Ruth's Opportunity by L. L. Robinson

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Oct 8, 1885

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 11, No. 38.

Ruth's Opportunity.

By L. L. Robinson

It was a bright day early in September, and there seemed to be something in the cooler air and less enervating sunshine that told of holidays ended and new work begun. But Ruth Winston sat idly dreaming, her simple morning duties finished, and the day apparently holding nothing new or glad for her.

"Not moping, are you, Ruth?" There was something of grave rebuke in the words, but there was also a certain tenderness and sympathy discernible in the mother's voice, as she lifted her eyes from her sewing to glance at the young girl near her.

"I don't think you should call it moping, mother," said Ruth, reproachfully. "One cannot but be sad and anxious sometimes, when there is a real care on the mind. How can I help feeling it a little hard when I think of the many girls returning to school to-day, girls, too, who, perhaps, will never have to depend on themselves for support, while I, who will have no one else to look to, cannot have even a good education. Here I am, fifteen years old, and I know nothing but reading, writing, and spelling, with a little I have picked up by myself."

"And what would you best like to study, Ruth?" asked the mother with a sigh, and as if more to show her sympathy with her girl's desires than with any special motive for the question.

"Oh, I scarcely know," answered Ruth. "Anything and everything, I suppose; but to be honest, mother, I don't think I care so much for books or study in itself; I only long to learn enough of any one thing to be able to teach it, or make my own living by it. It is very hard to think of always being a drag on poor Jasper, who will have enough to do to take care of himself and you. If I had but half the chances of some girls I know, I would be earning something in a year or two. But what can one do in a quiet country place like this, with nothing to be learned at the district school, and no one to lend a helping hand?"

"A helping hand, dear?" said the mother, "I think you forget that there is a very strong and willing Hand promised to help all those who seek its aid. It may not always shower great wealth or brilliant success, but to one seeking only an honest support, and willing to honestly make the most of the opportunities given, believe me, that Hand is ever outstretches. Moping and grieving over poor chances never yet accomplished anything, but many have done much by simply keeping their aim in sight, and, while making the most of their own abilities, looking to that Hand to point the way."

Although the mother and daughter had often talked of such things before, Ruth had never laid bare her trouble so plainly; and there was something now in her mother's serene trust and perfect confidence that inspired her with new hope.

"You mean, then, mother," said she, "that if we merely go on doing the best we can toward accomplishing an object, and trust all to God, he will bring it about?"

"I really do," answered her mother, "if the object be a wise and worthy one, as I am sure yours is."

"Then I will trust," said Ruth, thinking of her one great desire, the longing to fit herself for the self-support which must otherwise fall on the brother to whom the widowed mother must also look in her declining years.

Once more she hunted up her copy-book, speller, and slate, and began afresh the simple studies which she felt could be carried on quite as well at home, where she could also share her mother's cares, as at the district school a mile distant, where the teacher knew but little more than Ruth herself. Nevertheless, it did seem that her chances for self-improvement or the attainment of her desire were exceedingly meager under this slow process. But what are chances or human probabilities to God, when a soul has claimed his promised aid!

The days passed by at quite their usual pace; but it is strange how hard it often is for old Time to keep side by side with youthful hearts. September had given place to October, and Ruth was beginning to lose something of her expectant buoyancy, plodding along with a patient, rather than hopeful persistency, as day by day she wrote her copies, conned a few columns in spelling, and added, subtracted, and multiplied endless figures on her slate.

It was like going over and over the same old path, she thought, as one morning she walked along the oft-traveled road to the little station that served as railroad depot, post-office, and country store in one.

She was too early for the mail that morning, however, and stood silently watching with an interest that never failed, the mysterious working of the telegraph instrument, over which the elderly agent had long presided. But a pause came at last in the jerky little clicks, and as if for a moment's diversion the old operator looked up and said abruptly,—

"Ruth, can you spell telegraph?"

"That's a puzzle for her," his genial face said plainly, and for an instant the very suddenness of the question made the little country girl hesitate; but, recovering herself quickly, she answered promptly:—

"T-e-l-e-g-r-a-p-h, telegraph."

"Humph, pretty good, I declare," said the agent with surprise in his smile. "You must be a right clever speller. But now let me see if you can write telegraph," and he pushed a paper and pencil to her.

Ruth picked up the latter composedly, and in a neat, distinct hand wrote the word as creditably as she had spelled it.

"Why, upon my word, you are a very good writer," said the old gentleman with another surprised gleam in his eye. "I did not suppose our little one-horse school turned out such clever scholars."

"I don't know that it does," answered Ruth, candidly; "but I write and study all I can at home."

"And what is it all for?" he asked, looking at her more attentively.

"I don't know exactly," said Ruth, with a sigh. "I am only trying to make the most of my opportunities, with the hope of some day learning more."

"How would you like to learn to play on this chatty little machine?" said he, tapping his telegraph instrument, but with a smile that seemed only half in earnest.

"That!" cried Ruth. "Why! could a girl like me ever learn to work and understand that?"

Her expression of eager longing and wonderment amused, while it interested her questioner.

"Why, of course," he answered, "any girl who can spell correctly, and write out the messages distinctly that come to her, can learn if she is willing to try hard. Many a one is now making her living by it."

"Oh, sir," said Ruth, growing more and more eager, "if you would but teach me, I would try harder than any one ever did before!"

The old gentleman began to look more serious. "Well," he said, "I must confess I never thought of it before, but you do look like a girl that would have pluck and energy, and if you are so anxious to try, you can come to me for an hour every morning and we can see what's in you."

The mail train just at this moment came rattling in, and scarcely waiting to inquire for the letter that occasionally found its way to them, Ruth hurried home with a heart all eagerness, joy, and wonder.

"Oh, mother," she cried, entering with hasty steps, "I do believe my chance has come! Only think, Mr. Roberts has offered to teach me telegraphy. Did you suppose a girl like me could learn?"

"Yes, I have heard of such things," said the mother with a face reflecting all Ruth's bright happiness; "but I never thought such a chance could come to you. How in the world has it come about?"

"That is more than I can tell you," answered Ruth. "I certainly never dreamt of it, and of course never mentioned it to Mr. Roberts, and I do not think it had ever occurred to him before, so I suppose it has just come by chance."

"By chance, dear?" repeated the mother gravely. "To those who have once placed themselves under God's care nothing ever happens by chance."

And now began work in earnest for Ruth. Morning after morning found her at the agent's office, and such was her diligence and eager attention that the old man soon became convinced that he was far from wasting his time in the task thus voluntarily undertaken. And morning after morning marked a progress in Ruth's improvement that really astonished him.

"How do you manage to remember your lessons so well," he asked one day, "when you have no instrument at home to practice on?"

"Oh, but I have," answered Ruth with a smile, "to-morrow I will bring it and show it to you."

And on the following day she drew from her pocket a small oblong block of wood on which a lead pencil was securely fastened with a rubber cord, a small wedge raising it just enough from the block to make it tap distinctly on the latter when pressed with the finger.

"Well, if that isn't ingenious!" said her teacher with an admiring nod. "Any girl who could contrive a help like that is bound to succeed," and he tapped a word on the little homemade instrument which was at once repeated by Ruth.

A year passed by, a year of busy, unremitting practice on Ruth's part, and of willing instruction on the part of her friend. But changes had been going on around them. The little railroad station had become an important point on the road, trains passed and made connections there more frequently, and the old agent's duties were increasing.

"I say, Ruth," said he one day, "the company has at last consented to give me an assistant in the telegraph office; how would you like the place?"

"Oh, Mr. Roberts!" cried Ruth, "do you really mean it, and do you think I am competent?"

"I could not likely get a better operator for the money offered," he replied, "and you would be improving all the time. Besides, I would rather have a good steady girl like you than some young upstart of a fellow wanting to take things in his own hands."

"Oh, mother," cried Ruth, hurrying home once more in a state of happy excitement, "did I not say it was my chance! Mr. Roberts has engaged me as his assistant, and I am to have fifteen dollars a month. Who knows but in time I may get thirty or forty!"

"Aye, who knows," repeated the mother thoughtfully, "and who knows what God can do for those who seek his help, and meanwhile help themselves!"—L. L. Robinson, in New York Observer.