p. 12 | Amy's Lesson

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jul 1, 1886

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 12, No. 25.

Amy's Lesson.

"If there is anything in this world that I despise, it is selfishness," said Amy, looking up with a flash in her blue eyes, and a shake of her golden curls, as if she were challenging some one to oppose her. "The girl in this book is horrid, just horrid! She never makes a single sacrifice, she won't give up her own way for anybody, and all the time she seems to think that she is perfectly lovely. I dislike that sort of character; don't you, Uncle John?" appealing for sympathy to a gentleman who was reading his evening paper in a chair under the great oak tree in the garden.

Amy herself was cosily lying in a beautiful striped hammock, which was swung in the very cosiest corner of the veranda. Her golden head rested on a scarlet pillow, and a light wrap of Shetland wool lay in scarlet meshes over her fleecy white dress. She made a pretty picture, and was as easy and luxurious as possible, in attitude and occupation.

"Yes, dear," said Uncle John; "selfishness is very hateful. Few of us can endure it—in other people," he added after a pause.

"Now, Uncle John, that isn't fair." Amy's tone was a little petulant, and a frown came on the smooth forehead as she turned to her interesting book.

Presently Aunt Nanny came, rather feebly, out from the parlor. She had been ill, and her face was very pale. It did not enter Amy's mind that aunty would like to be pillowed in the hammock, not even when Uncle John, springing to his feet, gave his arm to the invalid, and, resigning his own chair, seated her in it, taking a less comfortable one himself.

"Amy! Amy, darling!" This time it was mamma who called.

"Well, mother!"

"I want you, dear, to go upon an errand. Come at once, Amy."

"Can't Johnny go, mamma?"

The little figure in the hammock did not move until an answer was returned, in quite decided tones.

"No, Amy; I want you."

"That's always the way. Just as I get to the very best part of a story, I always have to leave it. Nobody else is ever interrupted as I am."

"Poor Amy!" said Aunt Nanny. "She would be so sweet if she were not so very selfish. Is it not a pity?"

And Uncle John observed, "Yet she does not think herself selfish."

"She is not wholly selfish," said grandpa, who had observed the little scene. "She is always ready to share a treat with others, and she is very amiable so long as she is having a pleasant time, and is not disturbed in her own pursuits. That little outburst about the heroine of the story was quite genuine. Amy only needs to see herself as others see her, to turn over a new leaf."

"I wish Amy might have an object lesson," said Aunt Nanny, who was now reposing in the hammock, to which she had been gently lifted by Uncle John. "John, dear, cannot we give the dear child the sort of picture lesson she needs?"

"You cannot, Nanny," said Uncle John; "but I will try my skill at playing the part of bear."

Next morning when Amy, book in hand, came to the veranda, she found Uncle John in possession of the hammock. He hardly looked up in reply to her "Good morning;" and when, after a few moments, Aunt Nanny appeared, he went on reading as if he did not see her.

"Uncle John, Aunt Nanny is here!" said Amy.

"Oh! my dear, I'm glad you feel well enough to come out of doors," said he, hardly turning his head, while his wife sank wearily into the first chair.

Amy's eyes were widely opened. This was peculiar behavior, indeed!

"Why, uncle," she exclaimed, "I should think you would let Aunt Nanny have the hammock. It's much the nicest place for an invalid!"

"Oh! is it? I didn't know. Well, I suppose she must have it," he said, rising, with a shrug of his shoulders, but assisting the lady in, nevertheless. "I don't know why I must always be the person to be disturbed," he said, with a grimace and a yawn, as he strolled away.

"What can be the matter with Uncle John?" exclaimed Amy. "I am always so proud of him. He is so kind and good. He can't be well."

"Malaria," suggested brother Guy, gravely.

"For my part," said Aunt Nanny, "I can only observe that my husband never in his life acted in this way before; and it does look very strange."

"John!" said grandpa, coming round the corner of the house.

"Well!" replied the person addressed.

"If you are going to the village, will you call at Smith's for me and leave a message."

"H-m-m!" Replied Uncle John, doubtfully; "to call at Smith's will take me half a mile out of my way. Can't Rufus go?"

The manner was in exact imitation of Amy's usual tone when her mother proposed an errand for her.

Amy recognized it, and colored, but said nothing.

"For that matter,"—began grandpa, severely, but Uncle John interrupted him.

"Oh! I'll go, of course." Then in a lower tone, audible to Amy, but not to grandpa, "I never do plan out a morning for myself, that everybody does not break in with half a dozen things that somebody else could do perfectly well. If I could only be let alone for once!"

"Uncle John!" exclaimed Amy, "I never talk so; I never make myself so disagreeable. There!"

"Pray, who said you did?" answered Uncle John, as if in great surprise. "There was no reference to Amy that I heard."

Amy was silent and thoughtful. The day wore on. At dinner, unexpected guests came, and it was necessary for some one to wait. It must be either Amy or Johnny. Johnny had been obliged to wait so often that to-day, particularly as he had an engagement with some of his friends, his mother thought it better that Amy should do so. Amy was, as usual, beginning, "I think it's really too bad, mamma; I always am obliged to—" when a quizzical look in Uncle John's eye stopped her.

A week later, in a twilight talk with mamma, one of the sweet confidential talks which girls and mothers sometimes have, Amy confessed that she was trying to overcome her fault.

"I see how hateful it looks in others," she said. "Truly, mamma, I never thought of it before; and I did not know that I was so much like that wretched girl in the story I read, until I saw Uncle John acting precisely as I had been doing. Now, mother dear, won't you give me a text to help me along?"

And her mother gave her this one: "For even Christ pleased not himself."—Margaret E. Sangster, in Sunday School Times.