Katharine's yesterday, and other Christian endeavor stories

Contents

PAGE

Introductory Chapter. — One Day— o

Chap. I. “The World is made of Sawdust” .... 16

II. Difference.23

III. Rest.31

IV. “Come 39

V. Work.47

VI. Bait.54

VII. A New Law.61

VIII. To-morrow.68

Some Peculiar People in Our Society. 93

Chap. I. Praying for a Visitor.113

II. “ Nobody goes to New York in July ” . . . 120

III. Endeavor on the Cars.128

IV. Her First Meeting.137

V. The Consecration Meeting.146

Why Adelaide stayed Home from the Convention —

Chap. I. The Mother in Montreal.157

II. “Inasmuch”.163

III. A Happy Morning’s Work.169

IV. “ Let not Thy Left Hand know ” ..... 176

V. A Comrade in Service.183

CONTENTS.

PA G« t / Pledge-Makers and Pledge-Breakers.223 v Under the Window.337

v The Minister’s Bonnet —

HI. 39 i

AND OTHER STORIES.

KATHARINE’S YESTERDAY.

INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.

ONE DAY.

T HE flowers were all discontented. They had begun to think about themselves. Perhaps it was because it had rained all day when they had not felt particularly thirsty; or because the sun had not shone for them to nod their gay heads in ; or, more likely, for the reason that no one had passed that way for them to cheer and brighten by their presence; and so, having noth¬ ing else to do, and no one, not even a bee or a butterfly, to think upon, they had turned their thoughts toward themselves.

“Oh, dear! ” impatiently cried a tall, thin blade of grass, as he shivered in the wind, “I’m cold and wet clear down to my toes! I don’t see what was the use of more rain. We’ve had enough. I wish I was a violet, so I could wear a purple hood, and use my leaves for an umbrella.”

“ Hem ! ” said a violet contemptuously, peering out of her wet silk hood with a scowl on her sweet face. “ What’s a violet ? If I was going 9

Katharine’s yesterday.

to wish, I’d wish for something worth while. Why don’t you wish to be a rose ? See that great, blushing rose over there in the middle of the garden! Think what talents are hers, and what a life of pleasure-giving she can have! How people admire her! When they come into the garden they pass this corner with, 4 Oh, these are just violets, you know; come over and see the roses.’ I wish I was a rose, I do ! I’m tired of being a violet.” And she shook herself until the raindrops rolled down and dripped from the point of her green umbrella. “Who said rose?” asked a great pink bud, lifting its tear-dewed face for a minute. “ I’d rather be a lily. Peo¬ ple are always talking about my blushing, until I hate myself. I’m quite common. Lilies are stately, they say. They are pure too. I’m sure a lily does more good in a garden than all the roses in the world. Oh, who wouldn’t be a lily ? ”

“ I wouldn’t,” answered a tall, white one promptly. “ I can’t see any use in lilies, anyway. They’re no good in the world. They soil easily; look at my feet all splashed with mud.” And he glanced down at his pale-green stalk with the black earth-marks. “ As for my honey, the bees like the clovers full as well. Then, too, clover can be eaten by animals. Besides, people make clover-top tea. I believe I’d like to be a clover. Clover don’t have to be coddled up in a garden. I just envy the clover ! ”

“Well,” said the clover, looking in between

ONE DAY.

II the rails of the fence, “I’d be glad to change places. I’ve tried hard to get into the garden, but your old gardener always pulls me up. It's tough business, always living out here in the road, with the constant danger hanging over you that any passing horse or cow can chop your head off and shorten your life. I don’t see what clover was made for. There’s the geranium, bright and. warm. People think so much of that they even take it into their houses to help the fire warm the room. They live double lives. I’m nothing but ‘grass of the field,’ and I’m tired of it. I wish I had a little brilliancy.”

“ Geraniums aren’t the happiest flowers in the world by any means,” responded a great red stalk of them. “We have to wear these great red flannel clothes summer and winter; and if by chance any of us get dressed in a pink or white, it’s generally a frail member of the family, who doesn’t live long. Geraniums are hardy, they say, and so they illtreat us ; and we have to bear twice as much knocking round as the roses and lilies. I agree with the violet, that the roses and lilies have the good times. Besides, I have heard that they’ve been noticed in the Bible. It says something about ‘roses of Sharon’ and ‘lilies of the valley.’ That’s a great honor; and, in conse¬ quence, they always get sent to people when they are in trouble, to comfort them, with a verse from the Bible about their names twisted in with them. Whoever heard of the Bible saying anything about

Katharine’s yesterday.

a geranium ? I never get sent to comfort people. Some of our family who dress in white go to funerals occasionally ; but it’s only to fill in, and not because we have any special talent for it. We might as well be dead. I’m tired of it all.”

“ What’s the use of a daisy ? ” said one, in a feeble voice, outside the fence. “ I’m old. I might have died to-day ; but I thought I could keep up for a few hours longer, if I tried, just to cheer somebody in the road, or maybe to kiss the dear pink butterfly that comes to see me every morning. But no one wants a gray-haired daisy; and my petals are quite shabby. Inside the fence are my French cousins, the Margue¬ rites, and they can do better than I. I’m noth¬ ing but a field daisy, and I guess I’ll die. What’s the use of living longer ? ” And he dropped his head in despair.

“Now, if they all talk like that, those great, splendid lilies and roses, and the dear, sweet vio¬ lets, with their gentle faces and winning ways, and the brave daisies and clover and grass, what’s the use of me, just a little dirty, yellow spot in the grass? To be sure, the children like to tell the time by blowing my hair off when it grows white and old ; but what is that in a great world full of talents ? I can’t do anything at all,” said a little dandelion, peering out from her wet and tangled yellow locks, in a discouraged way.

Now, one brave little bird had come to the afternoon rehearsal in the maple by the garden.

ONE DAY.

and, finding herself early, had tucked her water¬ proof about her closely and sat down on a branch to wait for the rest, and she overheard the whole conversation. She sat pondering to her¬ self whether perhaps they were right, until the words of the anthem for the next morning came to her. Then she said, “ What a stupid lot they all are! Why don’t they see that the world must have daisies as well as roses, and that each one would be missed if he failed to do his part? None of these garden flowers can take that old daisy’s work for the last day of his life.”

So she took out her music, and began to practise in such a sweet little chirp that the flowers, who were now moaning and sobbing, stopped to see what this might be that broke into a world of woe so joyously and with such a true ring.

Now, the bird anthem which she was practising was a bird translation of words something like these: —

“Now, there are diversities of gifts,

But the same Spirit;

And there are differences of administration,

But the same Lord.

And there are diversities of operation,

But it is the same God which worketh All and in all.

“ For to one is given by the Spirit The word of wisdom;

To another the word of knowledge,

By the same Spirit;

To another, faith,

By the same Spirit;

H

KATHARINE S YESTERDAY.

To another the gifts of healing,

By the same Spirit.

But all these worketh

That one and the self-same Spirit.”

She had chanted so far when two other birds arrived, and together they went over it again. Then the clear, strong voice of one bird soared forth in a solo : —

“The body is not one member,

But many.

If the foot shall say,

‘ Because I am not the hand I am not of the body,’

Is it therefore not of the body?

If the ear shall say,

‘ Because I am not the eye I am not of the body,’

Is it therefore not of the body ? ”

Then came the chorus; and by this time many more birds had arrived, damp, and out of breath with their hurry, but they joined in : —

“ If the whole body were an eye,

Where were the hearing?

If the whole were hearing,

Where were the smelling?

But now hath God set the members* every one of them,

In the body as it hath pleased him,

Having given more abundant honor To that part which lacked.”

By the time the grand chorus swelled out to its end all the birds from the neighborhood had arrived and joined in ; for the clouds were begin-

ONE DAY.

IS ning to break, and a soft, yellow light was steal¬ ing over everything. The flowers had ceased their sad looks, and were drying their faces in the wind; and as the rehearsal broke up, the grand old withered daisy held his head high and murmured : —

“ Let us covet earnestly the best gifts, but let us do our best with the gift when we get it.”

Katharine’s yesterday.

Chapter I. “the World Is Made Of Sawdust.”

K atharine bowman stood at the front

gate of her father’s house, looking drearily down the road at nothing in particular. The air was crisp and clear, and the sunshine of the early morning was making everything dance and sparkle. All the brilliant red leaves, with their dew-covered faces, came fluttering gayly down with a frosty air, or clanked and clattered against one another, as if to pretend that fall was well on its way and winter would soon be here. Nothing could have looked gayer and more enticing that October morning; the air, the sunshine, the leaves, and the very grass seemed full of delightful possibili¬ ties. Katharine saw them all: the little whirls of white dust down the road ; the purple and blue mists on the distant hills at the end of the street; the big hill, or “ mountain ” as it was called, which loomed up before her just across the meadows, and which s!ie had climbed in company with a gay party of young people only a few days before; saw even a little brisk black-and-tan dog that was twinkling his small feet along the sidewalk in a lively manner, and the cheerful little sparrows,

“the world is made of sawdust.” 17

that hopped in the road, and did not care whether winter came or not; but they none of them gave her any pleasure or sense of joy.

The truth was, the world looked pretty dark to her that morning. She had just come from the depot, where she had watched the morning ex¬ press whizz out of sight, carrying with it half a dozen young people, who had been all in all to her during the whole of the summer which had passed. They had played tennis and croquet, to¬ gether, had read and sung, walked and talked, gone on picnics, taken rides, and, in short, done all the delightful things that a party of congenial, bright, young people can think up to do during a long summer in a country village.

The last delegation of them had gone away this morning; and now only Katharine was left, with all the pleasant places where they had enjoyed themselves together, and dreary enough they looked to her. What was that great hill now, with its waving scarlet foliage and its stores of autumn brilliancy ? Nothing but a hill, which she would not be hired to climb alone. What was the tennis-court, with its clean-shaven smoothness and its clear, white lines, over which played the mirthful sunshine and occasion¬ ally a naughty yellow-and-brown leaf danced ? Nothing- but a desolate reminder of happy days all gone.

Yes, the summer was over and the winter had begun, a whole long winter, full of work i8 Katharine’s yesterday.

and disagreeableness. She remembered the old brown cashmere dress that lay on her table this morning. Her mother had put it there, remind¬ ing her that it should be ripped, sponged, and pressed, to be made over. How she hated made-over things ! She glanced down at the stylish street suit she had on. It would have to be put away and kept only for special occasions, now that there was no more company. Her pretty tennis suit, too, would have no use. Then there was a pile of mending, that had been accumulating during the months when she had given herself over to good times, and what else was there not to be done, day in and day out, this long, barren winter ?

In the house a pile of dishes was awaiting her attention. The servant had gone away for a day or two, and Katharine knew that the dishes would be left until she returned from the station, as her mother was very busy with the dres-smaker. Still she lingered at the gate, dreading to go in and be¬ gin the winter; thinking of the other happy girls who had left her, some to spend their winters in boarding-school, others in their city homes, and the young men, most of them in college or at their business. It must be so nice, she thought, to be in business, and not have to poke at home and wash dishes. She wished she could go to school this winter. Why was it that her father’s business could not have been as good this par¬ ticular winter, just when she would have so en-

“ THE WORLD IS MADE OF SAWDUST.” 19

joyed going to the seminary with Mabel and Fannie ?

Then this young lady drew a long sigh, and turned away from the gate, drawing off her gloves as she went, and moving slowly toward the house. She would not look at the tennis-court as she passed it, and two unhappy tears slipped out and rolled down her cheeks. She did so love tennis ; and now there would be no more until next sum¬ mer. Of course, she could not play alone.

But once in the house there was plenty to be done, and no one else there seemed to have time to think of yesterday.

“ Katharine, I wish you would wash the dishes as soon as possible, and then make a cake. Mrs. Whiting is coming down to stay to tea to-night and go to prayer-meeting, and there isn’t a bit of cake in the house. Make the easiest, quickest kind, and get through as soon as possible. There is a great deal to be done, and I shall need your help this morning.” Her mother said this as she entered the door.

Yesterday, when Katharine had been playing ten¬ nis, Frank Warner, her partner, had watched her several times, and thought what a pleasant expres¬ sion she always had, and what an exceedingly nice girl she was, anyway, for a girl who had been brought up in a small village, and whose father had never been able to give her many advantages. But he would scarcely have known her, I think, if he could have seen her now as she took off her

Katharine’s yesterday.

hat and jacket, with an almost sullen expression on her face, and her brows drawn together in a very inartistic scowl.

There was no time for her to examine the pack¬ age that the girls had given to her at parting, and which she had not had the heart to open before, so she laid it on the table to wait until a leisure moment should come.

9 It seemed to her as though the task of washing all those sticky, ugly-looking dishes was an impos¬ sible one, and likely to prove interminable; and she made it all the harder for herself by continually bringing up to her mind visions of pleasant things that had happened the days before, and discon¬ tentedly wishing those days back once more.

The work of getting the dinner fell mostly upon her shoulders that day, and very reluctantly it was performed. She scowled at everything, and sighed until her brother John told her she sounded like a steam-engine. She told him in reply that he was a saucy, unbrotherly fellow. Then she went to work to make a pudding for dinner which she knew he did not like, just because it took less time than others which he did like ; and things did not matter to her much, anyway, that day. Her heart was all in the past summer, mourning for it and its joys, as one does for a dead friend.

Dinner was over at last, and the dishes washed; but there was no rest yet for Katharine, nor leisure. Indeed, she had so prolonged her work by glooming over it, that it was quite late in the

THE WORLD IS MADE OF SAWDUST.

afternoon before she went up to her little room and began slowly to smooth her hair. Her mother’s voice called from the sewing-room where she had been all day with the dressmaker, “ Katharine, Mrs. Whiting has just turned the corner, and is coming this way. She has come down very early. You will have to go down-stairs and receive and entertain her for a while, until I can come. I am sorry, but I cannot possibly leave this work just now. Do the best you can, dear.”

That was all ; and then the door of the sewing-room shut quickly, and the hurried mother went back to her work, while Katharine scowled harder than ever, and went slowly, crossly, down to the door to welcome old Mrs. Whiting. Her greet¬ ing was by no means cordial ; and her mode of entertaining her was so stiff and disagreeable that the poor lady felt quite ill at ease, until at last the gentle mother came down, and Katharine was set free to attend to the supper.

“ I shall not be able to go to prayer-meeting to¬ night, daughter; I feel one of my nervous head¬ aches coming on, and shall have to go to bed. You can go to the meeting with Mrs. Whiting, dear, can’t you ? ”

This sentence, spoken at the tea-table, with old Mrs. Whiting sitting opposite to her and listening, seemed to Katharine the climax of the ugly day. Of course there was nothing to be said but “Yes” when she was asked before every one; and she thought to herself as she went for her hat and

Katharine’s yesterday.

jacket, “ Is all the winter to be like this, I won¬ der ? Oh, what a contrast to yesterday ! ”

Prayer-meeting seemed the height of dreariness to Katharine to-night. She was never at any time fond of going, and usually got out of it as often as she could. To think of having to sit in that dark little room, where all the lamps smoked and the air smelled strongly of kerosene, and listen to sev¬ eral long prayers and talks by some old men and women ! She recoiled from the idea, and thought, as she had done a dozen times that day, of the evening before, and the merry party that had gathered at one of the pleasant homes in the village for a farewell frolic.

The meeting was not quite as dreary as she had pictured it. More were out than usual, and there was a spirit of earnestness in all that was said that wotild have surprised her if she had not been too much wrapped up in her morbid thoughts to pay any attention to what was going on. But the air was fully as keroseny and dusty as she had ex¬ pected, and she turned up her nose well over it, and wished for the end of the meeting to come.

At last the day was over, and Katharine was seated in her room with the little package in her lap, and leisure to open it. She untied the strings slowly, thinking of the dear friends who had left it, wondering to herself why the summer could not have lasted longer, and why it was that a winter with its hard work must come and put itself in the way.

DIFFERENCE.

HE package proved to be made up of several

JL smaller ones. Each of the girls had remem¬ bered her with some little parting gift, and the several packages were characteristic of the donors. The first contained a dainty pair of undressed kids, well chosen for the one who was to wear them, and in size, shape, and color, perfect. These from Fannie, who enjoyed pretty clothes so much. Next, a small volume of essays from Mabel, the literary member of the gay company. From Frances, the fancy-worker, a small sachet-bag, elaborate in satins of delicate shades and exqui¬ sitely painted bolting-cloth. It looked like Fran¬ ces, and the faint, sweet odor of it reminded one of her. Then from Cousin Hetty was a blank-book, bound in real russia leather, with pockets in the covers, ample pages, dated for each day of the year, and a lovely fountain pen with gold-banded handle. This was to be used as a diary, and to be written in every day, so said a note slipped inside the cover. “ Keep log-notes, you know, Kathie, as they do on shipboard, for us to read next summer when we all come back. And you

Katharine’s yesterday.

must put down your real thoughts too,—your own queer, original ones, — so that we can live your winter over with you next year.”

Katharine curled her lip as she finished reading this note, and her eyes were filled with that gloomy discontent which had shone so plainly all day upon her face. What was there for her to write that the girls would care to live over with her next summer? How would they stand it if they really had to live it with her, or in her place ? It was easy enough for them to write pleasant things that happened, and make them interesting, too, with their lives full of boarding-school and lec¬ tures and concerts, and all sorts of delightful occupations; but what was she to do ? There would be nothing but dishes and ripped-up dresses and dismal prayer-meetings for her to put in the whole long winter through ; and she sighed again, and dropped some bitter tears upon the pretty things in her lap.

But the treasures she was bathing in salt tears were too new and precious to admit of much such treatment, so she wiped her eyes and sat up to ex¬ amine and enjoy them once more. The sachet-bag was admired again, and finally placed in her handkerchief-box, carefully guarded by her finest embroidered handkerchief; the gloves were tried on, and fitted perfectly ; the volume of essays was glanced into, and found to look really quite inter¬ esting ; and then came the diary to be written in; for of course she must try the new pen immedi-

DIFFERENCE.

ately, and the book ought to be started, even if there wasn’t anything to write about. She poised the pen in the air, and drew her forehead together in a thoughtful frown, and then after a few minutes dashed ahead, and began.

“ I must write my thoughts in this book, they say,” she wrote. “ My thoughts for every day; but I have no thoughts that are pleasant to write to-day. My pleasant thoughts are all of yesterday. Oh, if it were back! If I could see the girls once more! If I could live the summer over again! It was so bright and happy! Yesterday the hill looked so lovely, the tennis-court was so delight¬ ful ; and now all have a lonely, don’t-care look. I cannot see the use in a life that is all made up of washing dishes and going to poky prayer-meet¬ ings. Such a life as Mrs. Whiting has! I won¬ der if I shall ever care for it when I get to be an old lady. It doesn’t seem as if I could stand it to be an old lady, anyway. Think of having to come down here to tea, where nobody wants her, in order to get any pleasure! Oh, it is awful! I wonder why people can’t stay young always. I wish I was rich ! I can’t understand why every one can’t be rich. It wouldn’t hurt any one! I am just tired of having only one girl, — and she has to go home every day or two to take care of some sick sister or other, — and ripping up old dresses. I wish I never had to wear another made-over dress. I hate them ! ”

Under this word hate she made a black, crooked

2 6

Katharine’s yesterday.

little flourish, and stopped a moment with a mark just like it puckered into her forehead, and her lips twisted into the shape of the word hate. Then she seemed to realize a little what sort of a spirit she had been showing all day, and what she had put upon the clear, white sheet before her; and she bent her head once more, and wrote : “ Oh, how ugly I am, anyway! I wish I could be different; but I can’t.”

She put the cap on her pen, and with a longdrawn sigh placed it in its little case. But in opening the cover of the book she discovered a small slip of paper. She pulled it out, wondering if it were another note from Hetty. No; it was only a little printed card. The heading caught her eye, — “Difference,” in large letters. It seemed a queer title for anything. She read the first line: —

“ I was poor yesterday, but not to-day.”

She smiled half sneeringly to herself. That wasn’t her case. She might be said to have been rich yesterday, but to-day there was nothing but drudgery and dismal prospects. She read on, to discover why the individual who wrote it was poor no longer : —•

“JTwas poor yesterday, but not to-day j For Jesus came this morning And took the poor away;

And he left the legacy He promised long ago.

So peace and joy and love Through all my being flow.”

A queer feeling took possession of her as she read on with the quaint little poem : —

“ I was tired yesterday, but not to-day .*

I could run and not be weary.

This blessed way;

For I have his strength to stay me,'

With his might my feet are shod.

I can find the resting-places In the promises of God.

A servant yesterday, a child to-day,

A loved one of his household,

Bearing his name alway.

Do you know this blessed difference?

Do you long for this better way?

He will come to you as he came to me.

With the joy of an endless day.”

No, she did not know that difference, and she was not at all sure that she longed for that better way. Indeed, that way did not seem better to her, but it always seemed gloomy and forbidding.

It was the first time in her life that she had ever really taken into her consciousness the thought that there might be joy in the service of Christ to any but very old people who did not expect to live long anyway. There was a charm in the bit of rhyme that made her read it over again ere she put it away. Was it really so that Jesus could take the “poor” and the “tired” away, and leave happiness? Had he promised a legacy to her? What was it ? What were the promises of God, that made themselves into resting-places ? She was tired, and she wished she could feel that way,

2 8

Katharine’s yesterday.

and stop thinking about her yesterday. Somehow even that didn’t look very bright now. There was an uplifting about the thoughts written here that for the moment helped her to realize the compara¬ tive smallness of all other joys'. She put it away in the pocket, and went about her preparations for the night; but serious thoughts of a different kind from any she had ever had before kept coming and going in her mind. At last the light was turned out, and she knelt beside her bed, as was her cus¬ tom, for the few formal words of prayer which she had said every night since she was old enough to lisp the words. There had never been any real heart praying in them. It had been a mere form, gone through without much thought, and more from habit and a superstitious feeling that some¬ thing would go wrong if she omitted it, than form any desire to ask anything from the Father in heaven.