HOW GOLDSMITH AMUSED HIMSELF Before Goldsmith was eight years old, he had developed "the habit of literature." He was scribbling all sorts of things on scraps of paper. He had not yet acquired the habit of getting them into print; he threw them into the fire, as toys of which he was tired. A few were rescued, however, by Mrs. Goldsmith, who, reading them with a mother's delight, perceived that her son was a poet by nature. From that time, she beset her husband with solicitations, to give the boy an education suitable to his genius, and she succeeded. The moral of this story is evident, yet, lest it be missed, another story were better given to make the point by contrast. A busy journalist of to-day who is doing great good with her pen, had, in early life, like Goldsmith, the habit of scribbling on bits of paper. "What a mess you are making!" exclaimed her tidy mother, and tossed the business into the flames. The little girl, feeling that it was a sin to "make stories and poems," struggled against it. Unable to overcome the bent of her nature-to stop doing the thing God had made her to do she scribbled now and then in secret. There was something in her that called her to write as a bird is called to sing; she felt wicked if she did not write; she felt naughty if she did. Her good mother-who meant all for her daughter's best-tried to teach the little lass to knit, to work button-holes, and to crochet mats. The girl tried hard to learn these things-she never did. Thirty years of life were wasted in trying to do what others thought she ought to do. Then fate kindly forcing her to make her own living, she took up her pen and is happy in using it, feeling that at last she is doing the thing God made her to do, and is making others happy by its use. But she is handicapped by her late start in her vocation, and by lack of the preparation and experience that should have been hers in those years which might be called wasted, if it were not true that any effort to perform our duty-however misdirected it seems-is too sacred for us to apply that term to it. Happiness is impossible unless one is true to one's self; unless one is doing his life-work well. Parents, watch your child, study trifles, note in what direction his play, his preferred employments point, that you may set him to find his true life-work. THE HAPPIEST DAY "This is almost more happiness than I can bear! This one day repays me for all I have done!" That is what gray-haired Matthew Vassar said, looking out upon a great company of grateful young women engaged in the joyous. exercises of "Founder's Day at Vassar College. Soon after this, while making an address to the College Board, his paper fluttered from his fingers, his voice ceased, and he was gone to his long rest. But he had seen a supremely happy day! He had opened the way of opportunity to thousands who should come after him! Surely this was enough to give any one "almost more happiness than can be borne." Still, the story would not point a moral if it did not help to show to those who have not great means the way to perfect happiness. It lies in doing all one can to make others happy, to open opportunities for others. If I, without aught else to bestow, but refresh a fainting brother by the cup of cold water given in the name of the Lord, I am entitled to "almost more happiness than my heart can bear," for have I not done my best, and have I not done it as unto my Lord? HOPE Children of yesterday, Heirs of to-morrow, Labor and sorrow? Look to your looms again; Faster and faster Fly the great shuttles Prepared by the Master. Life's in the loom, Room for it-room! Children of yesterday, Heirs of to-morrow, Lighten the labor And sweeten the sorrow, Faster and faster. Up and be at it— At work with the Master. Children of yesterday, Heirs of to-morrow, Look at your fabric Of labor and sorrow, Seamy and dark With despair and disaster, Turn it-and lo, The design of the Master! The Lord's at the loom, Room for him-room!-Mary A. Lathbury. It is a point of wisdom to be silent whenever occasion requires, and better than to speak, though never so well.-Plutarch. THE HAPPINESS OF GIVING "Julian was asking papa," wrote Nathaniel Hawthorne's wife, "for a very expensive toy, and his father told him he was very poor this year, and that it was impossible to buy him everything that struck his fancy. Julian said no more; and when he went to bed he expressed great condolence, and said he would not ask his father for anything if he were so poor, but that he would give him his own money (amounting to five pence half-penny). When he lay down his face shone with a splendor of joy that he was able thus to make his father's affairs assume a brighter aspect. This enormous sum of money, which Julian had intended at Christmas time to devote to buying a toy for baby or for Una, was his all and he could give no more." In the same charming book (Memoirs of Hawthorne, by his daughter) which contains this bit from the home-life of the Hawthornes, Mrs. Hawthorne says: No act of the British people in behalf of the soldiers has struck me as so noble and touching as that of the reformed criminals in an institution in London. They wished to contribute something to the Patriotic Fund. The only way they could do it was by fasting. So from Sunday night till Tuesday morning they ate nothing and the money saved (three pounds and over), was sent to the Fund." Could there be found a sharper contrast in the pleasures of generosity than that between the little boy's purpose to give his all to his father, and the self-denial of the criminals in order that they might contribute to the comforts and necessities of men whom they had never seen-men who were free, and, therefore, better off than themselves? Perhaps there is no joy greater than the joy of giving, no joy more common to all ages, and to all sorts and conditions of men. Everybody is happy in giving, the graybeard and the little child, the pauper and the millionaire. Judging from the magnificent charities of the past decade, there seems on the part of our rich men a perfect passion for giving." Then, on all sides, noble souls who have not money are giving what is more precious-themselves-that the world may be better and happier. The beauty of it all is, that everybody has something to give. Sometimes, a smile or a kind word is worth its weight in gold. THE SECRET OF GOOD CHEER Her world was ever joyous. She thought of grief and pain CHARITY'S JOYS Can we not see how necessary it is that all of us should live with men who are greater than ourselves, and try to share their joys. We cannot afford to shut ourselves up to the value of those things whose value we ourselves are able to discover. Live with enthusiastic, noble men, and you will find the world opening its inspiring delights to you on every side. If charity to you is dull and stupid, if you cannot conceive what pleasure it can give to help the poor, go and put your life as close as possible to that of the most enthusiastic helper of the poor that you can find. Stand where, when he has made a poor man's lot the brighter, and looks around for some one with whom to share his pleasure, his kindling eye shall fall on you. That is the truest way to put yourself at least close to the gate which leads to the delight in charity, even though it be only close to it on the outside. When he turns round and says to you: "Rejoice with me, for I have made an unhappy man rejoice," then it may be that the door will open and you, too, can go in yourself to the delightful service of your fellow-man!-Phillips Brooks. |