p. 412 | Dr. Morrow's Scholar

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jul 3, 1884

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 10, No. 26.

Dr. Morrow's Scholar.

"You may leave this Sunday-school now, and you needn't be slow about getting out of the room either, and you need never come back again either, never—do you hear?"

It was young Dr. Morrow talking to one of his Sunday-school boys, a rude, ungoverned and seemingly ungovernable boy, who thoroughly enjoyed disturbing the whole class, not only with his inattention, but also with his actions.

Dr. Morrow's patience had been worn threadbare during the past few weeks, and now that Jim Dunbar had succeeded in getting the whole class with but one exception laughing, and that one exception crying (because a bee which Jim had held imprisoned in a coiled handkerchief had been let out cautiously into his ear and it had stung him), the last thread of that much-suffering virtue gave out, and Dr. Morrow, in his anger, wished that Jim Dunbar would never cross his path again.

The fun all died out of Jim Dunbar's face as he heard the stern command. One quick, reproachful but mortified glance into Dr. Morrow's angry, reproving face, and then the boy started to leave the room. Just before reaching the door he looked up at the beautiful motto over the arch. It had never looked so lovely before—at least that was what Jim thought: "Suffer the little ones to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven." That was the motto.

Jim thought of many things as he crossed the threshold and wandered down toward the river. Dr. Morrow had explained that beautiful motto to him, and now some of his thoughts ran after this fashion:—

"He said I was one of the little followers the Saviour wanted, but I guess he's mistaken. I'm too big, most eleven; 'sides that Dr. Morrow said I should never come back again—so I'm forbid, you see—any way I guess I don't belong to the kingdom, else I wouldn't be so mean, that's a fact. I wanted to be good though, real good, but somehow, I don't know just how, the bad keeps a comin' out all the time; I guess I won't even try to be good any more. What's the use? I ain't got any one to tell me how, and 'sides Dr. Morrow says folks can't be good 'less they get near the Saviour, an' I can't get near him, 'cause I dasen't go back to school, an' the Saviour never comes to our house, never!"

However, as the moments flew by, Jim thought no more about the Saviour, but amused himself by throwing sticks and stones into the river, digging holes in the bank and frightening a timid child who came in search of wild flags. He did not go home until he became so hungry that he could not do otherwise. Your heart will go out in pity towards Jim as you enter his home. It is the abode of squalor and wretchedness. His father lies on a rude bed asleep in drunkenness. His mother sits leaning back in an old wooden rocker, her eyes fixed mechanically upon the blank wall. She starts a little as Jim enters, and drawls forth:—

"You're late, Jim."

"Don't seem to make any difference whether I'm late or early—things always look the same," muttered Jim, throwing down his old cap, and drawing near a grimy table pushed against the wall, upon whose one raised leaf, guiltless of table-cloth, the remains of a miserable meal lay scattered.

"Don't be sassy, Jim," drawled his mother.

"I ain't sassy, but I'm hungry—what ye got to eat, mother?"

"You can see for yourself. What you botherin' yer tired mother for?"

Yes; Jim could see for himself—could see some dry crusts and half a glass of beer. He looked at them in disgust.

"We've potatoes, mother—a whole peck of em—why don't you bake some?" he asked.

"Cause I don't feel like it—Sunday's a day of rest." Jim crunched the dry bread and drank the beer, and as for the remains of the pickle, he threw it across the room.

Dr. Morrow lived in the suburbs. The walk home was unusually pleasant; now in his perturbed state he did not enjoy it.

He had done right, of course, in sharply reprimanding that tiresome Jim Dunbar, but had he done right in forbidding him ever to set foot in God's house again? Supposing God should treat his children so?

After dinner Dr. Morrow dropped asleep in his comfortable library chair. He had scarcely entered the land of dreams when he saw a face of surpassing beauty watching him, then a voice said lovingly, yet beseechingly: "Feed my lambs." Then he walked on, his pathway strewn with roses, and pretty soon he saw the lovely face again and heard the gentle voice repeat, yearningly, "Feed my lambs." Then from over a blossoming hedge he soon heard the voice again, saying, oh! so lovingly: "Suffer the little ones to come unto me and forbid them not." He looked and saw the Saviour pointing to another pathway, strewn with thorns and stones. It was far in the distance, and yet he saw a little traveler forcing his way along wearily and painfully. For a moment the small, pinched face turned towards him beseechingly, and then the boy turned his face away. But that moment had been enough for Dr. Morrow to recognize the face as Jimmy Dunbar's. He groaned aloud and then awoke. The afternoon sun was streaming into the library windows; all aglow were the charming pictures of the "Madonna and Child" upon the wall. He looked at the child's face.

"He came into the world to seek and save the lost—how dare I judge a child so harshly?" he thought sorrowfully.

The Sabbath was not yet over when there came a rap at Jimmy Dunbar's door. It was Jimmy who opened it, and over his white, discouraged face, a scared look crept as he recognized Dr. Morrow. What was he going to do? Put him in the "lock-up," perhaps, for letting that hateful bee sting little Dan Phelps. No, that was not Dr. Morrow's intention. He took his hand kindly and said, huskily: "You did not do right this morning, my boy, neither did I. I have forgiven you Jimmy; you forgive me and we'll both do better in the future. Come to the Sunday-school as usual, Jimmy. I'm a little stronger than you, and I want to help you climb up to your heavenly Father." Then Dr. Morrow went into the wretched little room, and went out again with tears in his eyes. But there were no tears in Jim's eyes as he unpacked a great basket of fruit and untied a package of picture papers from Dr. Morrow. There was a deep joy in his heart, and he said, feelingly: "Oh! how good Dr. Morrow is; how he pities a fellow who is down. After all, I don't wish I was dead; I'd rather try to get into the kingdom."—Westminster Teacher.