Earlier text: Its wonderful Efficacy in changing the Lives of his Master and Mistress.

A SMILE FOR HOME.

“Take that home with you, my dear,” said Mrs. Lewis, her manner half smiling, half serious.

“Take what home, Carrie?” and Mr. Lewis turned toward his wife curiously.

Now, Mrs. Lewis had spoken from the moment’s impulse, and already partly regretted her remark.

“Take what home?” repeated her husband; “I don’t understand you.”

“That smiling face you turned upon Mr. Edwards, when you answered his question just now.”

Mr. Lewis slightly averted his head, and walked on in silence. They had called in at the store of Mr. Edwards to purchase a few articles, and were now on their way home. There was no smile on the face of Mr. Lewis now, but a grave expression instead,—grave almost to sternness. The words of his wife had taken him altogether by surprise; and though lightly spoken, jarred upon his ears.

The truth was, Mr. Lewis, like a great (355)

many other men who have their own business cares and troubles, was in the habit of bringing home, and too often, a clouded face. It was in vain that his wife and children looked into that face for sunshine, or listened to his words for tones of cheerfulness.

“Take that home with you, dear,”—Mrs. Lewis was already repenting the suggestion, made on the moment’s impulse. Her husband was sensitive to a fault. He could not bear even an implied censure from his wife, and so she had learned to be very guarded in this particular.

“Take that home with you, dear. Ah, me! I wish these words had not been said. There will be darker clouds now, and they were dark enough before! Why can’t Mr. Lewis leave his cares and business behind him, and let us see the old, pleasant, smiling face again! I thought this morning he had forgotten how to smile! but I see that he can smile if he tries. And why don’t he try at home?” So Mrs. Lewis talked to herself, as she moved along by the side of her husband, who had not spoken a word since her reply to his query.

“What then, Carrie?”

Mrs. Lewis almost started at the sound of

her husband’s voice, breaking unexpectedly upon her ear in a softened tone.

“What then?” he repeated, turning toward her, and looking down into her shyly up-turned face.

“It would send warmth and radiance through the whole house,” said Mrs. Lewis, her tones all trembling with feeling.

“It is n’t so easy a thing, to put on a smiling face, Carrie, when thought is oppressed with care.”

“It didn’t seem to require much effort just now,” said Mrs. Lewis, glancing up at her husband with something of an archness in her look.

“You, Carrie, are guilty of a sober face at home as well as your husband.” Mr. Lewis spoke with a tender reproof in his voice.

“But the sober face is caught from yours oftener than you imagine, my husband,” replied Mrs. Lewis.

“Are you certain of that, Carrie?”

“Very certain. You make the sunshine and shadow of your home. Smile upon us; give us cheerful words; enter into our feelings and interests, and there will be no brighter home in all the land. A shadow on your countenance is a vail for my heart; and

the same is true as respects our children.”

Again Mr. Lewis walked on in silence, his face partly averted; and again his wife began to fear she had spoken too freely. But he soon dispelled this impression, for he said,—

“I am glad, Carrie, that you have spoken thus plainly. I only wish that you had done so before. I see how it is; my smiles have been for the outside world,—the world that neither loved nor cared for me,—and my clouded brow for the dear ones at home, for whom thought and care are ever-living activities.”

Mr. and Mrs. Lewis were now at their own door, where they paused a moment, and went in. Instantly on passing his threshold, Mr. Lewis felt the pressure upon him of his usual state. The hue of his feelings began to change. The cheerful, interested exterior put on for those he met in business intercourse began rapidly to change, and a sober hue to succeed. Like most business men, his desire for profitable results was ever far in advance of the slow evolutions of trade; and his daily history was a history of disappointments, in some measure dependent upon

his restless anticipations. He was not willing to work and to wait, as he should be; and, like many of his class, neglected the pearls that lay here and there along his life-paths, because the best were inferior in value to those he hoped to find just a little way in advance. The consequence was, that, when the day’s business was over, his mind fell into a brooding state, and lingered over its disappointments, or looked forward with failing hope into the future—for hope in many things had long been deferred. And so he rarely had smiles for his home.

“Take that home with you, dear,” whispered Mrs. Lewis, as they moved along the passage, and before they had joined the family.

The warning was just in time.

“Thank you for the words,” said he, “I will not forget them.”

And he did not; but at once rallied himself, and, to the glad surprise of Jennie, Will, and Mary, met them with a new face, covered with fatherly smiles, and with pleasant questions in pleasant tones of their day’s employments. The feelings of children move in quick transitions. They had not expected a greeting like this; but the response was

immediate. Little Jennie climbed into her father’s arms. Will came and stood by his chair, answering in lively tones his questions, while Mary, older by a few years than either of the others, leaned against her father’s shoulder and laid her white hand upon his head, smoothing back the dark hair, just showing a little frost, from his broad, manly temples.

A pleasant group was this for the eyes of Mrs. Lewis as she came forth to the sitting-room, from her chamber where she had gone to lay off her bonnet and shawl and change her dress. Well did her husband understand the meaning look she gave him; and warmly did her heart respond to the smile he threw back to her.

“Words fitly spoken are like apples of gold in pictures of silver,” said Mr. Lewis, speaking to her as she came in.

“What do you mean by that?” asked Mary, looking curiously into her father’s face.

“Mother understands,” replied Mr. Lewis.

“Something pleasant must have happened,” said Mary, “you and mother look so happy.”

“And we have cause to be happy,” answered the father, as he drew his arm tightly

around her, “in having three such good children.”

Mary laid her cheek to his and whispered, “If you are smiling and happy, dear father, home will be like Heaven.”

Mr. Lewis kissed her, but did not reply. He felt a rebuke in her words. But the rebuke only gave a new strength to his purpose.

“Don’t distribute all your smiles. Keep a few of the warmest and brightest for home,” said Mrs. Lewis, as she parted with her husband the next morning.

He kissed her, but did not promise. The smiles were kept, however, and evening saw them, though not for the outside world. Other and many evenings saw the same cheerful smiles, and the same happy home. And was not Mr. Lewis a better and happier man? Of course he was. And so would all men be if they would take home with them the smiling aspect with which they meet their fellow-men in business intercourse, or exchange words in passing compliments. Take your smiles and cheerful words home with you, husbands, fathers, and brothers. Your hearths are dark and cold without them.

SAD RESULT OF DIME NOVELS.

It was a bright summer morning during the dark days of the rebellion, when Robert Goode, with the morning paper in his hand, rushed into his young wife’s room, exclaiming, “Lida, dear, there is a call for more men, and I must now go, for our country needs every man to do his duty. It rends my heart to leave you and our darling boy; but I cannot stay when our beloved country and our dear homes are in peril. I must go and do all I can to defend them, though it may be at the cost of my life.”

Robert Goode was a young man of fine physique and manly bearing. Having a good education and fine business capacities, the future looked very bright for him, yet he was willing to sacrifice them all for his country; but to leave his young wife, with their little boy but three years of age, was a terrible trial to one of his loving nature.

A year in the army told fearfully on his

health, and he was sent home that he might regain his strength; but that great destroyer of so many happy homes—consumption—clung to him; and when the autumn leaves began to fall, Robert saw that his days on earth were numbered.

A beautiful afternoon in October, when the sun was sinking to rest, Robert lay looking out at the open window; his face wore an anxious expression, as he turned and said, “Lida, dear, bring our darling boy to me.” With closed eyes, he held his child long and lovingly; then, as if just waking from a dream, he said, “Before I am too weak to talk, I want you to promise me, dear, that you will train our darling boy for a life of usefulness. He is the pledge of love, that God has given us, and as my earthly course is about to terminate, it will rest on you to train this precious gift alone. Promise me now, darling wife, that you will shield him from harm and keep him pure. To do this, you will be obliged to keep him from bad company and bad influences of all kinds.”

Lida promised, and before the week closed Robert Goode was sleeping the last long

sleep that knows no waking, until that great day when all the dead shall rise.

Neither Lida nor Robert had parents living; but she accepted the invitation of a near relative to take little Robbie and make their home with them. These friends were gay, and, after a time, Lida became interested in their gayeties, and forgot her sorrow, and neglected her promise, and little Robbie’s training was left to servants.

Robbie grew to be a handsome, bright, but very willful boy, doing as he pleased, regardless of his mother’s wishes. When twelve years of age, he would sit for hours reading the dime novels his mother had laid aside. At fourteen years he refused to go to school, and if his mother would not give him money to purchase dime novels, he would steal it, buy his favorite food, hide away, and read all night.

His reading had taught him contempt for honest labor, or business of any kind. He had made dime novels his companions, until his mind and morals were poisoned by them; and at twenty-one he was sent to the penitentiary for an attempt to murder his own mother for refusing to give him money to

purchase more pernicious reading—sad results, both to mother and son.

The cheap reading of this kind is doing more to destroy the young than all other things combined. The dime novels are like the frogs of Egypt; they are not only in the houses of the servants, but they are found in the parlors and bedchambers of the rich and honorable, and in Christian families; they lie beside the word of God, often on the same table, and, what is more, are read oftener than the Bible.

Parents who will not allow their children to associate with the vicious and degraded, permit them to read this vile trash, forgetting that the books they read will have as much influence over them as the company they keep.

ALL THIS FOR ME.

A GENTLEMAN, a merchant of large fortune, had built for himself a beautiful and costly residence. The grounds were extensive and tastefully laid out, and adorned with arbors and statuary. The building was furnished throughout in a style corresponding with its own elegance, and the fortunate proprietor was duly settled in it with his happy and much-envied family.

It was not long before he was visited by an old friend, recently from California, who had there acquired great wealth, and had returned to the more eastern States to enjoy it. He was shown through the elegant establishment and beautiful grounds, and was so much pleased with the whole that he immediately proposed to purchase the entire property, offering a liberal price.

“No,” said the merchant, “nothing would induce me to sell it. I expended upon its plan much thought, and gave to its execution much careful attention, in order to adapt it, as far as possible, to the convenience and (366)

comfort of my family; and here I expect to spend with them the remainder of my days.” His friend retired, convinced that it was useless to urge the matter.

That evening as the merchant, surrounded by his family, sat in his sumptuous apartment, engaged in family worship, he read the chapter containing that touching declaration of our dear Redeemer respecting his own extreme poverty. “The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head.”

As he read, his attention was arrested as never before by the latter clause, “The Son of man hath not where to lay his head.” He paused and gazed around upon the splendid walls and furniture, and his heart smote him. “All this for me,” he said to himself, “and yet the Son of man had not where to lay his head.” He was greatly troubled. He felt sorely rebuked by his own selfish prodigality. He saw, as never before, that in his case the servant was indeed not as the Master; that he had not only utterly failed to imitate his blessed Lord in the denial of self, but, on the contrary, in all his expenditures was chiefly intent upon his own selfish

gratification. As well as his state of mind would permit, he closed the evening service, and retired to his private apartment.

Here again, as he looked around upon the luxurious couches and various arrangements for comfort, the thought occurred to him, “All this for me, and yet the Son of man had not where to lay his head.” He passed a sleepless night, this one idea constantly revolving in his mind, and rose feverish and unrefreshed.

Descending to his dining-room, as he surveyed the elaborate table furniture and expensive food, his heart again smote him, and he mentally exclaimed, “All this for me, and the Son of man had not where to lay his head.”

He walked forth into his garden. There the rare exotics, the beautiful statuary, the arbored walks, rebuked him as he thought, “All this for me, and yet my divine Lord and Redeemer had not where to lay his head.” He went to his office, but found himself incapable of attending to business, this one thought ever being present to his mind, “The Son of man had not where to lay his head.”

As the day wore on, he became more vividly impressed with the thought of his own unfaithfulness as a steward of God, and his

extreme selfishness in expending so much for himself, and comparatively so little for that dear Saviour who had sacrificed so much for him. He saw that this same selfishness and extravagant expenditure must prove a snare to his soul, estranging him still more from Christ, and greatly increasing that love of the world which already had much too strong a hold upon him.

Toward the close of the day he sent for his friend of the previous evening, and said to him, “Sir, were you in earnest in offering me the sum you did for my residence?” “Yes,” said his friend, “I should be happy to purchase it.” “Then,” said the merchant, “the place is yours. I dare not keep it, for the Son of man had not where to lay his head.”

The property was soon transferred, and a comfortable but far more humble residence secured, into which the merchant and his family cheerfully removed.

The large sum received for the splendid mansion was as cheerfully given to that Redeemer, “who had not where to lay his head,” now far more precious, from a new and wonderful manifestation of his love, filling the soul with a peace and joy before unknown.

WHAT HAST THOU DONE FOR CHRIST?

GAVE my life for thee, My precious blood I shed, That thou mightst ransomed be, And quickened from the dead. I gave, I gave my life for thee; What hast thou given for me?

My Father’s house of light, My glory-circled throne, I left for earthly night, For wanderings sad and lone. I left, I left it all for thee; Hast thou left aught for me?

And I have brought to thee, Down from my home above, Salvation full and free, My pardon and my love; I bring, I bring rich gifts to thee; What hast thou brought to me?

Oh! let thy life be given, Thy years that yet remain, World-fetters all be riven, Give me thy joy and pain; Give thou, give thou thyself to me, And I will welcome thee.

POOR UNCLE SI.

I SHALL never forget that bright, sunny afternoon, when my father stood looking down at us, my two brothers and myself.

We had been planning, with great glee, how we would dress up some dark night, and in the character of ghosts, frighten a certain timid school-fellow of ours.

“It will be jolly fun, boys, I can tell you!” I exclaimed, with a shout of laughter at the idea.

“Jolly fun to you, Harry, but what will it be to him?” asked a deep, reproachful voice from the doorway, and glancing up, there stood our father, with a pained look on his face.

It was a new idea! It would be fun to us, but what would it be to him, the poor unoffending boy we were planning to frighten so cruelly?

We had never thought of that side of the question at all; boys, ay, and men too, are apt to look at one side only, and that side the one that pleases themselves the most.

Our father stood a moment in thought, and then he came into the room and sat down.

“My sons,” he said, “I see the time has come for me to tell you a story of the long ago, when I was a boy, so full of life and fun, that, like you, I did not stop to think whether my fun might not be just the opposite to some one else.”

He paused awhile, and a sad, pained shadow crept over his face, a look I had often seen there, and learned to connect with a certain man who dwelt in a little cottage near by.

He was a large, strong man, about our father’s age, but alas! the light of his life, his reason, had gone out forever; he was a lunatic, gentle and harmless, and for the most part cheerful and playful, but there were times when he would fall prone on the floor, quivering with terror, and shrieking out wild appeals to be saved from the ghosts that were about to seize him.

My father often visited this poor fellow, “poor Uncle Si,” we boys called him, and on a few occasions he had taken me, his eldest boy, with him; he never went with empty hands, but always carried some little gift, a picture-book, candy, cake, or a toy; and even

at such times I noted that weary, sad expression creep over my father’s usually cheerful face, and remain there like a cloud, long after our return home. I knew, too, that it was he, who, with my uncle John’s assistance, paid the rent of the lunatic’s cottage, clothed him, and provided for the old woman who lived with and took care of him.

And sorely had all this puzzled me, for I knew that “Uncle Si” was in no wise related to my father or mother, and that the money expended in his support could ill be spared for that purpose.

Often my father had promised to tell me the story “when the right time should come;” and it had come now, it seemed, for the first words were of “Uncle Si.”

“My boys,” he said, “I am going now to tell you the story of Uncle Si, and it is the saddest story of my life. When you have heard it, you will know why I think it my duty to tell it to you just now.

“I would give ten years of my life if I had no such story to tell. But it is my cross, and one of my own making, so I must bear it patiently as my punishment. When I was a boy going to school, there was among my

school-mates a bright little fellow, a good scholar, but a very nervous, timid boy. His mother was a poor woman, who worked hard to support herself and him, and it was her greatest ambition to see him win his way up in the world.

“We all liked Silas, he was so gentle; but at the same time, we took advantage of his good temper and his timid nature, and were always playing jokes on him.”

“His mother was an Irish woman, and was full of queer superstitions. There seemed nothing too marvelous for her to credit, and Silas had inherited this superstitious tendency in a great degree.”

“We boys soon found out his weakness, and nothing pleased us more than after the afternoon session was over, to sit on the school-house steps and vie with each other in inventing the most outrageous and startling stories of ghosts, robbers, and murderers. Si would listen, with his blue eyes almost starting from their sockets, and his cheeks turning white and red, finally becoming excited to such a pitch that he would jump at every sudden noise, the slamming of a door, or the stamping of a foot on the pavement.”

“One afternoon we had been indulging in our favorite amusement until the sun had almost gone down, and darkness began to steal across the fields and woods around us.

“Oh, what shall I do!” exclaimed Silas, looking fearfully around. “I must go over to Farmer Brown’s before I go home, and it will be dark before I can get back.”

“To Farmer Brown’s!” said I, winking at the other boys; “then you’ll have to cross the old bridge over Long Pond, Si, and they say that the ghost of the woman who drowned herself there haunts it after nightfall; that’s only on the anniversary of her death, though, so—but I say, boys, what day of the month is this?”

“The tenth,” was the answer.

“I drew in my lips in a long whistle, and looked hard at Silas.

“Then I’m glad I don’t have to go that way to-night,” I muttered in a low tone, yet not so low but that he heard me, as I meant he should.

“Why, why?” he stammered, turning white as a sheet; ‘is it—’

“Yes, it is, since you must know. But do not be afraid, old fellow, I don’t believe

the story, anyhow. Who ever heard of a ghost with fiery ribs and fiery spots all over his face? Pshaw, it’s all humbug.”

“But poor Silas was thoroughly alarmed; indeed, I intended he should be, and thought his terror fine sport, or rather the beginning of some fine sport, for I had made up a plan of which this was only the prelude.

“While Silas hesitated, divided between the fear of meeting the ghost and the certainty of a whipping if he did not perform his errand, I called my brother John aside, and in a hurried whisper told him of my plan, which we decided to keep to ourselves.”

“As a result, John proposed to accompany Silas on his errand, an offer the poor fellow gratefully accepted, and so they set off together, and the rest of our party started for home.

“I made some excuse to turn off before I reached my own home, and ran with all speed to the drug store, where I bought a stick of phosphorus; then I darted home, and succeeded in getting possession of a small sheet, and in slipping off again unnoticed.”

“Very soon I found myself at the bridge, and there, hidden behind a bush, I proceeded

to trace over my dark jacket the outline of skeleton ribs; and very startling they looked, —the white, glowing lines shining out clear and distinct through the darkness, for by this time it was entirely dark. Then I put some of the phosphorus on my hands and face, and wrapped the sheet around my waist, leaving it to trail behind me.

“Thus prepared, I posted myself a few yards beyond the bridge, on the side the boys would reach first on their return path.

“Soon, I heard Silas’s voice.

“Oh, John, I’m afraid, I’m afraid.”

‘Nonsense,’ answered my brother. ‘The idea of a ghost! I only wish there was such a thing. I’d like to see one.’

“Oh, don’t, don’t say that. Oh, oh!”

“Such a cry of intense, utter horror I hope never to hear again; and as Silas uttered it, he fell all in a heap on the ground. John, according to our agreement, shrieked also and started to run, as if terribly frightened. An instant Silas lay there, and my heart gave a great leap. Was he dead? Had I killed him? But no, my boys, I had done nothing so merciful as that.”

Silas sprang to his feet again, and uttering

shriek after shriek, rushed headlong down the road toward the bridge. By this time, seeing how terribly in earnest he was, I began to think that my fun had gone quite far enough, so I followed at full speed, calling out to him that it was all a joke and no ghost at all.

“But he never heeded a word I uttered; on and on he ran, shrieking all the way, until he reached the bridge, and there, to my horror, he sprang with one leap over the wall down into the soft, slimy mud and water at the margin of the pond.

“John had turned back, and tearing loose the sheet from around my waist, I rushed with him down the steep bank to the spot where Silas was. There was more mud than water just there, as we well knew, and the force of his descent had sent him down into the deep, yielding slime, until only his head and shoulders were above the surface, and to our further alarm we saw that he was slowly sinking down, down, down.”

“Something must be done, and that speedily, or he would be buried alive before our eyes. Some heavy planks were lying on the shore, and seizing these we dragged them out

into the mud until we had formed a line reaching to the spot where poor Silas was still shrieking, ‘The ghost! the ghost! the ghost!’

“How we two boys contrived to drag him out of that oozing slime I cannot understand. But we did it somehow, and between us we got him back home, though he broke away from us several times with the old cry of ‘The ghost!’

“He was very ill for weeks after that, and when his body got well the doctors said his mind would never come back again, and from that time to this he has been just as you see him now.”

“As long as his unhappy mother lived, your Uncle John and I helped her to take care of him, and ever since her death, long years ago, we have entirely supported the miserable victim of our cruel ‘fun,’ though it was more my sin than your uncle’s, for I was the ringleader.”

“My sons, that piece of thoughtless ‘fun’ has saddened my whole life and clouded its brightest moments.”

My father ended his story, and sat looking down at our awe-struck faces as we murmured in sorrowful tones,—