Dorothy Ann's Sermon

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jul 8, 1886

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 12, No. 26.

Dorothy Ann's Sermon.

THERE was great rejoicing among the little ones at the farm when it was understood that Cousin Hetty, who lived in the city, was coming to make a long visit. She was not very strong, so mamma said, and they must all be careful to be very kind and polite, and to see that she always had the best of everything.

The little lassie came, and they were delighted with everything about her, from her pretty fair curls and white face, so different from their own sun-browned ones, to her dainty dresses and French boots. There could be no doubt that her manners were quite equal to her appearance, so Jessie and Tom and Polly resolved to be upon their very best behavior all the time.

"Will you come out into the garden?" said Jessie. "There are lots of currants and a few raspberries ripe. There will be plenty of raspberries next week, though."

Such a garden as that! None of your little seven-by-nine scraps, but a full acre of everything which could be found in a liberal, old-fashioned country garden.

A broad walk through the middle of it was bordered by beds of bright-colored flowers, with rows of hollyhocks and sun-flowers at the end. Honeysuckles and morning-glories climbed over the fences, and in a shady corner grew such pansies as the children believed only mamma knew how to raise.

Miss Hetty tried the fruit and said, "I don't like currants; they're sour. I like only raspberries."

It had been supposed that each one would eat a great many currants and a very few raspberries. But on hearing this, the others offered her all the raspberries they could find, and were rather surprised to see that she took them without seeming to think whether they liked them, too. She kept calling for more, and, when Tom scratched his face and Polly tore her sleeve pushing through the bushes in search of them, very quietly ate all they had without so much as a thank you. Then she declared the berries were not half ripe, and not fit to eat.

"Mamma don't wish us to pick the pansies unless she is with us," ventured Jessie, as Hetty began gathering them freely, "because she has some choice ones she wants to keep for seed."

"I like choice pansies, too," said Hetty, with a scowl on her pretty face.

They went to the swing, where Hetty grumbled when the others wanted to take a turn. Then to the croquet-ground, where things went smoothly so long as Hetty was on the winning side; but if the play went against her she grew sober, then sulky, and finally threw down her mallet and refused to finish the game.

Long before tea time Jessie and Tom and Polly began to wonder if it was so very delightful a thing after all to have a cousin from the city to visit them; and before the first week was gone everybody on the place had fully decided that it was not.

Hetty could be very sweet and pleasant while things were exactly to her liking, but unless she could have her own way in everything her frowns and complaints were ready at a moment's notice. She had never been taught to take any thought for others, and her little cousins found it very hard to endure all her whims and ill humors. They were very dutifully anxious to heed all mamma's reminders that it was their place to give up to their guest, but she herself could not help seeing that Hetty made sore demands upon their patience.

One day there was a picnic, to which all the children looked forward for days, and for which great preparations were made. When all were ready to go it was discovered that Hetty was wearing a pair of thin slippers.

"Oh, my dear," said mamma, "you must put on your thick shoes. There will be rough ground and perhaps damp places to go over today."

Hetty had made up her mind to wear those slippers, and was not inclined to change it, or them, but was still quite determined to go to the picnic. So she said, "Then I believe I won't go."

The other children were as wofully dismayed as she had expected them to be.

"O, Hetty!" cried Jessie, "you must not stay at home. It's lovely out there—wild flowers and vine swings"—

"And a creek where we fish and wade and sail boats," said Tom.

"And such good things in the basket," whispered Polly.

"Hurry, dear," said her aunt, coaxingly. "We are all waiting, you see."

"Don't wait," said Hetty; "I'd rather stay at home." She went to her room, much enjoying the commotion she was making. From the back of it she could look out of the window and see what was going on. The children got into the big spring wagon and sat looking up at her windows. Then her aunt came out and called cheerily up to her, "Come, Hetty, we've got a good seat for you."

"And I'm to have the whip, and I'll let you have it half the time," shouted Tom.

Hetty came to the window and said, "Thank you, Aunt Emily; but I'd rather not go;" and then watched again from the back of the room, wondering what they would do next in the way of urging her.

Aunt Emily got in, and to Hetty's great astonishment the wagon was driven away. What could it mean? They surely would never, never think of such a thing as going without her. They must be going to turn back for her—perhaps they were doing an errand first. But there was a little misgiving at her heart, as she slowly walked down to the kitchen and asked Dorothy Ann, the maid, "Where are they all gone?"

"Why, to the picnic, of course! Seems to me I'd a gone, too, if I'd been you."

"Gone without me?" Hetty stood in blank amazement for a few moments, then flung herself down on the floor and screamed.

At the first howl, Dorothy Ann quietly took a chair, folded her arms, and sat looking at Hetty as if she were some very interesting natural curiosity. And Hetty screamed louder, and kicked until her bronze slippers were as badly off as if they had gone through half a dozen picnics. And the louder she screamed and the harder she kicked, the straighter Dorothy Ann looked at her.

It was very perplexing for Hetty. She had never kicked and screamed before without everybody being frightened for fear she would injure herself, and coaxing and petting her, and offering her everything she wanted, including her own way, if she would only stop. But here was Dorothy Ann looking as if she would not mind if it lasted all day, and not a soul anywhere near to do any coaxing. Hetty did not know what to do next.

At last, when her throat ached and her face was red and her whole self very badly tumbled, she sat upon the floor and looked at Dorothy Ann. And then Dorothy Ann spoke.

"You're a nice child now, ain't you?"

It was not spoken sneeringly, nor in anger. Dorothy Ann was a pleasant-faced, hard-working woman, older than Aunt Emily, and her words always had weight in the family. After a pause she went on in a slow, earnest way: "You're a nice child, I say! Don't you think it's nice to be a-makin' yourself a trouble and a torment with your cross, crabbed, cantankerous ways? Don't you think it's nice to come where folks is all glad to see you, and their hearts just warm and a-runnin' over with kind feelin's to you, and little ones that's always a-givin' up to you, and you just for all the world like a buzzin' wasp or a stingin' nettle or a prickly chestnut-burr that everybody is glad to get away from or drop out of their hands? Don't you think it's nice to keep them children all rasped up with your tantrums, and to keep your aunt in a fret all the time between her wish to do everything that's kind by you and tellin' her children the same likewise, and you a-goin' on like all possessed?"

Hetty stared up at Dorothy Ann, bewildered at words the like of which she had never heard before, and slowly through her mind came the idea that the next thing for her to do was to feel very angry.

"How dare you talk so to me?" she cried. "Mamma won't let you." But Dorothy Ann noticed her anger as little as she had her screams.

"If you go on so to your mamma, don't she think it's nice to have a little girl to buy pretty things for and to take good care of, and then to have her a-snappin' and a-snarlin', and a-scowlin', and a-makin' people wherever she goes wish she was a thousand miles away? Don't you think she's proud of havin' such a child?"

"Don't you think it's nice to see your pretty blue eyes all red, and your forehead all crumpled up so you might iron it out, and your mouth that was made to smile and laugh all puckered? Don't you know there's wolves a-looking out of your eyes when there ought to be lambs and doves? Don't you know the words you speak are like so many snakes and toads a-droppin' out of your mouth? And what do you s'pose"—Dorothy Ann's voice grew solemn—"the good Lord thinks when he looks at that little heart of yours that he give you to keep full of sweetness and lovin' kindness, and to make you a comfort instead of a trial to folks—what does he think, do you s'pose, when he sees it all blotted and stained up with all sorts of hateful thoughts?"

Hetty had never taken her eyes from Dorothy Ann's face, and now as she seemed to have said her say, and went back to her work as if nothing had happened, it came over her very strongly that the next thing for her to do was to feel very much ashamed. With a little sob or two she got off the floor and went out and lay down under an apple tree. There Dorothy Ann found her, an hour later, fast asleep.

"Poor little creature! She's tired herself clean out." Dorothy Ann had for some days been "bilin' over for a chance to speak her mind," and having now had it, felt very

kindly disposed. She slipped a cushion under the poor little, rumpled head, and when dinner time came, Hetty found a dainty pudding, just big enough for her, baked on purpose. And during the long afternoon Dorothy Ann told funny old stories and let her make molasses candy to pass away the time.

"I do declare, I'm most afraid to see Hetty!" said Tom, as the picnic party drew near home. And the other members of it felt so too.

But Hetty was subdued, and as days went on every one was amazed at the change in her. And nobody could ever guess how it came about, for she never told of Dorothy Ann's sermon. I wish all spoiled children could hear such a one—don't you?—The Congregationalist.