixed themselves up like
far-off strangers and took old sacks and old
bound-up Eastern wine bottles and old garments
and musty bread, and put old shoes on their feet.

The whole show worked on Joshua's heart, and
he made a covenant with them, and when the
surrounding people were conquered, these sly ones
with the bad shoes were spared because Joshua,
like the rest of us, felt sorry for people who looked
so worn out.

What a splendid service is rendered by a good
shoemaker, a real consecrated cobbler; and what a
social wretch he is that makes boots just for pay,
and passes out the kind that look all right, but are
no use, and spoil the feet.

   |  "If I were a cobbler, 'twould be my pride
   |  The best of all cobblers to be.
   |  If I were a tinker, no tinker beside
   |  Should mend an old kettle like me."
   |

Now, sometimes shoes are worn out without
any good cause, like the copper toes a boy uses up,
just by kicking, or the soles that go because he
slides or slips along without lifting his feet square
off the ground when he walks.

Parents get impatient at having to buy so many
boots for children who wear them out so easily,
and often can't show anything done.

But when a shoe is worn out by hard service,
that old boot is quite an honourable object.

The worn-out shoes of the dear boys who
fought over no man's land, or marched through
the enemy's barrage, or stood for us in the blood
and water stained trenches, are relics of honour.

A Spanish lullaby sings about the angels so busy
that they wore out their shoes, but when the little
tattered angels got to the doorway of heaven they
were given new ones.

   |  "Little shoes are sold at the doorway of heaven,
   |  And to all the tattered little angels are given.
   |      Slumber, my darling baby."
   |

That is the strange lullaby sung by some Spanish
mothers to put their babies to sleep.

There was a man named Bunyan, who once had
a wonderful dream.  It was about a sinner who
became a Christian and who travelled from earth
to heaven.  He was shown many wonderful places
and saw wonderful things, and had wonderful experiences.

Among the places he visited was the House
Beautiful, and in it he was shown a great many
things, and among them his guides showed him,
"all manner of furniture which their Lord had
provided for pilgrims, as sword, shield, helmet,
breastplate, all-prayer, and *shoes that would not
wear out*."

Was that not a wonderful thing to have?  How
pleased your dad would be if he could buy you
everlasting shoes.  Well, there are such, and I will
tell you what they are.

(1) An old legend tells of a maiden whose
footsteps left flowers blooming.  Wherever she went,
things were a little brighter because she went there.

I knew a little girl who was called Little
Sunshine, because she was like a ray of light.  She
tripped around like a dancing sunbeam.

To clothe one's feet in merry sunshine is to get
a covering that can't fade.  There is no wear to
sunshine.  It is always fresh and bright and
welcome.  That is the kind of shoes your mother wears!

   |  "She sings a snatch of a merry song
   |  As she toils in her home from morn till night.
   |  Her work is hard and the hours are long
   |  But the little woman's heart is light."
   |

No one ever has sore feet who wears shoes of
sunshine.

(2) The Bible says it is a good thing to wear
shoes that are called "the preparation of the
gospel of peace."

I wonder what that means?  It is not easy to
say, but I fancy it means we should be always
ready to preach the love gospel of Jesus.

"What!" you say.  "I preach!"—Why sure! a
preacher is not only a man in a pulpit on Sunday.
He is one who delivers a message, and he does not
have to always use his voice.  Deeds talk too!

A young fellow was converted, so he said, by
his mother's preaching—but she never said
anything.  She just lived so that when people saw
her they thought of Jesus.  He called it his
mother's "translation of the Bible."

Our Bibles are changed from Greek and Hebrew
into English.  He said hers was changed from
print into practice.

And those shoes that cover the feet with a
Christ love message will never wear out.

There is a beautiful hymn we all love to sing.
You can hear it on a victrola from a trained
quartette and it sounds wonderful:

   |  "I love to tell the story,
   |  More wonderful it seems,
   |  Than all the golden fancies
   |  Of all our golden dreams.
   |  And when in scenes of glory
   |  I sing the new, new song,
   |  Twill be the old, old story,
   |  That I have loved so long."
   |

You see it does not wear out.  It is the new
song and the old story.  It is like the love of a
mother that stays fresh and strong right up to
heaven's gate.

And even a child can sing it, by just being like
Him whose song it is.

The girl or boy who lives the sweet, loving
Christlike life and is like a little candle shining
in the night,

   |  "You in your small corner and I in mine,"

has gospel shoes on.

There is a song we used to sing:

   |  "Brighten the corner where you are."
   |

A little girl in my congregation used to sing it:

   |  "Right in the corner, where you are;"

and I believe if you and I can brighten the corner,
right in the corner, where we are, we will be using
shoes that never wear out.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SOLDIER'S OUTFIT—THE RIFLE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXVI


.. class:: center large bold

   THE SOLDIER'S OUTFIT—THE RIFLE

.. vspace:: 2

You all know the difference between a
shotgun and a rifle.  A shotgun scatters the
shot; a rifle centres the shot.  A shotgun
will splash the target; a rifle can make a bull's eye.

I had a medical friend who gave me what he
called a shotgun prescription for rheumatism.
It was made up of a lot of different prescriptions
mixed together with the hope that if one did not
hit the spot some other might.  That is what a
shotgun is like—it hits all round.

But a rifle puts its bullet just at one spot.

One represents concentration—the other scatteration.

When you examine the part of a rifle you see
how it is made just for its work.  There is the
butt, by which you hold it steady; there is the
sight, which helps you to aim; there is the long
barrel, that makes the aim sure and that puts
power into it; and there is the trigger, very small,
but hitting the one spot where the charge is exploded.

That rifle is an object filled full of suggestions
for us.

We, too, need to hold steady.  A wobbler is a
failure.

A piece of glue was asked how to succeed, and
said, "Select some proper task, and then stick to
it."  That is the way a postage stamp carries your
letter.

   |  "I have noted with pride that through thick and through thin
   |  You cling to a thing till you do it.
   |  And whatever your aim, you are certain to win,
   |  Because you seem bound to stick to it.
   |  Then I turn to whatever my hands are about,
   |  And with fortified purpose renew it
   |  And the end soon encompass for which I set out
   |  If only like you I stick to it."
   |

I do not know who the author of that is, but he
was right.  He is a rifle.

We too need to take aim.—Did you ever see the
small boy the first time he was allowed to hold a gun?

He held it up, shut his eyes, and bang! it went
off, but he had not the first idea where the shot
went to.

Take aim, my boy.  Look along the sight and
see where you are shooting.  See if there is
anything to shoot.

They say there is a tombstone in one of Europe's
royal cemeteries with these words on it:

   |  "*Here lies a monarch who with the*
   |      *best of intentions, never*
   |      *carried out a single plan.*"
   |

And to make the aim sure, and put power behind
it, there is need of a long barrel.  That barrel
keeps the shot in.  You could have a lot of
gunpowder lying around loose and put a match to it
and have a regular Fourth of July blaze, but it
would not do much.  But put a little bit of powder
behind a rifle ball and hedge that ball in with a
barrel, and bang! it goes with terrific power—a
force strong enough to go through a sheet of iron.

That is why you go to school and why you are
taught to obey, and why you have to follow rules,
and why they drill you and put you under
discipline.  It gives you power.

The free girl and boy is not the one who can do
anything he or she wants to do.  That is not
liberty, that is license.  The free girl and boy is
the trained one, and that means hard work and
effort and holding in, and ruling.

I knew a girl who used to sit at a piano four
hours a day, just lifting her fingers.  It was
dreadfully tiring, but you should have heard her play
after she got the power.

Don't you go growling about being made to do
this, that and the other thing.  If you were not so
made, you would never do anything by-and-by.

Lots of young people would like to be well
known, and called a genius, and a wonder, and
shine out so that people would look at them as
they passed by.  Well, genius is just sweating over
things.  Genius means hard work.  It means being
intense—that is a word that suggests elastic pulled
out.  We call it tense.  It is the pulled out elastic
that, when let go, makes the power of your catapult.

Columbus was a great sailor and a great man.
In his journal is found this sentence: "That day
we sailed westward, which was our course."

Think of those last four words.  He set himself
to do a thing—made a course and did it, followed
it, and he got there.  That is what a rifle does.

And all the great world people were like that.

Jesus "set His face" to go to Jerusalem.

One of my University class was the champion
mile runner of America.  I guess he would not
mind if I told you his name.  It was George Orton.

At the University games a lot of us students
were sitting in the bleachers watching the contests.
One of them was the mile race and Orton was in
it.  As they settled down for the mile jog, you
could see them watching one another, and trying
to keep as close together as possible until the last lap.

Then some one said, "Look at Orton!"  And
as we looked, we saw the great runner coming
down the track with his face as though turned
into granite, his eyes set, his teeth together, and
every muscle hard as steel.  He did not seem to be
the same person.  "His face was set" and in a
second his breast had touched the tape line at the
winning post.

Paul said, "This one thing I do," and it was
because he put all his passion and force behind one
great object that he became a rifle in the hands of
the Christ.

The Book of Proverbs says, "Let thine eyes
look straight forward."

Oh, girls and boys, if you want to make your
mark in the world, choose a great aim, endure the
work that brings it near, and then go at it and
stay with it!

It was one of the most wonderful mornings of
history when was fought the battle of Vimy
Ridge, that helped to turn back the German hosts.

I had a friend in Vancouver who stood at one
end of that fiery line, at the early zero hour that
day.  He said it was the most majestic sight he
ever saw when, in the early gray dawn, three
thousand artillery opened at once and belched forth fire
and shot all concentrated on one spot.  He said it
was so terrible that he could hardly think of even
a pin being left on the ground.

It was a clean sweep, that barrage that prepared
for the bayonet charge of the Canadian Brigade.

All victory is won by that concentration of purpose.

Do you not want victory?

I am sure you do not want to be defeated in
your life.  You want to make a bull's eye.  If you
do, take a definite aim; form your plan and fire
in that direction.

Do you know that one of the Old Testament
words for sin means "missing the mark"?

You and I are not made to hit the target of life
on the outside edge.  We are made to hit it in the
centre.

Therefore, young folks, be a rifle with a single
aim, and make your bull's eye!

There is a poem by a great man called Goethe.
It is a little hard, but I believe you can understand
it if you study it out, and it is worth a little study.
Here it is:

   |  "Are you in earnest?  Choose the very minute
   |  What you can do, or think you can begin it.
   |  Boldness has genius, power, magic in it.
   |  Only engage, and then the mind grows heated.
   |  Begin, and then the work will be completed."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SOLDIER'S OUTFIT—THE BELT AND PUTTEE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXVII


.. class:: center large bold

   THE SOLDIER'S OUTFIT—THE BELT AND PUTTEE

.. vspace:: 2

Nearly every girl and boy loves a
uniform.  I am not sure but that grown-up
people do too.

Now, a uniform has to be neat.  If it is not, it
looks the opposite of attractive.

And two things help to make it neat and trim:
One is the belt that holds the tunic in, and the
other the puttees that fold up the trouser legs.
They make the soldier smart-looking.  As the
modern small boy says, "They are classy!"

And they are so useful.

To-day, golfers and outdoor sports, even
women, put on knickers and roll up tight things
that are loose, because then they can do better
work and play.

The belt and puttee make the soldier firm and
strong, and fit for travel and work.  They brace
him up, hold him together, give him support.

Now, one of the Bible messages is, "Gird up
your loins."  The loins are the centre of your
body, where you are apt to get weak or sore backs.

Perhaps you have had that feeling come, as
though you were going to break in half.  It is
because you have not been strong enough in the
centre for the strain.

1. Why should we be girded up?  Well, of
course, in Bible days, and in Eastern countries,
the very clothing made a hard journey or a task
needing exercise very difficult.  They wore flowing
robes with wide sleeves, like a college gown.  Now,
nobody could do a trail ranger's work within that
dress.

When a racer runs a race, or a boxer enters the
ring, or an athlete goes into a gymnasium or on
to the field, they take off all that is not necessary.

Even the Eastern people wear girdles and sashes
to hold in their loose clothing.

You need to be held tight together if you want
to be able to swing yourself.  You can't be free
in garments that cling to you, and wrap themselves
about your legs and arms.

The same is true of your mind.  It won't work
if it is not held in.

Nor will your soul.

Jesus, in His parable, says we must have our
lamps lit and our loins girded, because only then
will we be ready for the chance when it comes—and
it may spring on us unannounced.

That is the purpose of school and work and
lessons and exercises.  Life is not an easy job.

If you have read "Tom Brown's Schooldays"
(and I hope you have or will) you will find the
author saying that "life is no fool's or sluggard's
paradise, but a battlefield ordained from of old,
where there are no spectators, and the youngest
must take his stand, and the stakes are life and
death."

If you go to a hockey match or a baseball game,
you can sit in the grand-stand and look on; but
there is no grand-stand in life, and no looking on.
We are all in it, and, therefore, we need to be
ready.

Now, being ready is just girding yourself—gathering
yourself together so you can make an
effort.  And if you do not make an effort, you will
leave behind no mark, any more than you do when
you put your finger in a pail of water and pull it
out again.

2. The puttee is to make us tight and strong
and ready to march; but the belt is also to hang
things on.

That is the worst of life—we have to carry a lot
of burdens.  Some of them, of course, we make
for ourselves.  We often tie things on to us by
silly acts and sins.  The best thing to do with
them is not to have any, or get rid of them as
soon as possible.

But there are real burdens that God sends.
They are His gifts to us, and we need a place to
carry them—duties and tasks and home calls and
troubles and sorrows.  Oh, there are a lot of
things to do, and if you have no belt, where in
the world are you going to hang them all?

3. Now the Bible says a splendid girdle is "Truth."

A true girl and boy is well-knit, straight up and
down, like a perpendicular line.  You know where
to find them.  They will always win out.  They
have no sloppy one-sidedness that will tip them
over.  And they can carry a lot of things on their
belt.

A false boy and girl double up when a burden
is put on them.  They are too weak to bear up.
But a true one stands so nobly, and whatever you
lay on them, you know they will carry safely.

And what is Truth?

It means being real, whole, not broken up, not
a fraction, but a whole number.  It means ringing
true, like a bell without a crack.

In early times, they used sometimes to make
images, and when they got cracked and old, they
would patch them up with wax and putty and
then paint them over till they looked lovely; and
sold them for real things.  By-and-by the weather
and time wore off the paint and dug out the wax,
and then they stood in their shameful cracky look,
and people said, do not be waxy, but genuine right
through.

The word "sincere" is from two Latin words,
sine—without, and cera—wax.

The true girl and boy is unwaxed.  There is no
paint covering up nasty cracks.  They ring true.

I went into a store once in Toronto and had an
awful experience.  I bought some article and
sent in an American cart-wheel.  That, you know,
is a silver dollar.  It shot up the wind tubes to
the office, and in a jiffy it was shot back down
again, with an acid stain on it.

It was a false piece!  What do you think of
that?  I was so confused, for I feared they might
think I was trying to pass bad money.  And me a
minister too!

When it struck the testing table, it did not ring
right, and the acid soon told the story, and I got
the old fraud back again.

Any life like that has not got on the girdle of
truth.  It is like a glittering object on the ground
that looks like a diamond, but proves to be glass.
It is like a piece of timber that looks all right and
is put in the ship, but it had a worm inside, and
became rotten, and the ship sank.

Gird yourselves up, girls and boys.  Fasten up
your life, strong and firm, and be true, and you
will have a great help in being a good soldier of
Jesus Christ.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SOLDIER'S OUTFIT—THE KIT BAG`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXVIII


.. class:: center large bold

   THE SOLDIER'S OUTFIT—THE KIT BAG

.. vspace:: 2

When you go on a journey you carry a
suitcase, or you take a trunk, in which
you place your belongings that you will
need while away from home.

When the soldier goes off to the war he has a
bag in which he puts some of the things he cannot
do without—things that are absolutely necessary.

First.  It is wonderful when you come down to
bed rock, how few things we need, after all.
Most of us are overburdened.

There is hardly a girl or boy that has not a
whole lot of unused baggage lying around—old
toys and books, old ribbons and hats.  They fill
the bureau drawer and lie around the room and
take up space in cupboards until your mother
simply gives them away or burns them up.

When I left Vancouver to come to Toronto, I
had a bonfire in my back yard for a lot of stuff
that I used to think I had to save up.

Houses are like that, too.  I roomed once in a
very beautiful home, but the drawing-room was so
full of furniture that you could not turn around
without getting a bump somewhere.

There are a lot of things in our homes and a
lot of material in our lives, and a lot of stuff in
our minds that is just like piles of old lumber in
the fence corner, doing no good; or like a lot of
old clothes in a cupboard, only gathering moths.

The soldier knows that, and he just carries
around what he can use, and the kit bag is where
he keeps them.  It is a very fine thing to be able
to carry useful things around with us.

A useless girl or boy is usually in the road.

What is the good of a lot of clothes if you can't
wear them?

I saw a man on the vessel on which I once sailed
to Australia who had seventeen suits of clothes,
and their chief use was in keeping busy his cabin
boy, who brushed them.

And what's the use of a lot of information in
your mind if you can't use it?

I do not know which is the worse, having too
many things or having nothing useful.

I have read of a beehive in California, away
out on the face of a cliff.  It is stored full, but all
day long hundreds of bees swarm around the cave;
and while men have put on leather suits, very little
has ever been secured from that nest of useless
sweetness.

But second: The kit bag has in it not merely
things the soldier has to daily use—socks to keep
his feet warm and dry; brushes to keep the snarl
out of his hair; razors to keep his face smooth;
soap to keep him clean—but he also stores away in
it precious things, and they are useful too: Letters
from home—what would he do without their
messages of love?

They say the saddest sight in a camp was the
disappointed face of a boy when the mail came
and there was nothing for him.

If you are a young person, away from home and
forget the old folks, that's the way your mother
looks when you neglect to write.

   |  "The tender words unspoken,
   |  The letters never sent,
   |  The long-forgotten messages,
   |  The wealth of love unspent.
   |  For these some hearts are breaking,
   |  For these some loved ones wait;
   |  So show them that you care for them,
   |  Before it is too late."
   |

There are books and photographs of those beloved,
looked at first thing in the morning and last
at night; and when the kit and all belongings are
left in store when the battle is on, those precious
photos are taken out and hidden next the heart,
under the tunic.

There, too, is the Testament, placed by loving
hands when the outfit was packed—perhaps the
mother gave her own to her boy when he left;
and there is a smudge mark yet on the cover,
where a tear dropped, that she tried very hard not
to let fall, but could not help it.

Many a boy valued that Testament, and after
some of them were found, there lay in the pocket,
with the pages glued together by the blood, and
sometimes torn with a bullet mark, the gift of
pious love.

Oh, how grand it is to have a life filled with
precious values—the values that make us richer,
and help to adorn us and cheer us and brighten us.

A little child on the seashore saw a bright
spangle.  Picking it up, she found it was attached
to a gold thread, and drawing the thread, she
found other spangles, which she wound round her
neck and body, covering it with brightness.  And
as we go through life, it is very lovely to pick up
the precious sparkling things filled with love value,
and wind them around our hearts.

Dear girls and boys, have you anything of value
in your lives—of a real worth while—real costly
things?

Marbles and toys and air balloons, and wrist
watches and spats and gorgeous neckties are all
right; but you will need more if you are going
to amount to anything, and I suggest you store
up your kit bag with precious things of noble
thoughts and full minds and sweet memories and
useful deeds, for it is not what you have or how
much you weigh that counts, but what you are
and what you can do.

Did you ever hear people discussing somebody,
and did you overhear some one say, "Oh, there's
nothing in him."  There may be feet in his boots,
and arms in his coat sleeves and legs in his pants,
and a head in his hat, but his real self is
empty—"To Let" is seen written over his face.

   |  Be something in this toiling age
   |    Of busy hands and feet.
   |  A light upon some darkened page,
   |    A shelter from the heat.
   |  Be found upon the workmen's roll,
   |    Go sow or plant or plough.
   |  Bend to the task with willing soul.
   |    Be something, somewhere, now.
   |

Third: Each soldier has to have a kit bag, and
he puts his name on it in white paint, so that
everybody knows it is his.

You and I have to carry our belongings with
us too, good or bad, and nobody can steal them,
as sometimes happened with the boys' kit bags.
Ours always go along with us.

It seems so foolish not to gather good belongings
that you won't want to bury or throw away.
Life is a queer sort of thing, and the strange thing
is that while you carry your belongings with you,
you are also sending them on ahead of you, and
they build your future home.

A woman once dreamed that she died and went
up to heaven.  Angel guides took her through the
lovely city and showed her its wonderful streets
and homes.

One was a magnificent palace with a beautiful
situation, and great towers and windows.  She
asked who it was for and was surprised to hear
it was for her footman who did the dirty work
around the stable and house.

In another street was a little bungalow—beautiful
too, for everything was fair and lovely, but
still very small and humble.  She asked who that
was for, and was told it was to be her future home.
In disgust she said, "What!  Do you know who
I am, and how much wealth I have?  You give
my ignorant footman a great palace, and me this
little bit of a place!"  And the angel quietly said,
"Well, madam, we are doing our best with what's
sent up."

So you see your kit bag possessions are with
you now, but the real possessions of your life, your
thoughts and words and deeds are helping to form
the home you will some day live in forever.

I think it would be a good idea to see that we
have only the best, and send on only those things
that will help build a beautiful home of the soul.

Oliver Wendell Holmes, a great American
writer, once wrote these words:

   |  "Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
   |  As the swift seasons roll;
   |  Leave thy low vaulted past;
   |  Let each new temple nobler than the last
   |  Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast
   |  Till thou at length art free,
   |  Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE SOLDIER'S OUTFIT—THE UNIFORM`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXIX


.. class:: center large bold

   THE SOLDIER'S OUTFIT—THE UNIFORM

.. vspace:: 2

The uniform helps to change a variegated
mass of men into an army.  A regiment
would not look anything like what it does
were it not for the uniform.

It is the kilts that not only have a history but
that give the Highlanders their glorious influence.
The Scotchman thinks the kilties are the only
soldiers, and one can respect his enthusiasm, for great
deeds have been done by the troops from the land
of the heather.

The uniform puts the finishing touch on a soldier.

I have seen the boys take the oath, but it was
after they visited the storehouse and came out in
the glory of the khaki, with their swagger stick,
that you saw written all over them, "I'm a soldier
of the king."

That uniform is the badge of service.  Every
one who wears it is a marked man.  His uniform
proclaims him.  He does not need a tag.

A girl was once converted at some church
meetings, and she went up to an old member and with
shining face, said, "Oh, Mr. Blank, I am a
Christian, and I wish you were one too."  The old man
flushed and said, "My dear little girl, I have been
a Christian for forty years."  "Oh, I'm sorry,"
she said, "I'm sorry I spoke.  I never knew."

He was a Christian but nobody knew.  He
lacked the marks.

But a soldier, once he dons the uniform, is at
once known.

More than that, a uniform is like a flag.  It
represents the empire.  Each nation has its own
flag and its own uniform, and wherever its
soldiers go, they carry, so to speak, their country
with them.

If they are bad, they dishonour their flag and
bring disgrace on their colours and the uniform.

One of the greatest motives behind the men in
the war was "the honour of the company or the
regiment or the battalion or the brigade."

One company lost a trench and were heartsick
with depression, and when the time came, half
dead with weariness and hunger and thirst, they
retook it and were happy because they had saved
the honour of the company.  The uniform means that.

A bad man or a coward not only hurts himself,
but he brings disgrace on the company.  Every
deed of evil or cowardice comes back on the flag
and the country to which the man belongs who
wears its uniform.

The uniform speaks to the soldier of duty—it
makes duty easier.  In New York the street
sweepers were clad in a white uniform and they say
every man felt a little bigger and better and more
anxious to do better work because of the uniform.

A boy in the Trail Rangers or the Boy
Scouts can't help feeling the influence of his uniform.

A mother told me about her daughter, a Girl
Guide, doing something wrong in school one day
when she had on the uniform.  The mother said,
"Oh, daughter, you did not do it with the
uniform on, did you?"  And it nearly broke the
child's heart.

You can't do things in uniform you might do in
plain clothes.  It makes you a member of a league
of honour, in spite of yourself.  It bucks a fellow
up and sort of puts him on his honour.  It says,
"Here, you are not your own now.  You belong
as you never did before to your country, and your
country is counting on you."  A chap can hardly
go back on that!

The uniform proclaims loyalty too.

To don the khaki meant that the boy heard the
call.  The S.O.S. sounded his country's need,
and up he sprang because he was a loyal subject.
Of course, some loyal subjects could not and did
not have to join the army.  But every one who
could did, unless he was a shirker and a slacker.

Loyalty means doing your duty.  It means
ready to do your bit whether at home or on the
firing-line.  It does not matter which, if it is your
bit.

More than that, the uniform puts responsibility
on the wearer.  You know how big even a boy
can feel when he joins the Boys' Brigade or the
Boy Scouts and gets a uniform on.  It makes him
feel inches taller, and his chest gets thicker, which
is perfectly right.  He will do things in uniform
and under the spell of what it all means that
before he would hardly dare believe to be possible.

The uniform is full of history, just as the flag
is, and somehow when it is donned, all the great
history presses on the wearer and makes a bigger
man of him, if he has anything in him, and makes
him able for big things.

   |  "Britain be proud of such a son!—
   |  Deathless the fame which he has won.
   |  Only a boy—but such a one;
   |  Standing forever by his gun;
   |  There was his duty to be done—
   |  And he did it."
   |

If your dad had a boy or if you had a brother
who heard the world's call, and signed up and was
measured and had his muscles and heart and lungs
and eyes all tested, and then in one big moment,
while his dad's throat was choking, stood up erect
before the officer and swore in for service; and if
later that boy or brother came up home all shining
in buttons, with his boots black and his puttees
neat and strong, and his belt tightening up his
loins—you know just how a new passion of loyalty
would surge through you.

If you were a girl you would be sorry, and
decide to try to go as a nurse, or perhaps drive a
car; if you were a young boy, you would hit your
toy drum harder and step out more briskly and
tell all the other boys you thought you could get
the job of a drummer.

Oh, the uniform does help to deepen our sense
of loyalty.

Now, girls and boys, I am telling you all this
for a purpose.  You know there is another army
all over the world called the Salvation Army, made
up of people who wear uniforms and play bands
and go to war against the worst of all enemies,
the one called Sin.  And they do a wonderful lot
of good in the world and deserve our respect and
support.  They have won by their loyalty even
homage from kings.

But did you know your father and mother, who
are members of the church, belong to an army too,
and wear a uniform too?  It is the great army of
Jesus Christ, those who have sworn to be His
servants and to do His work, and the uniform is
just their Christian life.

I know some church members do not look or
act any different from those who are not.  But the
real member tries to and when he joins he puts on
the uniform of a Christlike life which works for
Christlike ends.

When the Christians first began to live it all out,
the world used to say, "See how these Christians
love one another."  Their Christian membership
was like a badge.  Everybody knew where they
belonged.

I want to ask you to join up there and put on
the uniform of church membership.  I will tell
you why.

It helps to make you a better Christian.  It is
taking your stand on His side, and you can't do
that, if you mean it, without being made deeper
and stronger.

I do not think any one can be as good outside
the church as in it, and I am sure we should be
better inside than out of it.  Those who are good
without going to church are good because the
church has made it possible.  Just as all who were
not in the army were safe because the great army
and navy were protecting them.  But it is not fair
to borrow other people's money to live on.  You
should have your own.  And it is not fair to get
the good the church brings us without coming in
and helping her.  It is not fair to give no return
for service received.

So I ask you to join God's church because it
helps you, and it helps the church and it tells
everybody where you stand.

Then it expresses your loyalty.  Jesus gives us
His church and if everybody refused to come in,
it would die, and His work would perish.

Announce your loyalty now!  Fight the fight now!

   |  "He is counting on you!
   |  On a love that will share
   |  In His burden of prayer,
   |  For the souls He has bought
   |  With His life blood and sought,
   |  Through His sorrow and pain
   |  To win 'home' yet again.
   |  He is counting on you;
   |  If you fail Him—what then?"
   |

It is very hard to be a citizen-at-large, that is,
a citizen of the world.  You have to be a citizen
of some country.

A great Scotch poet said:

   |  "Breathes there a man with soul so dead
   |  Who never to himself hath said,
   |  This is my own, my native land."
   |

To love the world you have to know how to love
your own part of it.

And so in order to tell the world of our loyalty
to Christ, we need to fasten down to the church
that stands for Christ.

To have a sort of general love for God without
helping to spread His cause will soon result in the
loss of your love for God.

Take away the church for ten years, and you
would not want to live in your town after.

And then it is a fine thing to put the church
uniform on as early as possible.  It is not fair to
live your life for yourself and your own pleasures
until you get too old for them, and then bring
what is left and offer it to God.

In the Old Testament days it was the unblemished
lamb that was asked for; and, dear girls and
boys, God wants you now, in the days of your
youth.  The church needs your fresh, bright young
lives.  The future so big with promise needs
strength and vigour, and you have it.  Therefore,
do not stand off, but line up soon, and then you
will have a long life of service, and not a poor
little meagre piece at the end.

The sooner you become an out-and-out worker
for Jesus, the more you will be able to help Him.
There is no life sadder than to have to go out at
the end with no record of service.

A young man, dying, had given himself to God
but seemed sad and troubled, and they asked him
what was the matter, had he lost his trust?  "Oh,
no," he said, "not that, but I have to go and meet
Jesus with empty hands!"

And some one wrote a hymn which says:

   |  "Must I go and empty handed,
   |  Thus my dear Redeemer meet,
   |  Not one day of service give Him,
   |  Lay no trophies at His feet?"
   |

You, girls and boys, put the Christian uniform
on now; join up soon.  Then think of the long
and splendid record of service that will be yours
if you stand loyal to the army of Jesus Christ.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"Q" AND "S" GROCERY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXX


.. class:: center large bold

   "Q" AND "S" GROCERY

.. vspace:: 2

Did you ever hear of that sort of a store?
When I first saw the sign I wondered
what it meant.  I had heard of college
societies with letters that describe them, and I had
seen letters like that on music sheets; but whatever
could it stand for over a grocery store?

Perhaps it meant "Quick and Sure" or
perhaps it was the name of the men who owned it,
only I could not see why they should be ashamed
of their name, for most merchants want their
name known.

At last some one told me it stood for "Quality"
and "Service."  Then I saw what a splendid sign
it was.

It made people curious.  It was so mysterious-looking
that everybody would ask about it and
talk about it, and that would advertise it; while
the meaning, once found out, made you feel
confident.  A store that serves out quality is worth
going to.

Any one who can show that he has quality and
that he is anxious to serve is worth getting
acquainted with.

Think of those two things.

(*a*) Quality.

So many hunt after quantity.  When I was a
very small boy my grandfather used to offer me
my choice between a nickel and a big copper penny,
and I took the penny every time.  It was more to
hold.  I could feel it better.

Every child would rather have a big apple than
a little one, and they all hunt the plate for the
biggest piece of cake or pie.  Some big people are
no better, for they do not always look for quality,
either.

Big things do appeal to us.—Big mountains and
big seas, and big trees and big houses, and big
horses and big automobiles, and big men, and I
suppose it has a place.

It is wonderful to stand in the mountains and
just feel their great size; it is an inspiration to go
out to British Columbia and stand in some forest
corridor and look up at those great Douglas firs,
that tower up above your heads and spread their
branches over a field.

In Vancouver, at Stanley Park, there is one so
big that autos back into it and have a photograph
taken.

But after all, the chief thing is not size, but
meaning and character.  There are some big
vegetables that are so big they are no use.  They are
soft and overgrown.

Soul is more important than bulk.

   |  "For tho' the giant ages heave the hill
   |  And break the shore and ever more
   |  Make and break and work their will
   |  Though world on world in myriad myriads roll
   |  Round us each with different powers
   |  And other forms of life than ours
   |  What know we greater than the soul."
   |

Have you ever gone out on a frosty night and
looked up at the sky and thought of the great
spaces above you, and the sun millions of miles
off?  Did you know that if a train travelling one
mile every minute could fall off the earth and
keep going, it would take forty millions of years
to reach the nearest fixed star?  And yet your
soul is more important than it all!

   |  "Knowest thou the value of a soul immortal?
   |  Behold the midnight glory, worlds on worlds
   |  Amazing pomp.  Redouble this amaze;
   |  Ten thousand add, add twice ten thousand more
   |  Then weigh the whole; one soul outweighs them all,
   |  And calls the astonishing magnificence
   |  Of unintelligent creation poor."
   |

There is a wonderful instrument used by men
of science, called a microscope, and it shows us
that the smallest things are more wonderful even
than the big things you can see with your eye.
The little insect that makes the coral, that is so
graceful, is an object of wondrous beauty under
the microscope.

When you buy a flower, it is not the biggest
you want, it is the richest and loveliest, the one of
quality.

What is it makes a man?  Not size.  That may
make a prize-fighter, but who wants to be a
prize-fighter?  He is muscle and bone and beef, but that
is not manhood.

A real man is a gentleman, even if he is not
much to boast of in size.  The real signs are not
those of bigness, but something inside of him—the
peculiar quality that makes you honour and
love him.

Here is what Margaret Sangster says of it:

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   THE LITTLE GENTLEMAN

..

   |  I knew him for a gentleman
   |    By signs that never fail;
   |  His coat was rough and rather worn,
   |    His cheeks were thin and pale;
   |  A lad who had his way to make
   |    With little time for play;
   |  I knew him for a gentleman
   |    By certain signs to-day.

   |  He met his mother on the street,
   |    Off came his little cap;
   |  My door was shut, he waited there
   |    Until I heard his rap.
   |  He took the bundle from my hand;
   |    And when I dropped the pen,
   |  He sprang to pick it up for me—
   |    This little gentleman of ten.

   |  He does not push or crowd along.
   |    His voice is gently pitched;
   |  He does not fling his books about
   |    As if he were bewitched.
   |  He stands aside to let you pass,
   |    He always shuts the door.
   |  He runs on errands willingly,
   |    To forge or mill or store.

   |  He thinks of you before himself;
   |    He serves you if he can,
   |  For in whatever company
   |    The manners make the man.
   |  At ten or forty 'tis the same.
   |    The manner tells the tale;
   |  And I discern the gentleman
   |    By signs that never fail.
   |

I have read of three women who were once
talking about pretty hands.  Not one of them
tested the matter by the size of their hands, and
yet they, too, forgot quality.  One said she kept
hers pretty by washing them in milk; another
dipped hers in berry juice, and the third washed
hers in the fragrance of flowers.

While they were talking, a poor old woman
came and asked for something to eat, and they
were so busy talking about the kind of hands they
had they could not help her.

Another woman whose hands were worn with
work, and hardened by the sun, and all wrinkled,
and who was passing by, listened to the poor old
woman's cry, and fed her.  Then she asked the
three what they had been doing, and they said,
"We will leave it to you to say whose hands are
the loveliest."  And do you know, girls and boys,
she passed by the hands of milky whiteness and
the hands that smelt of flowers, and turning to
the working woman said, "She has the prettiest,
for she uses them for gifts to others!"

It is quality of character that counts.

You may be as big as a giant and as strong as
a horse, and yet lack in the only thing that really
counts or lasts—a quality that gives you worth.

What is worth anyhow?  What are you worth?
You say, "Oh, my daddy is a millionaire.  We
have a lovely house and gardens, and I get new
dresses every month.  Whew!  We are worth a lot!"

Well, perhaps you are, for a man can have
money and something more.  If he has only money
piles, he is terribly poor.

You are worth just what you are.  Just what
your quality is.

They used to talk years ago of "ladies of quality"
and they meant the upper uppers—the swells
and people with titles.  Now we know there are
splendid ladies with titles, but it is not the title
that makes them ladies of quality, it is what they
carry in their hearts.

I will tell you how to get character quality.

   |  "I would be true, for there are those who trust me,
   |  I would be pure, for there are those who care;
   |  I would be strong, for there is much to suffer,
   |  I would be brave, for there is much to dare.

   |  "I would be friend to all—the foe—the friendless;
   |  I would be giving and forget the gift,
   |  I would be humble for I know my weakness,
   |  I would look up, and laugh—and love—and lift."
   |

But you need quality in work too.  We live in a
pushing day when we judge by quantity.  Pile
things up, drive ahead, keep moving, hustle along.
Do a lot of things.

Now, there is a better rule—not how much, but
how well done.

I have a lovely picture with a beautiful frame
that has a history.  It is the picture of The
Doctor.  You all have seen it.—Where the good man
is sitting by the side of the sick child, studying
the case, the lamplight shining on the face, and
the father and mother in tears and anxiety in the
background.

Some Scotch craftsmen who knew me framed
it in bird's-eye maple, inlaid with basswood, and the
frame has the story on it—The Iris plant on the
sides, a symbol of immortality, the Egyptian
symbol of eternity above, and the sand-glass below;
all meant to illustrate the battle between life and
death in the picture itself.

Now, the frame is not very big, but it is very
beautiful, because the Scotch handicraft men have
as their ideal to make every piece of work as
perfect in quality as possible.

Solid, steady, sure work tells, not always brilliant.

Lots of brilliant people in school never amount
to anything afterward, because they lack the quality
of always sticking at it and doing each thing the
best way possible.

If you ever watch men bowling on the green, or
curling on the ice, you know that a shot that is
too swift, that has too much quantity in it, goes
through the house; the telling shot is the quiet,
steady one with the right quality of delivery in it.

(*b*) Service.

That grocery store said, "We want to help you."  It
was thinking of others and living for others.

The motto of the Prince of Wales is "Ich dien,"
which means, "I serve."

In long past years the big man was the fellow
who bossed the job.—He was called the ruler, the
magistrate.

To-day, especially since Jesus, the big man is the
minister.—I do not mean the preacher in your
church, but the man who gets down beside the
people and serves them.  You know "minister"
is a Latin word that means "servant."  Every
one who tries to serve other people is a minister.
He is the biggest man everywhere.  The biggest
word to-day is "Service."

There were four letters in the war that were
very touching to me, C.A.S.C.—The Canadian
Army Service Corps.

They worked for everybody.  They were supply
centres.  The army never could have done its
work without them.  They were worth all the
honour could be given them, because they were
the army helpers.

Oh, if everybody would only help, what a happy
world this would be!

Most of our troubles are because we want to be
helped.  It makes us selfish and jealous and mean
and grabby.

The war came from it—nations seeking to get.

School is made unhappy by it.  It spoils play
and games and dinner tables and Sunday Schools
and churches and lives.

God serves and nature serves.  Parents and
teachers serve.

Why don't you?  What do you want to be
always getting for?

A small boy once put a note by his mother's
plate, and when she came to breakfast, she found
a bill.

::

  "Mother, in account with Jack."
    —To going messages .................. $1.00
      "  carrying coal ...................   .50
      "  cutting the grass ...............   .75
      "  gathering eggs and chopping wood   1.00
                                          ———
                 Total ................... $3.25

.. vspace:: 1

The dear mother never said a word, but left the
bill on the table.  Next morning a note was at the
boy's plate.

::

  "Jack, in account with Mother."
    —To looking after his baby years .... $0.00
      "  washing and cleaning clothes ....  0.00
      "  mending stockings ...............  0.00
      "  helping all his life ............  0.00
                                          ———
                 Total ................... $0.00

.. vspace:: 1

The second day a shame-faced boy tore up that
first bill and later on laid his head in his mother's
lap and cried.—I guess you know why!

Before a train starts, the wipers go all over her
to wipe and examine the engine; the fireman comes
and builds and starts the fire; the engineer comes
and goes carefully all over the machinery; the
mechanic comes and tests all the wheels; and then
she is linked on the train, the lever is pulled, and
puff! puff!—away she goes, drawing her long line
of passengers and freight!

You are going through the process now of getting
ready.  By-and-by you will be hitched on to
some life job.

See you get ready properly, and get coupled to
the right train; and then pull for all your might,
and help serve humanity by bringing in your load
to the final station where some day we all must land.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BETSY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXI


.. class:: center large bold

   BETSY

.. vspace:: 2

Henry W. Longfellow, the poet, tells us that

   |  "Lives of great men all remind us
   |  We can make our lives sublime,
   |  And departing, leave behind us,
   |  Footprints in the sands of time.

   |  "Footprints that perhaps another,
   |  Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
   |  A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
   |  Seeing, may take heart again."
   |

That is all beautifully true.  It is also true that
many a humble, obscure life can teach us lessons
of trust and loyalty, and devotion to good things.

The story I am going to tell you is about a
humble Indian girl, whose forefathers had been
all savages, but whose home was a Christian one
among the simple native children of the North.

Over fifty years before the time of our story,
an unchristianized band of Indians fished in the
inland waters, trapped in the forest for mink and
otter, muskrat, bear or silver fox; and paddled
the lake in birch barks; sometimes supplementing
their paddle strokes by a sail contrived of a blanket
fastened to a pole cut from a neighbouring bluff.

From far over the Atlantic came a brave man,
with a heart full of peace, and anxious to acquaint
the native with the brightness of his own life.

It meant much to settle in such a district in early
days, long before the iron horse had made a path
across the prairie; days when the trail wound its
wandering way over rock and soil, skirting the
bluffs, penetrating forest, mounting granite hills
or hiding itself in rocky ravines.

And even after the perils of the trail were
passed, there still remained the privations of the
lonely Mission, cut off from companionship, with
the keen biting winds of winter, the ice-locked
lake, the powdery-dry snow falling and falling
until one wondered if the air had turned to snow,
and when morning came little was left of the
buildings except the chimney tops; the whole
Mission was buried in white as though shut up in the
garments of the tomb.

Twice a year the mail carrier braved first the
heat of summer and then the rigour of winter,
and when the contents of the mail-bag were
emptied on the parlour floor what delight in once more
touching the outside world.  It was like reading
history after it was past to scan the doings of the
year.  It was like a breath from the dear old
home to see the familiar postage stamps and to
read the welcome words of dear ones from letters,
enclosing home flowers and fragrant love messages.

In all this life no one made greater sacrifice than
the missionary's wife, who saw no women save
her dusky pagan sisters with the dark brown eyes
with a yearning look in them.

Many years ago Keewatin, the "North Wind"
with his little daughter Akwinanoh were sitting
by their wigwam door looking down the long
stretch of the Northern Lake, when suddenly a
strange apparition some miles away startled
them into attention.  Their cry gathered
almost the whole camp, which watched with wonder
and amaze a changing object moving toward
them, but unexplainable by even their keen Indian
sight.

Whatever it was it gleamed and glistened in the
setting sun until finally Keewatin, with a glimmer
of inspiration in his eyes, said, "I know what it
is.  It is an island of light."  He was nearer the
truth than he knew, for it was the tin canoe of
the English missionary, the tin reflecting, in
scintillating rays, the sunlight, and the canoe
bearing the messenger of a light that so far had never
yet shone for them.  Every stranger excites the
curiosity of the savage man, but Akwinanoh had
a new object of interest from that day, for with
the white man came a tiny white baby that soon
grew into the pet of the reserve!

The little daughter of the North Wind adopted
the white man's child as her special charge, and
while the missionary worked and prayed to bring
the Gospel of the Christ-child into the hearts of
the Saulteaux, another little child slowly but
surely worked its way into the life of the brown
maiden, transforming her, and through its gentle
pressure Akwinanoh soon yielded to the influence
of the Gospel of Bethlehem's babe.

Later she became the Christian mother of her
who was known as Betsy.  Betsy grew into a
girlhood that was beautiful, even from the white man's
point of vision.

She was gentle as the breath of the south wind,
with a sweet grace of manner and a consistency of
life that made her a strong support to the man
who came to them in his canoe.

To be a follower of Christ seemed natural to
her, for she had His spirit, and was full of
unselfish thoughtfulness.

One day as she was walking along the river
edge she saw a child slip and fall.  Without a
moment's hesitation she plunged into the deep,
brown stream, six fathoms at the rock, and
brought the child safe to its parents' tepee.  It
was early in the spring and the waters were
cold, and before night a raging fever laid her low.

For weeks she suffered, waited upon by the
heathen medicine man, uncomplainingly swallowing
the hideous compounds from his mix-all
bottles, and slowly sinking under the fatal grip of
pneumonia.

The young husband refused at first to allow the
approach of the white doctor, and the missionary
could only pray and hope.

Finally, when one day the light burned low, the
obstinate young Indian bowed before the
compelling force of necessity, and proper medical
attendance began.  Then the doctor took hold,
nursing her as though she were his own child;
watching symptoms and succeeding in bringing back
hopeful conditions into the wasted frame.

It was a gay day when the report circulated
through the camp that Betsy, the beloved, was
recovering under the magic spell woven around
her by the English medicine man, for no one could
fail to notice the sweet spirit and to wish for
victory in the stern battle brought on through her
unselfish act.

One day in the evening, the missionary found
her, oh so quiet and worn, but gentle as ever.  She
could speak a little English and seemed glad to
think that she was cared for.

"Well, Betsy," said the missionary, "you have
been very ill."

"Yes," she answered sweetly, "very ill, but the
good light the white man brought has been shining
in my heart and all is well."

"We are glad, Betsy," said the missionary,
"that God is going to spare you.  We could ill do
without you.  Your life has been a benediction to
the whole reserve."

"Oh, Missionary," said Betsy, weeping, "do not
say that.  When I think of the story of His love
it makes me ashamed.  But I do wish my people
could feel and know as I do.  I would like to stay
among them for a little while, for I love them.
But sometimes I have a feeling in my heart that
perhaps it is not to be.  I had a dream last night,
Missionary.  Would you like to hear it?"

"Yes, Betsy," he replied, "but are you strong
enough to talk so long?"

"Oh, yes; I feel quite strong this evening,
thanks to the white doctor.

"I dreamed I was going along the trail when
suddenly away before me I saw a wonderful light.
It was coming my way and as it got nearer it took
on the form of a person.  Soon it stood beside me
and I saw that it was the face of Christ, but oh, it
was too beautiful to describe!  And I said, 'Have
you come for me?'  'No,' said a voice, 'not yet.'  And
I thought I was so disappointed, and I said,
'Well, will you be long?'  And the answer was,
'No, not very long.'  And as it spoke it
disappeared, and I awakened."

He listened, hushed and awestruck at the story
of the dream of this dusky sister of the plain.

"Well, Betsy," said he, after a moment of silence,
"it is all well.  That dream may not come
literally true, but the spirit of it is yours, and some
day He will come to your people, and when the
right moment arrives He will come for you too.
Shall we pray, Betsy?"

"Oh, yes sir, pray," she said, "pray for me, but
do not forget my people, and my man."

The night shadows were growing darker as
reverently he knelt beside the prostrate form of that
northern saint, Indian in race, but akin to God the
Father of us all.  A daughter of the King, if ever
there was one.

Then reaching out her hand, she took from a
corner of the tent near her couch a birch-bark
basket, made by her own hands, and sewn with sweet
grass.  Giving it to the missionary, she said,
"Keep that as a remembrance for your kindness
in coming to see a poor sick Indian child."

That night the northwest wind began to moan.
Soon it bore down with the terrific force of a gale,
in howling wrath.  Drenching rain fell; wild gusts
of storm dashed against the Mission buildings.

The wildness of the storm howling in mercilessness
in the deep night stillness struck chill to
the heart of every one.  It was one of those
sudden storms that sometimes sweep in gales over the
north country, gone in a few minutes, but ofttimes
leaving a wake of destruction.

When morning dawned, some of the boats were
driven fifty yards into the forest; trees around the
camp were stripped of limbs, and great rents ran
down the bark and fibre of more than one.

But the worst deed done by it was when it lifted
the tent off Betsy's sleeping form, and left her to
the wild elements whose work was soon finished in
her death through shock and wet.

It was not long until the news spread throughout
the settlement, and the Indian wailing could be
heard in that lonely, long-drawn lamentation that
is theirs.

Two days later crowds of Indians thronged the
little Mission Chapel.  They came dressed in their
prints of all colours and fantastic variety of
costume; some with yellow handkerchiefs on their
heads.  Purple, blue, white, red were seen
everywhere, but mourning was on every face, and
sorrow sat on every bowed form.

A touching service in Cree, with plaintive music
set to the words of Christian hymns, and then, one
by one, men, women and children came to the
front and printed a kiss upon the cold brow of the
dead woman, while some whispered messages to
her to be taken to the land of blessed spirits.

It was a sad procession that wound its way
through the Mission fields, over the hills, across
the bridge and up the opposite side of the ravine.
There, amid the wooden monuments that marked
the resting-place of relatives and friends, was laid
the sacred dust of Betsy.

As the coffin was lowered, the conquering wind
whistled its triumph through the limbs of the trees
in the near-by forest, but it was a hollow triumph,
for beyond the forest were the hills of light and
faith could see there the real conqueror, whose face
once shone in beauty in Betsy's dream, and who
had come now for her in the guise of the storm on
which He rode, but who gave His weak one
conquest through the storm.

Reverently they lowered her body, the worn-out
jewel-case of Betsy, simple-hearted, large-souled,
unselfish Betsy; heaped the clods upon her
coffin; waved farewells across her grave and went
back to the old life where storms still raged and
duties dared and dangers sought to breed fears
within.  But many were made stronger now because of her.

Brave Betsy, dark of skin, but white of soul;
true-hearted Betsy, beloved of all, foe of none; she
got her death through giving another life, and for
many a day her story will be told, and children will
be carried to the little Indian burying-ground and
shown the simple wooden cross, simple as herself,
on which they will see in simple letters—

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   "BETSY"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A LIFE DEGREE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   XXXII


.. class:: center large bold

   A LIFE DEGREE

.. vspace:: 2

The other day the papers announced that
when the Prince of Wales returns from
his recent tour, he is to be given the
Order of the Garter, the highest honour in the
Empire in civil life, just as the V.C. is the highest
in military service.

And it is a great honour to do some deed or
fulfill some duty, so that a college or a nation gives
you some distinguished degree which allows you to
put letters after your name.

But it is all right to be proud of honours, if a
fellow really earns them by hard work or genuine
service.  The only kind to be shunned are the kind
you buy with money or get through some second-hand
institution without any standard of toil.

Yet, after all is said and done, the great majority
of you will perhaps never have a college degree,
and will never be called over to meet the king and
kneel before him, dressed up in gorgeous court
clothes, while he strikes your shoulder with a
sword and says, "Rise up, Sir Knight."  You
may never be a big lawyer and write K.C. after
your signature, to show you can plead in the king's
name; or K.C.M.G., to show you are one of the
select knights of the royal castle; but I want to
suggest you can still wear a title, and use the
letters that stand for things worth while.

"Say, Billy, would you not feel big if the day
came when your friends called you Sir William?"  Who
knows but what they may!  The big men
were schoolboys with some one else, and you may
be one of the coming big men.

You remember when Tom Brown went to Oxford,
he used to walk around and read the names
of men like Raleigh and Wycliffe, and feel two
inches taller.  He said, "Perhaps I may be going
to make dear friends with some fellow who will
change the history of England.  Why shall not I?
There must have been some freshmen once who
were chums of Wycliffe and Raleigh!"

Now, my point is that even if you do not, you
need not fail.

Some day when you read, or now when you are
reading Tennyson, you will find a poem called
"Idylls of the King," where he speaks of knights
who are "wearing the white flower of a blameless
life," and who "live pure, speak true, right wrong,
follow the king——"

If you are that, then I have the power to confer
on you titles, and although you may not put the
letters after your name, you can if you care
to—William Blank, K.C.

"K" stands for kindness, and you know,

   |  "There's nothing so kingly as kindness;
   |  And nothing so royal as truth;"

and you know,

   |  "So may we in bonds of love,
   |  Each living creature bind,
   |  And make them gentle as a dove,
   |  If we are only kind."
   |

There is something very attractive about a kind
man; and we should be that, for we live in lands
where Jesus has been heard of, and He has filled
the earth with kindness.

A street-car line was held up once in Brooklyn,
the city with its roar and busy bustle, all because a
kitten had got on the rails.  In China, they would
not have bothered, but we have learned to be kind,
to be friends even to animals.

"C" means courtesy, the behaviour of a lady
and gentleman in heart and home and street.

I met an Indian in the North land, which I have
told you about in my talks in "Boucher" and
"Betsy," whose name was John Everett.

He had been a pagan Cree, but his tribe were
now Christian.  His clothes were not the best and
he was a poor fisherman, living in an Indian hut,
but I could have put him into Buckingham Palace;
and while a lot of things would have been new to
him, he would not have disgraced himself, for he
was a perfect gentleman.

Courtesy means being courtly; that is, fit to
stand in a court and not be ashamed of your
actions.  Here is a definition I read of a gentleman,
and which I pass on to you:

.. vspace:: 1

"A gentleman is clean inside and out—a man
who looks neither down to the poor nor up to the
rich; who is considerate of women, of children
and of everybody; who is too generous to cheat
and too brave to lie; who takes his share of the
world and lets others have theirs; who can win
without bragging and lose without squealing."

.. vspace:: 1

But I can add three more letters, just as
sometimes you see men whose names have a lot of
honours tacked on.  John Smith, M.A., LL.D.,
C.M.S.  So I would like to confer on you not
only K.C., but also R.S.P.

LL. D. means Doctor of Laws; and the one
who has it can wear a wonderful gown of red silk.
K.G. means Knight of the Garter; the most
distinguished decoration of Great Britain, bestowed
by the king, and won only by a favoured few.  It
runs back nearly six hundred years, and gives the
one who receives it the right to wear special
garments; a black velvet hat with white ostrich
feather plume, a gold collar with twenty pieces of
gold in it, and a silver star.

P.C. means Privy Councillor; one who belongs
to the council that gives special advice to the king
on state affairs.  They wear a Windsor uniform
with buckled shoes and knee breeches, and
embroidered coats and cocked hats, and they look
quite dressed up when it is all on.

The trouble is, a man may be all this and yet not
be very much else except a clothes horse.  He may
be a knight without being knightly, or have a
degree and lack real worth.

But the degree I want you to get always stands
for something real.

R.S.P.—

"R" means reverence, which is one of the chief
titles, for if you have not that it matters nothing
what else you have.

Reverence for God and for God's name; reverence
for yourself, your body, the wonderful gift
of mind, the power you have of choosing;
reverence for yourself as a temple in which God wants
to dwell; reverence for everything that is sacred
and holy; reverence for the church and the
Sunday School.

When the Prince came to Canada everything
was made as beautiful as possible, and every one
uncovered their head because he represented the king.

But, girls and boys, you are children of the
King.  You are sons and daughters of the Lord
God Almighty.  Do you not think you should be
very reverent toward all your life, because you
represent the King?

Up among the Indians I was struck with their
reverence in church and in our camp.  Every
night before going to our tents we stood around
the camp-fire and sang a hymn and had a good-night
prayer and every one of those Indians stood,
the very picture of reverence.

You have a chance in church service and
Sunday School to show your reverence for all these
sacred things and to be all that makes you very
knightly.  An irreverent boy or girl, who does
not care, or who makes a mock at holy things, will
never get very high; or if he does, will some day
topple down, sure as fate.

"S" stands for self-control, and that means
able to use yourself and to use your temper.

It means you are sitting on the wagon-seat
doing the driving and not running between the shafts
while something drives you.  It means you are the
engineer in the cab, with your hand on the lever,
and if you can't be that, your life train will run
away with you and then smash goes everything!

Out in the Rockies they used to have safety
switches on the heavy grades so that if a train got
away it would run into the switch and up-hill and
stop.  But a good, strong engineer, with a strong
hand on the lever, usually does the work.
Self-control means you are in charge and are keeping
your lever well in hand.

You know, girls and boys, we are like gunpowder.
We fire off easily.  We have so many
nerves and are so high-strung; and if we were not
that, we would never do anything.

Appetites and passions do things and give us all
life force, but they have to be held in, like a
splendid horse kept under bit and bridle.

Out in California there is a shell called the
Abalone.  It attaches itself to the rock by a very
strong muscle that holds so tight it has to be
pried open often with a crowbar.  When it is all
cleaned up it is wondrously beautiful in varied
colours of green and pink and opalescent pearl.

One day a little child was walking on the beach
and stepped on an open shell, when quick as a flash
it closed and held her there.  They suppose she
called out in terror, but no one heard, and the tide
rose and covered her, and the body swaying at
last, broke off and all they found was a boot, with
bones, in the heart of the shell.

They tell of some fishermen going out to gather
Abalone shells.  One, in a hurry, reached out to
pull it off the rock, when it closed on him and held
him as in a vise, and the rising tide gradually drew
him out of the boat and drowned him.  You see,
instead of possessing the shell it possessed him.

Lose self-control and you become possessed by
something.  Keep self-control and you are master.

Life's end is to be master and not mastered.

"P" stands for purity.  You know how you
love a flower and what a picture of purity a white
flower is.  The beautiful Easter lily, or a white
rose with waxen petals and shining heart, what is
there more lovely?

Perhaps there is something even more lovely than
that.  It is the face and eyes of a little child who
has never yet learned to sin, and looks up into your
face with a look so sweet and holy that you
wonder how you could do or be anything mean in its
presence.

All knights are said to seek purity.  The poet
says they swoop

   |  "Down upon all things base and dash them dead;"

and one of the noblest was said to wear

   |  "the white flower of a blameless life."
   |

How can we be that?

By killing bad thoughts that, like worms in the
timber, eat away the best, and if put into the ship,
may cause it to sink in the storm.  Nearly every
girl and boy who falls does so because he lets some
evil thought linger until it weakens him, and when
temptation comes, the weak spot caves in.

Out on the prairie the wheat is often ruined by
what is called "smut," a little fungi that turns the
grain black and spreads rapidly by spores.  If
once it gets into the heart of the wheat the only
way to get rid of it is by destroying the grain.

Keep yourselves pure, girls and boys—in
thought, word and deed.

One of the Girl Guide laws is that of purity.
"God make me beautiful within," is said to be a
prayer of Socrates many centuries ago in Greece.

Pure as the snow fresh fallen; pure as the light
that streams into dark spots and brightens all it
touches; pure in what you look at; pure so you can
be your mother's and your sister's friend; pure so
you can see life's beauty, for nothing so surely
blinds the eye as being impure.

Here are two degrees I offer you, girls and boys.

In college, at graduation, the Chancellor puts
your hands between his as he says, "Admitto te ad
gradum," which means "I admit you to a degree
in this college."  And one of the officers puts a
college hood over your shoulders and you rise a
B.A. or M.A. or M.D. or something else.

But it takes some years to get to that day.

But these degrees are yours now if you will take
them.  You do not have to work, and if you are
really trying for them you never will be plucked.
If you want them really and truly, you can have
them.  And if you take them, I don't care much
whether you have any other or not.  And if you
have a lot of them and not these, all the rest will
be of very little value.

A Master of Arts!  That's fine.  A Doctor of
Laws!  That's a distinction.  A Knight of the
Garter!  That's a proud honour.

But—A kind and courteous girl and boy; a reverent,
self-controlled, pure life—that's best of all!

Out where I lived at the Pacific Coast, there
were a lot of people who belong to a club of
mountain climbers, and everybody had an ambition to
climb as high as possible.  It was a great boast if
one could say he had penetrated far up Mount
Robson.  To reach the topmost point was what
everybody desired, and they went through a lot of
toil to get there.

Mountain climbing is no easy job.  It takes a
lot of wind and muscle and perseverance, all of
which is repaid when the summit is reached and
the great range lies at your feet.

Now, life degrees are peaks to which we climb.
Education peak is one, and it is a splendid point to
reach.  Social peak is another, and it is good to be
high up in society and respected by the world.

I think I would rather get to Education peak,
where I graduate with a degree in learning than to
Social peak, where I get a degree in place and position.

But the highest peak of all is Character peak, and
if you ever want to get there and graduate in the
things that last forever, then the way runs along
the paths of a kindly, courteous, pure, controlled
and reverent life; and one day you will wear the
white robes of a life graduate, and the great
Chancellor of Life will place the mark of God upon
your forehead and crown you forever as a prince
of the heights of Character.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   William Blank, K.C., R.S.P.

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center small

   *Printed in the United States of America*

.. vspace:: 6

.. pgfooter::