Name: Sabbath Readings for the Home Circle Volume One
Author: Anonymous

THE WIDOW’S CHRISTMAS.

MRS. MULFORD was a woman who doted on ruins. Nothing in the present was as beautiful as she had enjoyed in the past; and it seemed utterly impossible for her to imagine that there was anything in the future that could compensate her for the trials she had endured.

In her girlhood Mrs. Mulford had been surrounded with the luxuries of life; and after her marriage her surroundings were but a trifle less magnificent. In such an air of luxury and ease, her children were being reared when suddenly a great change came.

Mr. Mulford was a rash speculator, and on that memorable “Black Friday,” the idol he had worshiped, the god of gold, proved itself to be nothing but clay, and was as dust in his hands. He could not rally from the shock; pride, ambition, courage, were all annihilated; and Mrs. Mulford, to whom beggary seemed worse than death, could only mingle her tears with his in speechless agony.

Arthur, the eldest child, a boy of fourteen,

endeavored to comfort his grief-stricken parents.

“I will work for you father. I can easily get a place in a store.”

“My boy! my boy!” said the poor man, clasping his son affectionately in his arms; “stay by your mother, and the girls, they will need you, dear boy!” And he imprinted a kiss on the glowing cheek, that had in it a father’s blessing and farewell.

The next morning Mrs. Mulford was a widow, and her children fatherless. A trifle the creditors allowed her was all she had to depend upon, the money she had inherited from her father having been swept away by the financial tornado.

She had taken a little place in the country, and with Arthur’s help, and Bridget’s,—who had followed the fortunes of her mistress—had really succeeded in making things look quite cozy and attractive.

“Sure ma’am,” says Bridget, in her homely attempts to comfort her mistress, who dragged herself about like a sable ghost, “if ye’d only smile once in a while ye’d be surprised at the comfort ye’d get!”

“Ah, Bridget,” Mrs. Mulford replies, with

a long drawn sigh, “my smiling days are over. I try to be patient, but I cannot be cheerful.”

“Ah, but, it’s the cheerful patience that brings the sunshine; and ye really shouldn’t grieve the children so.”

“Do they mind it, Bridget?”

“Sure, an’ they do! Master Arthur, bless the boy! says it’s just like a tomb where ye are; and Miss Minnie and Maud have their little hearts nearly torn out of them; and they such wee, little birdies!”

But Mrs. Mulford could not be easily beguiled from her sorrow, especially as she was obliged to have recourse to her needle to eke out the limited allowance, and every stitch she took was but an additional reminder of the depth to which she was reduced.

To such a disposition the needle is but a weapon of despair, bringing neither comfort nor hope, nor in any way lightening the burdens of life. The recurrence of an anniversary was, to Mrs. Mulford’s mind like the unveiling of a monument to the departed, and was usually spent in solitude and tears.

She had managed to exist through the Thanksgiving season, and Bridget had done

her best to make the occasion worthy to be remembered—by the children at least; and if it hadn’t been for that kitchen goddess, I don’t see how the house could have held together.

She had always some comical story to tell the children, something to excite their wonder or admiration, and every few days would surprise them with some fresh molasses candy or cunning little cakes baked in curious patty pans.

Minnie and Maud rather enjoyed their poverty, as it allowed them more freedom and exemption from little rules that society enjoined. It was such fun to roll in the snow, and draw each other on the sled, without any caution in regard to ruffles and frills that used to be such a torment to them, and such a restraint on their buoyant natures.

Christmas was drawing near, and its approach filled Mrs. Mulford with uncontrollable despondency. It had been a gay season in her young days, and her own children knew it as the season of especial rejoicings and unlimited toys and candies. Now it was all so changed! Even a moderate expenditure

was not to be thought of, when it was so difficult to procure even the necessaries of life, and she really wished the day was over, for she dreaded its arrival. The furniture never looked so dingy and faded, nor the curtains so coarse, nor her surroundings so pitiful, as when she looked around and thought that Christmas was coming.

Neither did the past ever seem so beautiful and glowing as when she cast a retrospective glance in that direction at this memorable season. But in the kitchen all was animation and excitement; as different an atmosphere as if there were ever so many degrees of latitude between them; Mrs. Mulford occupying the frigid, and Bridget the torrid zone. Every afternoon and early in the morning, Minnie and Maud were down in a corner of the kitchen very busy over some mystery, in which Bridget was as much interested as they were themselves.

Arthur bustled about from one room to another, always the active, cheery, hopeful boy, who kept everybody informed of what was going on in the outside world; and he, too, evidently had some weighty secret pressing against the buttons of his jacket. Christmas

eve came, and the children began to think it never would be dark enough for them to get ready for Santa Claus.

“What are you going to do, Minnie?” inquired Mrs. Mulford, as Minnie brought in the stockings to hang by the fire.

“Get ready for Santa Claus, mamma,” was the reply. “You know that to-morrow is Christmas!”

“But Santa Claus don’t come to poor people, my child,” and the tears filled her eyes at the recollection of the generous gifts of former years.

“Oh, yes he does, mamma,” said Minnie, who was eleven years old, and two years the senior of her sister; “yes he does! He knows where we live.” And she continued pinning the stockings upon the line she had stretched across the mantel.

“I wish I could have afforded a tree!” sighed the mother, watching her daughter’s movements with considerable curiosity.

“We don’t want a tree, do we Maud? A stocking is ever so much nicer. It looks so funny all stuffed out, and then you don’t know what’s in it, and you have to shake it out, and hunt way in the toe! Then you

can put such tiny things in, to make everybody laugh.”

Then she pinned on the names which Arthur had printed very nicely on slips of paper, and stood off a little distance to admire her handiwork.

Bridget was called in from the kitchen to see if it was all right, and Arthur was induced to leave his work just for a minute to note the effect of the display.

“Here now!” he exclaimed, “I told you to hang up the clothes bag for me. You don’t suppose that little thing will hold all my treasures, do you? Is the chimney clear?” And he pretended to search anxiously for anything that might prevent the descent of good old Santa Claus, whose coming had never before been anticipated with such unqualified delight.

Mrs. Mulford was in the midst of a troubled dream, when shouts of “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” rang through the house, and awakened her to the reality of the day she so long had dreaded.

She knew how dreadfully disappointed the children would be, it is so hard for them to understand the exigencies of life, and wished

she might keep her room all day and have Bridget bring up her meals.

“If ye please, ma’am,” said the worthy maid-of-all-work, not stopping to knock at the door, “if ye please ma’am ye’d better come down stairs; the children are nigh about crazy waiting for ye;” and the sunshine of her face illuminated the long room after she had retreated down the stairway.

“They can’t feel very bad,” said Mrs. Mulford, as she slowly turned from her room. “It seems to me I never heard them laugh so heartily. Oh, to be a child again!” And she sighed heavily.

As she entered the sitting-room, what a sight met her eyes! There were wreaths of green over her portrait and papa’s; a narrow border running round the mantel; and festoons falling in every direction.

“Come, mother,” said Arthur, “you first; Bridget can hardly wait, and our breakfast won’t be worth eating.”

“Oh, no,” said the mother, “Maud should have the first chance;” and the impatient child eagerly availed herself of the privilege.

It was astonishing what an amount of goodies rolled out of that stocking, and after

they were laid aside there were one or two parcels to be opened. There was a nice pair of warm gloves, just what she wanted to use in drawing the sled, or making snow-balls; a new doll, and a book full of pictures. Minnie’s stocking was quite as bountifully stocked, and every new surprise seemed to enkindle their mirth and enthusiasm.

Arthur had filled his own stockings with all sorts of odds and ends, on purpose to increase the fun and hilarity, and pretended to be surprised that Santa Claus patronized second-hand shops. Bridget sat down with the children to unload her collection of treasures, and even Mrs. Mulford was forced to laugh heartily at her comical remarks, especially when she drew out a potato, which was labeled, “The last of the Murphys!” “May they always be first in the field!” said Bridget.

When Mrs. M. was finally induced to examine the contents of her own stocking, the children, with Bridget, who was only an older child, gathered around, and watched anxiously the proceedings.

There were a pair of nice brackets hanging outside, which Arthur had cut with a pen-

knife; and as she took up each article that had been wrought by loving little fingers, the worsted pulse-warmers, the pretty mats and tidies, she felt that it was indeed possible for love to build upon the old ruins a beautiful palace for the heart to dwell in.

“Forgive me, my dear children!” she exclaimed, embracing them each in turn. “Bridget, my good girl, we will begin the world anew. I have been a weak woman.”

“Sorry a bit of it!” said Bridget, wiping away her tears with the corner of her apron. “It’s a heavy cross ye had, but we’re all going to help carry it.”

“And, mother,” broke in Arthur, “I’ve got a situation in a grocery store.”

“Arthur!”

“Yes. It isn’t much, but I’ll learn the business; and then, you know, I can take care of you.”

What a Christmas breakfast they had! It wasn't so much what was on the table, although Bridget had made delicious waffles, and everything was super-excellent, but it was the guest that sat at the board with them that made it a feast to be remembered. While they were at the table, talking over

plans in which the mother manifested undoubted interest, there was a sudden, sharp knock at the door that startled all the inmates of the house.

“A new calamity!” sighed Mrs. Mulford, falling back into the old attitude.

“It must be Santa Claus himself!” exclaimed Bridget, putting her head through the kitchen door. Arthur admitted the gentleman, so swathed in an immense scarf about the neck and chin as to leave one in doubt as to whether he were friend or foe.

“Well, well!” said the stranger, divesting himself of his wraps, and stamping the snow from his boots in the little hall; “Such a tramp as I have had! Where’s Carrie?”

“Carrie?” inquired Arthur, fearing he had admitted a lunatic.

“Yes, Carrie. My niece, Carrie Wharton. Are you her boy?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“No more do I. She was Carrie Wharton, married Ned Mulford, and a long tramp I’ve had to find her.”

“Have you any bad news?” inquired Arthur, laying a detaining hand on the stranger’s

arm; “because, if you have, I’d rather you wouldn’t mention it to-day. My name is Arthur Mulford, and we’ve had such a happy Christmas.”

“No fear, my boy, bless your tender heart! Why, I’ve come from Santa Claus myself, and am chock full of sunshine that turns into gold.” Saying which, he entered the room where Mrs. Mulford and her children were sitting, and Bridget hurrying to clear off the breakfast things.

“Carrie!” said the stranger in eager tones, advancing toward Mrs. Mulford, who seemed to have heard a voice from the far-away past. She was in her own home again, a careless child; father and mother were living, death had never crossed her threshold, and all was joy and happiness. A bewildered moment, and then a flash of recognition.

“Uncle Nathan!”

“Yes, dear child! Would I could have got to you sooner;” and he held the weary head close to his generous heart, and smoothed the worn brow.

“I felt I was growing old, and had a hankering after a home to die in, and always

the face of my little niece, Carrie, seemed to give me the heartiest welcome.”

“Then you did n’t die,” said Arthur, looking on the scene as if it were a part of a fairy story.

“Of course I didn’t. Came near it, a dozen times, but always escaped. Couldn’t see why I was spared and better folks taken, but it’s all clear now. Why, I had as hard work finding out anything about Ned Mulford, or Ned Mulford’s widow, as if I’d been trying to find Captain Kidd.”

“It’s because of our poverty,” sighed the widow.

“Yes, I suppose so. It’s the way of the world! But who cares? We’ll begin the world anew.”

Mrs. Mulford stared at hearing her own words repeated, and Bridget, who kept an ear on the proceedings, stood for a moment in open-mouthed amazement, much as if she feared that there was to be another great convulsion of nature.

“Yes,” continued Uncle Nathan, “yes, that’s what brought me back. Money don’t make a home, I know that well enough, for I’ve seen it tried. Arthur, what are your plans?”

“I was going into Mr. Chase’s grocery the first of January.”

“Do you want to? Any taste for hams, herrings, tape and shoe-strings?”

“No, sir,” replied Arthur, laughing at the combination, “but I’d like to help mother. I promised father to see after her.”

“You’ve done your duty. But my opinion is you’d rather go to college than into a grocery.”

“Oh sir!” and the flush on the boy’s face was not to be misunderstood.

“College it is, then. Carrie, you are to be my housekeeper; these are my little girls;” clasping the children in a hearty embrace, “and see if we don’t turn out a happier family than any Barnum ever exhibited.”

The Christmas dinner was a marvel of cookery, and Uncle Nathan enlivened the meal with accounts of his adventures.

“And this was the Christmas I had dreaded!” said Mrs. Mulford, as she retired to her room.

The children had reluctantly gone to bed fearing that this good “Santa Claus,” as they persisted in calling Uncle Nathan, would disappear in the night, and leave them as suddenly as he came.

Arthur dreamed of his books and college, and woke up half a dozen times in the night to assure himself that the great man sleeping so soundly beside him was not simply the magician of the “Arabian Nights.”

Mrs. Mulford’s pride was truly humbled by this manifestation of God’s goodness, and long and earnestly she prayed that henceforth, whatever trials might come upon her, she might bear the burden with cheerful patience, trusting in God to lead her through the shadows into the sunshine of a more perfect day. And in after life no memory was more precious to her than that of a Christmas morning when the children taught her a lesson of unselfishness and duty.

Come into our homes, oh ye Christmas angels! Brush away the cobwebs that regret and selfishness have strewn around, and put in their stead the wreaths and vines that are fragrant with the immortality of love! No home so poor that will not be the brighter for your coming! No heart that is not enriched by your presence, oh ever blessed Christmas guests!

A FAITHFUL SHEPHERD BOY.

GERHARDT was a German shepherd boy, and a noble fellow he was, although he was very poor.

One day he was watching his flock, which was feeding in a valley on the borders of a forest, when a hunter came out of the woods and asked:—

“How far is it to the nearest village?”

“Six miles, sir,” replied the boy; “but the road is only a sheep track, and very easily missed.”

The hunter looked at the crooked track and said:—

“My lad, I am very hungry and thirsty; I have lost my companions and missed my way; leave your sheep and show me the road. I will pay you well.”

“I cannot leave my sheep, sir,” rejoined Gerhardt. “They will stray into the forest and may be eaten by wolves or stolen by robbers.”

“Well, what of that?” queried the hunter. “They are not your sheep. The loss of

one or more wouldn’t be much to your master, and I’ll give you more than you have earned in a whole year.”

“I cannot go, sir,” rejoined Gerhardt, very firmly. “My master pays me for my time, and he trusts me with his sheep; if I were to sell my time, which does not belong to me, and the sheep should get lost, it would be the same as if I stole them.”

“Well,” said the hunter, “will you trust your sheep with me while you go to the village and get some food, drink and a guide? I will take care of them for you.”

The boy shook his head. “The sheep,” said he, “do not know your voice, and—” he stopped speaking.

“And what? Can’t you trust me? Do I look like a dishonest man?” asked the hunter, angrily.

“Sir,” said the boy, “you tried to make me false to my trust, and wanted me to break my word to my master; how do I know that you would keep your word to me?”

The hunter laughed, for he felt that the lad had fairly cornered him. He said:—

“I see, my lad, that you are a good faithful boy. I will not forget you. Show me

the road, and I will try to make it out myself.”

Gerhardt then offered the contents of his script to the hungry man, who, coarse as it was, ate it gladly. Presently his attendants came up, and then Gerhardt, to his surprise, found that the hunter was the grand duke, who owned all the country around. The duke was so pleased with the boy’s honesty that he sent for him shortly after that, and had him educated. In after years Gerhardt became a very great and powerful man, but he remained honest and true to his dying day.

TRUTH.

The worth of truth no tongue can tell, ’Twill do to buy, but not to sell. Truth like a diamond shines most fair, More worth than pearls or rubies are; More rich than gold or silver coin, Oh may it always in us shine. Oh happy they who in their youth, Are brought to know and love the truth; For none but those whom truth makes free, Can e’er enjoy true liberty. Truth like a girdle let us wear, And always keep it clean and fair; And never let the tale be told, That truth by us was ever sold.”

THE SIGN BOARD.

EVERYBODY liked Tom Hall, and everybody was sorry for him. It was sad to see such a fine young man a victim to drunkenness, and Tom had fallen into the mocker’s power unwittingly, it seems. A new spirit shop had been opened close to the foundry at which he worked, and he, along with others, was in the habit of going in for a glass of ale. When the cold weather set in he took something stronger, and he imagined that spirits agreed with him. Tom went on, and the liking for strong drink increased and grew stronger, until at all hours he might be seen staggering out of the “Rainbow,” dizzy and stupified with the drugs of the intoxicating cup.

Tom's was a very sad case. He belonged to a very respectable family, and had been religiously trained, and until he was drawn into the snare he was an affectionate son and brother, and friends counseled and ministers preached and every means were tried to reclaim him, but all effort seemed lost—Tom

was bound hard and fast in the invisible chains of the mocker. His family mourned him as lost and many a silent tear his sister let fall on his tattered garments as she sat darning and patching them.

“Ah, these rents will not darn again!” sighed Jennie, as she turned over Tom’s ragged raiment. In Tom’s better days he had pride, and it was a sad change when he didn’t care who saw him “out at the elbow.”

But somehow Jennie could not find it in her heart to abandon the brother she still loved, and so Tom’s tattered garments were taken up again and made the most of.

“Kindness may win him back,” said Jennie, and when he came home at the worse he was met in peace, if in sorrow.

Just when the trees were beginning to bud with the promise of spring, Tom came home looking thoughtful. He was sober after a long run.

In the last rays of the setting sun his sister was trying to cover some old darns.

Tom sat down beside her, and silently watched the patient fingers for some time.

“That’s tiresome work, Jennie,” he said. His sister held up her seam before him.

“Why, that is a bunch of rags,” said Tom.

“Yes, Tom; and a bunch of rags would be the best sign board that a publican could hang across his door,” said Jennie, sadly.

Tom made no reply; he looked at the rags in silence.

Next morning Tom went back to his work and continued steady for two or three weeks.

He looked in the “Rainbow,” but didn’t go in.

“Hallo! what’s up with Tom Hall?” wondered Sinclair, as he filled up a glass of Tom’s favorite whisky for another customer at the counter.

Sinclair was not the only one who was astonished at the change.

Every day Tom went to his work; every night he came home sober, and after a time he appeared at church on the Sabbath. Then people began to believe Tom was in earnest, and really meant to reform.

“Has Tom Hall really become a teetotaler wondered Sinclair, when a whole month had passed without a visit to the “Rainbow.”

Well, it seemed so, for nothing stronger than water had passed his lips in the shape of drink since that night on which his sister had

shown him the bunch of rags. “I’ll have a talk with Tom and learn how he got off the scent, though,” Sinclair resolved.

An opportunity came sooner than he expected. In the beginning of summer a terrific thunder-storm passed over Airlie and among a general devastation, Sinclair’s sign board was shivered to atoms.

Tom happened to be passing the “Rainbow” next morning, and stopped to glance up at the old mark.

“Fine work here,” remarked Mr. Sinclair, who was standing in his door, “the storm’s done for us, and I’ll have to get a new sign board.”

“Is it so bad as that?” said Tom.

“Yes, the ‘Rainbow’ is in shivers,” said Mr. Sinclair.

“Then you’ll want a new sign board,” said Tom.

“Of course; isn’t that what I’m telling you?”

“Is it to be the ‘Rainbow’ again?” asked Tom.

“I suppose so,” answered Mr. Sinclair, “unless you can give a new idea, Tom,” continued he.

“I think I can,” returned Tom; “but I must go home first.”

“Don’t forget, though,” said Mr. Sinclair.

“You’re a stranger, now-a-days, by the by, Tom.”

“I won’t be long,” cried Tom, and with a brisk step he walked down the street.

A better sign board than “The Rainbow” Mr. Sinclair did not expect to get; he was only joking with Tom Hall, and he raised his eyebrows when Tom made his appearance, with a bundle under his arm, and requested him to look at the new sign board.

“I didn’t think you would catch me up; but step in, Tom, and let me see your idea.”

Tom gravely untied his bundle, and held up a bunch of rags before the publican’s astonished eyes.

“What do you mean, Tom?” asked Mr. Sinclair, feeling confident Tom had lost his senses.

“You want a new sign board, don’t you?” said Tom.

“Well, what has a bunch of rags got to do with that?” said Mr. Sinclair.

“Ask yourself, sir, if a bunch of rags is not the best sign board that can hang across the publican’s door,” said Tom, and his lip quivered.

“Was it that bunch of rags that made you a teetotaler, Tom?” said Mr. Sinclair, more confused than he liked to confess.

“It was one of the means, sir,” answered Tom, “and, perhaps, poor wretches, seeing there the end of drink, may bless you for the sign board.”

Tom walked away to his work, and Mr. S. went back to his counter, but all day the bunch of rags troubled him.

It, was a busy day, but every new comer seemed more deplorably wretched and worse off than the last served. He was thankful when night came.

The last customer was a woman literally covered with rags. A little infant sat on her arm. It was crying with the cold!

“Go home and put clothes on your child,” said Mr. Sinclair, flinging back the money the woman had laid down.

“I have nothing but rags,” said the woman.

“Tom is right,” said Mr. Sinclair, as he locked his door; “the end of drink is misery and rags, and the man who has a taste for that sort of thing may put his name on the new sign board!”