The New Sails | AdventAI

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Oct 30, 1884

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 10, No. 41.

The New Sails.

It was a delightful day for indoor employment, from the fact that it had rained steadily for several hours, beginning early in the morning. I had been writing a long time. All was still in the house, save the low, monotonous hum of my faithful maid in her room, and the ticking of the clock. Suddenly the stillness was broken. The front door was thrown widely open. I heard quick footsteps in the hall below, and then coming up the stairs. "O, auntie! are you so very, very busy? I do wonder if you couldn't please stop writing for a few minutes?" cried my little ten-year-old nephew, running into the room.

"Certainly, I can stop writing for a few or many minutes. What can I do for you, Georgie?" I asked, while laying down my pen.

"Well, auntie, you see these, and this," he said, holding up two bits of white muslin in one hand, and a soiled bit—almost to blackness—in the other. "I want two new, clean sails made out of these two white pieces. This dingy sail is only for a pattern to go by. You won't mind if this pattern to go by is all so stained, will you? You see the boat upset. 'Tis just dry water and ground on it, so you needn't be afraid it will rub off on your hands, auntie."

Of course I didn't "mind," nor wasn't "afraid." Georgie sat beside me, watching with intense interest every stitch I took in his all-important sails.

"I don't s'pose I ought to have felt so badly when nobody would make them; and I don't s'pose I ought to trouble you either," he said, apologetically; "but now is the time for boats when there is so much water. Do please look out of this window, auntie. Isn't that a beautiful, beautiful brook? But we will have to hurry with our sails, for before we know it all the lovely brooks in the streets will have run down in the sewer. Then, farewell boat sailing."

I looked out, but I saw no "beautiful, beautiful brook." I only saw a muddy, turbulent stream of water in the street gutter.

"I wanted mamma to make them," he continued, "but she said she wouldn't be bothered with me, because I was forever wanting something fixed or made. She said she wouldn't touch my pattern to go by, anyway. Mamma is so very neat. Then I ran in the girls' room. They wouldn't make them neither. They said that brothers were continually asking sisters to make things that girls were not interested in. I do think Fannie might have made them. She was only reading a book. She wouldn't leave off, for she said she was just where the girl was to get married or buried, I forget which. I begged Anna to help me with them. She was knitting with some worsted work. She said she hadn't any time to spare. I think she could easily have stopped knitting the worsted work for a few minutes, don't you? She wouldn't. Well, then I ran down to Cousin Mary's. (You know she lives so near by, and I was in such a hurry.) She was stitching on the sewing-machine; and she said she couldn't stop to make me any 'sails, veils, pails, nor nails.' So I thought I would run way up here as fast as ever I could and see if you wouldn't make them. I was most sure you would."

It was only twelve or fifteen minutes' work. When they were finished, Georgie grasped them and ran quickly down in the street. In a moment after, he rushed back into the house and, coming half-way up the stair, cried out:—

"O, auntie! I forgot all about to thank you. If you should ever want any errands done, I'll do them for you. I'll do them willingly, because you are all alone."

While sewing, with great rapidity, on Georgie's sails, it was all I could possibly do to appear cheerful and keep the tears back. He never mistrusted anything of the kind, however, for I was, seemingly, as interested in them as he. But the very moment he went out of the room, I laid my head on the writing-desk. Then, when he said, "because you are all alone," I wept bitterly; for I was thinking of a tall, manly form, of a bearded face in a distant city, and I could not but exclaim, "O! that my boy were a boy again!"

I wonder so that mothers ever fret At little children clinging to their gown; Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, Are ever black enough to make them frown. If I could mend a broken cart to-day, To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, There is no woman in God's world could say She was more blissfully content than I.

Mother, sister, those of you who have your little boys, your brothers with you, don't, I pray you, check the harmless impulses of their nature. Readily assist—and become interested in—all their innocent amusements and pleasures. An English writer once said: "When I was a boy, I wanted taffy, but had no money. Now I have money, but want no taffy."

Mother, when your boy is a man—and, oh, how soon that will be!—he'll not ask you to make sails for his tiny boat. He'll not beg you to help him look for or re-cover his ball. Your closets, boxes, and bureau drawers will not be rummaged through and through for "a very stout kind of string." A new style of top you'll not be urged to buy; neither will you be urged to look for some gay stripe of calico or muslin for the tail of a kite. No demand on your purse for a slate or lead-pencil. Paper cockade hats you'll not be coaxed to make. Four in number it may be. One for himself, the others for his three playmates. No, no; you'll sit as I now sit, alone, undisturbed; and mayhap will tearfully say as I now say, "Oh, that my boy were a boy again!" And I bethink me of companions three that played with my boy. . . the beautiful summers, the summers of long ago.

How dear were they to his heart, and how dear they grew to mine! They likewise have flown from the parent nest, and have built one for themselves here and elsewhere. Aye, even beyond the Rocky Mountains the sound of one of their voices is heard. Positions of trust and usefulness they are filling.

Mothers, be careful to readily assist and become interested in all your boy's innocent amusements and pleasures. You will thereby not only minister to his present and future happiness, but in the coming years you will rejoice that you improved your opportunity. For if God spares your lives, the time is not far distant when he will be beyond not alone "childish things," but, alas! equally beyond your counsel, sympathy, and companionship. Then, your home, like mine to-day, will be painfully quiet. And when that time comes—as come it will—you'll wish you could hear your boy rushing in the house or up the stair asking for something to be "fixed or made." Gladly would you be "bothered" with him; and as gladly make his little sails, if not altogether immaculate his "pattern to go by." Let not your golden opportunity pass away unappreciated. Give it its due estimate and value. Ah! fail not in this: enjoy your boy while you may. And when he leaves the home-harbor and spreads his impelling sails, may he not only have the memory of a cherished and happy childhood, but through your watchful care and judicious training, with God's blessing, health to man the oars of his life-boat, a good education for a ballast, and purity of heart as a pilot or compass to guide him as he voyages out on the sea of life. Mother, be wise in time!—Christian at Work.