MORE than nineteen hundred years ago, in the mountainous desert near the village of Bethsaida, and within sight of the blue waters of the sea of Galilee, a vast multitude had gathered to listen to the wonderful teaching of the Man of Nazareth and to be healed of their diseases.
At last the setting sun tinged the waters of Galilee, and the evening zephyrs stirred its calm depth,—and still the people lingered, forgetful of hunger and weariness.
But the Great Physician did not forget; and well He knew the needs of the multitude. At the suggestion to dismiss the people, He replied: “Give ye them to eat.” We all remember the story, how, seated in that desert place, the Master spread the table for five thousand hungry people, from the basket of a little lad.
Finally the multitude arose, and the mighty Miracle-Worker dismissed them to go to their own homes.
“Now,” says the Master to His disciples, “gather up the fragments, that nothing be lost.” “What! gather up the fragments? Why, Master, do you ask us to spend our precious time in such a manner as this? Surely it is folly to talk of economizing now! Why,” they say to one another in amazement, “here is a power which is able to multiply bread indefinitely by a single word; surely we are in no danger of coming to want,—so why economize? it is folly to do so.”
Not so, for the words of the Master are imperative: “Gather up the fragments!” And still this command is as imperative as when, nineteen centuries ago, it fell upon the ears of the astonished multitude in the desert of Bethsaida. Especially should those words appeal to the profligate pleasure lovers of this extravagant twentieth century.
“Extravagant?”—yes; recklessly, criminally extravagant. Do you see that lordly palace over there? It is evening, and the brilliantly lighted parlors are filled with the butterflies of fashion, flitting to and fro, as purposeless as the vain insects which they resemble. Diamonds and precious stones which cost the wealth of a Rothschild are gleaming everywhere. Massive vases and ornaments of priceless value are scattered about in barbaric splendor and profusion; and as the modern devotees of fashion gather around their tables of regal magnificence, we are irresistibly reminded of the impious feast of Belshazzar, when the lightning fingers of the invisible scribe traced those mystic characters upon the richly carved walls of the vainglorious and fated monarch; and we listen in imagination to the awful interpretation of the aged seer: “Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting.”
“Yes,” sighs Mrs. Spendthrift,—now Mrs. Spendthrift is a church member, and her husband is far from being a rich man,—“yes, it’s awful the way these wealthy people do spend money!” Yet the heedless and senseless manner in which this foolish woman spends her husband’s hard earned dollars is as culpable and blameworthy as is the extravagance of the millionaire who spends his thousands foolishly.
We are all likely to think it no harm to indulge in petty extravagances; but this means as much to us, perhaps with our limited means, as the greater follies of the rich mean to them.
Let us, then, try to be sensible. There is probably no one but who is very economical in some one particular. All of us have our hobbies. Perhaps we may have a hobby of economizing in the kitchen, and the result is such poor and meager fare that our impoverished blood cries out in the pangs of neuralgia or rheumatism. So I beg you, my friend, don’t plume yourself on your economy and thrift, because you begrudge a crumb of bread to the little birds, while you recklessly throw away or dump into the garret last season’s hat or gown, almost as good as new, because it is a little out of style.
“Well, now, I’m glad to hear you talk to Mrs. Spendthrift,” smiles Mrs. Niggardly, “The way that woman goes thru with money is awful. My husband’s salary is double hers, but I shouldn’t think of doing so. Why, she doesn’t seem to realize the worth of money. And Mrs. Liberal is just as bad. Only last week she gave away—just think of it!—absolutely gave away to the various charities and missions and poor fund and what not, three large baskets of food, besides any amount of clothing; and she actually asks her husband almost every day what he would like for dinner; and she sees that he has it, too,—no matter if it does cost extra,—and I’m very glad to find that you don’t approve of it.”
Pardon me, Mrs. Niggardly, I am speaking in favor of economy and thrift—not of penuriousness and littleness. I’m afraid you don’t appreciate the difference between the terms.
But Mrs. Niggardly only looked puzzled and passed on.
“But what can we do to teach the true principles of economy and thrift to our children?” some one asks. It is a first-rate plan to give them an object-lesson by allowing them to do a little business for themselves. Let Mary learn to make her own dresses, instead of hiring the dressmaker, and then give her the money, or part of it, for missions. Then she will feel that she has earned it herself. Let Johnnie have a little garden of his own, and allow him to handle and sell his own produce. Thus he will learn the true value of money, and learn many lessons of thrift and economy.
But while we are not to be slothful in business, we must not forget the command to be “fervent in spirit, serving the Lord.”