THE STORY OF A COMFORT BAG.
It was a dreary day. The good ship Hope was outward bound, and the raw wind that whistled through her rigging was doing her good service, for it filled her sails and sped her on her course. There were some days when it seemed as if nothing could be more beautiful than to be upon the ocean. When the sun shone down brightly and tipped the crests of the waves and the broad wings of the sea-gulls with silver, when looking over the side of the ship down into the water it was a deep translucent green, and the calm sky bending over the ocean and meeting the horizon in every direction was studded with fleets of cloud ships, then nothing could be more delightful than life on the ocean waves. But it was different on such a day as this. The sky was a heavy leaden gray, and the water reflected the same dull color. The great waves seemed to roll themselves sullenly along, instead of leaping and dancing joyously as they did sometimes, and the wind, instead of being fresh and invigorating, was raw and cold. Jack Lane, one of the crew, was glad to go below when his watch was over, for he felt chilled “to the very marrow of his bones,” as he would have expressed it. He had a button to put on his pea-jacket, and as he set about this task, he remembered that when he was in port last a comfort bag had been sent to him, among other things, by the secretary of the American Seaman’s Friend Society. “Guess I’ll overhaul that comfort bag and see what’s in it,” he thought to himself, remembering that he had not thought to open the package before. He untied the string, and, taking off the wrapping-paper, found a comfort bag that brought out an exclamation as soon as his eyes fell upon it. It was indeed a beauty, made of strong gray linen, bound with bright red braid, while a pretty pen-and-ink drawing of a ship under full sail decorated one side of the bag, and an anchor the other side. Would you like to look over his shoulder as he opened the bag and took out one thing after another? Of course you would, for perhaps you would like to make a comfort bag for a sailor yourself, and then you will know what to put in it. There were spools of strong linen thread, black and white; there were buckles of several sizes, and buttons, too; there was wax, a pair of scissors, a large thimble, a box of paper and envelopes, a little pocket inkstand that screwed up tight so that the ink could not get out, and a penholder large enough for a sailor’s rough hand to grasp comfortably; there were balls of strong tape, both black and white; there was a package of court-plaster (one10might guess it was a boy who packed that bag); an emery, a needle-book full of needles; a small copy of St. John’s Gospel, with large, clear print; a prettily illuminated text, in the shape of a small cardboard anchor with the words on it, “He careth for you,” with a silk cord by which to hang it up, and a letter directed in a round boyish hand to “The sailor who gets this comfort bag.” Jack opened the letter with a new feeling of curiosity. He very rarely received a letter, and he never wrote one, and he wondered who had written this letter, and what there might be in it for him. MY DEAR SAILOR: I wish I could know who you are and where you will be when you get this letter. I am a boy ten years old, and I made this comfort bag for you all myself, and put in it what I hope will be of use to you, and a real comfort, especially the Gospel and text. I have wanted to be a sailor all my life, and I was sure I should be one when I was big enough, until six months ago. I got knocked down by a horse then, and ever since I have had to stay in bed all the time. The doctor says I can never walk any more, except with a crutch, so I know I will never be a sailor now. That is worse than the pain, I am so disappointed. Now that I can not be a sailor myself, I want to do all that I can for sailors. When I was first hurt, my doctor gave me a text like this to help me to be patient. If I remember all the time that God cares for me, I am more willing to stand the pain and not mind my disappointment too much. I hope you love God, too, and that you know that he is your Friend and cares for you. I wish you would write to me. Every night I shall pray for you that you may be kept safe in all the storms, and that you will be a good man. I do not know who you are, but God knows, and he can take care of you. I wish you would pray for me too, that I may be very patient and brave. Good-by, dear sailor. From your friend, SPENCER HAWLEY. “Poor little chap,” said Jack softly to himself, as he read the last page of the long, carefully-written letter. “And so he’s praying for me. I never had any one to pray for me before since mother died, when I was a little shaver not his size. He thinks that God cares about an old hulk like me, does he? Well, maybe it’s true. It would be mighty comforting to think I was going to drop anchor in a safe harbor some day. I suppose this little book would be a good chart to steer by. Well, I’ll see, I’ll see.” Spencer did not get the letter for which he had hoped, for Jack was a poor penman, and there are some things that are easier to say than to write, but one day Spencer was surprised by a visit from his unknown sailor friend, who came to tell him how he had learned to steer by the Gospel chart, and hoped some day to make a safe harbor in heaven. The little text, with its assurance that God cared for him, and the knowledge that he had an early friend who, without having ever seen him, cared enough for his comfort to send him the bag with its useful contents and the loving letter, and who would pray for him, had been the means of bringing him to Christ. Who knows how much good each one of us can do for the brave men who spend their lives upon the ocean, exposed to all its perils and dangers? Shall we not try?—Christian Work.