"I Didn't Ask to be Saved."
By Mrs. Annie A. Preston
John Hayne was a young man much given to the use of profane and reckless speeches, and when the village pastor was talking to him about his soul's welfare one day, and asked him if he was not grateful for the offer of salvation, he said: "No; why should I be? I didn't ask to be saved." "Well, you will have to ask, or you will not share in the unspeakable blessing," replied the minister, and noticing a look of surprise now stealing over the young man's bold face, he continued: "A young relative of mine was wounded at the Battle of Gettysburg, and for hours was in a state verging upon unconsciousness. After lying a long time on the damp ground, he became aware that there were voices near him, and although he could not move as much as one of his fingers, or his eyelids even, he thought he felt a hand softly placed upon his heart. Then he became aware that a nurse—he knew that it was a woman by her voice—was pleading with the regimental surgeon, who was on the field, to make one more effort to save some poor fellow's life. Presently he realized that he was the object of her solicitude. "He is so fine looking and so strongly built," said the nurse. "His natural vitality must be great; besides, sir," she continued in a reverent tone, "he may have a wife, or a mother, or a sister praying for his safety now." "It's no use to spend time over him," said the surgeon gruffly, "but if you wish to stay by him, you can. I can do nothing for him, and must move on. Remember, if you remain, you will run the risk of being left alone here in the night on the field." "Very well," replied the nurse bravely, "I will take the risk, and shall do all in my power to resuscitate and save this poor fellow, and only immediate attention can avail now." Presently the soldier became conscious that his jaws were being gently forced open, and some powerful stimulant had been given him. It was not long before he revived sufficiently to be carried to the hospital, and in good time he entirely recovered. His life had been saved through the prompt and faithful efforts of that devoted nurse. "Now, what if I should tell you," continued the pastor, as he earnestly looked into the face of the young man who had just made the coarse and flippant speech, but who was all attention now, "what if I should tell you that that soldier was ashamed of the noble young woman who risked so much to save his life, that he subsequently went about bragging that he had never asked her to save him, that he had not the least acquaintance with her, that he refused to acknowledge even that she had been of any service to him, and never mentioned her name, except in a slighting, reviling way?" "I should say that he was a mean, contemptible ingrate," replied John Hayne, impulsively. "He was not fit to live; his life was not worth saving." "Very well," said the pastor, but this nurse only by a little temporary sacrifice of comfort on her part, at the same time being in the pay of the Government, was the means of prolonging the soldier's paltry life for a few brief years in this world of care and sorrow. Jesus Christ, the divine Lord, suffered on the cross and died for you, to redeem you from sin, and now offers to make you an heir of eternal life. And yet I have never known you to speak of him, or of those who love and try to follow him, with common respect even." "My dear sir," replied John Hayne, "I have never looked at this thing in that light before. Of course an ungrateful person is the meanest person living. I promise as much as this now: I will never use the Lord's name lightly again." The pastor did not press the subject any further at that time. He had set the young man to thinking. Not long afterwards John Hayne was converted, and he says that little lesson on ingratitude brought him to a saving knowledge of Christ.—Mrs. Annie A. Preston.