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6 (174) THE
Our Boys
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ALWAYS SUNSHINE SOMEWHERE.
There Is c'.ways sunrise somewhere!
Thoug'i the night be round thee drawn,
Somewhere still the east 's bright'ulng
"With the rosy flush of dawn.
What though near the bat Is flitting,
And the raven croaks his lay,
Somewhere still the sun-b'rd's greeting
Hails the rising of the day.
L.et us lay to heart the comfort
In this sweet reflection found.
That, however dense our darkness,
Somewhere still the world around
Dews are glistening, flowers uplifting,
Wild birds warbling, as reborn,
Lakes, and streams, and woods, and mountains.
Melting in the kiss of morn.
Ne'er was n'ght, however dismal,
But withdrew its wings of gloom;
Ne'er was sorrow, but a day-star
Hinted of the morrow's bloom;
Ne'er was woe, but in its bosom
Was the seed of hope impearled;
There is still a sunrise somewhere.
Speeding, speeding "round the world.
?Selected.
SOME CHILDREN I MET IN THE MOUNTAINS.
BY FANNIE LEE CURDTS.
I sometimes tell the children in my city about
my experience with the mountain children.
They seem interested in their little sisters and
brothers back in the hills and always want to
help them. I thought I would tell the children
who read this paper about our little friends,
too. I know there are plenty of poor children
in our cities to be helped, but don't let's forget
the ones out there.
I met one family that particularly claimed
my sympathy and attention. There were five
children, the oldest seven years and the youngest
only two months. They had just lost their
mother and their father, in an accident, had
had his right hand mutilated. The dear, old
grandmother has unselfishly left her own cabin
over the hill and come to give her feeble help
to the raising of these children.
They were extremely poor, hardly having
enough to eat?in fact nothing much besides
corn-bread. Now, corn-bread is fine for older
children, but not such good fare for an infant,
consequently he was starving. It was
most pitiful.
When I took the little thing, which was hardly
more than a skeleton, in my arms, the tears
just rolled down my face. I had never before
seen such emaciation. A marvel of bones?and
red calico! Neither had I ever before seen an
infant dressed in red calico, but really it would
not have been so bad, had it been clean; the
shade was indescribable. However, it was the
appealing sort of look in those little eyes that
went straight to my heart, it seemed to me
that this helpless little bit of humanity was
imploring kind attention. We did what we
could for it, but I felt that it was past our help.
I have heard since that our Divine Shepherd
has taken this poor little lamb to his
Heavenly fold, for which we can but be thankful.
The grandmother brought the other chil.
dren to see us one day and while Miss H. was
finding suitable clothing to fit each one I undertook
to amuse them. As the simplest way to
amuse children is, generally, to feed them, I
proceeded to hand out cakes and candy at
which they looked in mild and inquiring astonishment,
but after I gave a demonstration, they
teemed to enjoy it
0
PRESBYTERIAN OF THE S(
ft
and Girls
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It did my heart good to see how happy they
were over the things we gave them. I wished
for a picture of the departing family as they
wound their way along that beautiful mountain
trail all laden down with bundles and
boxes and smiling good-bye glances until they
were out of sight. They were as pretty as little
cherubs and their costumes were picturesque,
if not very practical.
There was another family that came to see
us next day who presented such a contrast to
these. There were four of them, two little girls
of six and four, a small boy and the dearest,
sweetest, cleanest little darling of four months.
She had black hair, big blue eyes and slie was
wearing a pink dress, rivalling in brightness
the color of her rosy cheeks. Add to this a
most amiable and intelligent smile and you have
a picture of the little cherub that I hugged and
lugged around all day and hated to give up
when the sun began to sink behind the hill and
they had to hasten on the homeward journey.
Now listen while I tell you about my Sunday
school class?but remember this was the
first time that some of these children had ever
been to Sunday school and if they did not act
exactly right at first they pretty soon learned
and behaved beautifully.
After a stormy night, Sunday morning
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ungiii hiiu ueaunrui?mat is, Dcautifui
overhead, but then one ought not to mind the
mud when the sun is shining. I rose at about
five thirty or six, it is so easy to rise early in
the country, in fact, it is hard not to, I think.
I looked over my lesson papers and entertained
numbers of visitors before breakfast. The
neighbors who didn't actually join us at breakfast
sat around and watched proceedings. They
are so sociable I just love them. "We started
down the hill toward the little chapel with
plenty of time for the journey and gathered up
children as we went. I couldn't resist gathering
some flowers, too; the wild honey-suckle
beckoned so temptingly. One little girl presented
me with a bunch of lovely blue violets,
which she called "chicken-heads," it really
sppitipH tAA liod I
Two long benches of bright, eager faces
awaited me for children don't have to be urged
to attend Sunday school up there, they just
come flocking when teachers visit the chapel.
And you should hear these.little folks sing!
it does one good to hear such whole-souled
praise for their hearts are in perfect tune, if
their voices are not quite.
I had quite a time managing the little ones at
first because in that mountain land we find
the practice of "the survival of the fittest" and
here "might means right." The late comers
walked serenely up and ousted the others while
T was perfectly helpless to interfere?with a
sleeping infant at one shoulder and Buster Bill
the three years old out-law held firmly by one
hand. I was hardly in a position to settle disputes,
however, there was no blood shed and
the lesson proceeded for a while. Then the
grown folks began to arrive for service and
sociability claimed my attention over the back
of the bench.
They were supposed to have service one Sunday
every month. The preacher had to come
twenty miles on horseback and was unable to
reach there that day on account of flooded
streams. So Sunday school just kept on and
> T7 T H I February 21, 1912
on 'till I feared it would rival Tennyson'a
"Brook."
Miss Houston held a sort of impromptu reception
for me and all remained until we drove
off in farmer's wagons at 12:30.
I had announced that I would read to the
children at 4 o'clock that afternoon. Well,
some of them didn't get there until two, but
most came at half past one! You see they
were determined not to be late.
Our cottage would hardly accomodate all
so we went out on the porch and when the
chairs gave out they sat around on the grass.
I spent one of the happiest'afternoons of my
life reading Bible stories and talking to these
children.
They sat long into the May twilight and I
was loth to see them leave even when approaching
darkness warned them to travel the
rough road and often dangerous trail while
they could do so in safety.
Norfolk, Va.
A BAT STORY.
Every one was sitting on the gallery that
evening having the best of times, chatting and
laughing. It had been a decidedly warm day,
especially for a country cottage warranted to
he cool in all weathers, but the sun was down
now, though its departing flush still lingered
in the west and lighted up the faces of the
children clustering about their elders on the
wide veranda. Suddenly a flicker of something
dark seemed to cross one corner of the gallery,
and somebody cried, "Bats!"
"Horrid things. I hate them," said Estelle.
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"What are they like?" asked Bessie.
"Tf I had my air gun, I'd shoot 'em," announced
Robbie, sententiously. .
"Nonsense. You wouldn't shoot a poor little
bat that hadn't done any harm," said Aunt
Cathy.
"How'd you know it hadn't done any
harm?" asked Robbie, defensively.
"Because it couldn't. Bats are gentle little
things that never hurt anybody, and haven't
the least wish to."
"They get in your hair," said Estelle.
"Whose hair did they ever get into?"
"O, anybody's, I 'spose," replied Estelle
vaguely.
"Did you ever know anybody whose hair
they got into?" asked Aunt Cathy.
"N-nn But. thpv mirrllt T nniTT a TirVi
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says they do, and tangle it all up."
"And are you going to condemn them on
mere unproved assertion?"
"But they are uncanny critters, Auntie. You
can't deny that," said long-legged Sid.
"Only because they fly at night, while we
happen to be afraid of the dark," replied Aunt
Cathy.
"They're the most fragile and delicately
fashioned little creatures imaginable, with funny
India-rubber wings, that fold up into nothing,
and tiny hooks on the end to hang themselves
up by."
"They aren't real wings," said Robbie, who
was young enougn to Know everything.
"O, I wish I could see one!" said Bessie.
"Ugh. .I'd scream if it touched me," cried
Estelle.
It was getting dark now, and at the stone
step at the end of the veranda behind Aunt
Cathy's chair there was a quick flutter of something
shadowy. Aunt Cathy edged nearer unobserved,
and at the next moment dexterously
covered with her hand a soft little bundle of
shapeless, .quivering velvet. "See, children,"
she cried. "I have it. I have caught the bat.
Come and look while I spread out its tiny
wings." >