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N THE approach of Easter I am always
reminded of one memorable Easter Day
in my life. My father was a rich man,
and we lived in a large city. I had been
going much into society after my debut,
on my eighteenth birthday. At first
I was carried away in the whirl of plea
sure, and spent my days and evenings
at entertainments and in the company
O
of frivolous people, whose only thoughts were of
dress and amusements. After awhile, I discovered
how little of true good was to be had among per
sons like these. I found out how insincere and sel
fish many of them were, and I felt that I was
growing like them. I longed for a more satisfy
ing kind of life.
With my parents, I attended a fashionable church
where the singing was done by a paid choir, and
the minister was almost as worldly minded as some
of his flock. There was a small brown church
not far from my home, before whose door I often
stopped for a moment to listen to the singing by
the congregation of sw T eet old hymns, such as I
remembered hearing my grandmother sing as she
sat knitting on the porch of her little home in the
country.
Once, when I was about to pass the little church,
I hesitated, and, yielding to an irresistible impulse,
I went in and took my seat on one of the plain,
uncushioned benches near the door. I was greatly
impressed by the heartfelt earnestness of the young
minister, and the sweetness of his voice. I did not
wait to seek hi£ acquaintance, but left the church
as soon as service was over.
The next Sunday was Easter, and when I heard
the rich chimes of the bells in our fashionable
church, I suddenly felt that I wanted to hear an
Easter service in the little brown church. I had an
elaborate dress .made especially for Easter, but when
I took it out, I decided that its gay frills and laces
would not accord with the plain dress worn by
the members of the little church. I put it back in the
drawer and wore instead a simple dress of white
linen lawn and a straw hat trimmed with lilies
of the valley.
The singing had begun when I reached the church.
I was given one of the Psalm books and I had
the pleasure of joining my voice with the others
in the beautiful old hymn, “How Firm a Founda
tion.” The sermon was on brotherly love and char
ity—“ Greatest of all is charity”—which in the sense
used, means love. The minister’s fine face lighted
as with inspiration, when he spoke of Christ s mis
sion of love, ending in sublime sacrifice. He told
of the poor people in the slums, whose hearts were
starved for the food of love and whose souls longed,
vainly, for beauty —for “something better than they
had known.”
After service was over, several of the women of
the congregation spoke to me, welcoming me to the
church, and an old lady who knew me introduced
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The Golden Age for March 24, 1910.
me to the young minister. I told him that his sermon
had set me wishing I could be of some help to the
poor people he had spoken of. When I left the
church I found that his way lay in the direction
of my own home, and. he walked on beside me.
When we had gone a short distance, we were over
taken by a boy in patched clothes and broken
shoes, who, lifting his faded cap, told the minister
that his sister had sent him to ask that the preacher
would come to see their mother, who was worse.
***"** •******■"'***"* , *^" x '*'“•*"*
I The Tlessage of the Hells.
( Sy Mary E. Sryan.
| The sacrifice was ended, Christ was gone;
I The night of agony could have no dawn.
The Roman watch was set, they rolled the stone
To the great cave where Jesus slept alone. '
His followers mourned Him in the garden dim —
Their faith and courage all had fled with Him. \
( He, whose least word had been a bugle’s breath y
/ Lay silent in the sepulcher of death.
V And hope was done. Was He not crucified, j
( Had He not cried, “’Tis finished,” ere He died. )
( But oh! what marvel! See the rock-bound prison
Ij' Is burst asunder, and “The Lord is risen,”
y Angels affirm, at that forsaken tomb.
( Around it, see! now white the lilies bloom;
| The grave is conquered. Death forever slain.
\ Forever more the living Christ shall reign.
C Centuries have flown, yet still our sopls aspire
4 When breaks the Easter morn’ in rosy fire, ;
| Gilding each hill and roof and temple spire.
( And hark! What music swells, ,
( Far over town and dells, y
! It is the Easter bells,
Like wings their notes aspire,
( Rising and floating higher.
( Their voice afar, the mystic story tells, ■ ;
I’C Death is but change, it does not slay the soul, / y
The soul shall live while countless ages roll; / j
For lo! the Master bursts the grave’s control. \
Clear, high, the message swells, '
( As swing the Easter bells.
“I will come at once,” he said, and when the boy
had walked away, he told me of the woman’s piti
ful case; how she had broken down through hard
work, and was ill with a low, nervous fever, that
was gradually sapping her life. Medicine seemed
to do her little good. She had known better days,
and more refined surroundings. She seemed dying
of hopelessness and lay in a kind of weary stupor.
“May I go with you to see her?” I asked.
He smiled and said: “I shall be very glad to have
you go. You may do her some good.”
We stopped before the entrance of my home and
I went in to tell my mother that I was going with
the minister to see a sick woman. She looked
surprised, but made no objection. Passing through
the hall, on my way out, I noticed a large vase filled
with freshly gathered Easter lilies and stopping be
side it,- I took the finest flower from the vase —a
thick long stalk, weighted with three beautiful open
lilies and three exquisite buds, among clustering
green foliage.
The home of the sick woman was in a squalid
quarter of the city, on the fourth floor of a tall,
rickety old tenement house. She lay on a cot in
a miserably bare room. Two small unhealthy work
ing children and a girl about grown, together with
the boy who had brought the message to the min
ister, were in the room. The woman lay perfectly
still with half opened eyes. Now and then a deep
sigh escaped her lips. The children exclaimed with
delight when they saw the lilies. They brought a
broken pitcher and half filling it with water, I put
the lilies in it and set the pitcher on a table close
to the sick woman’s cot.
I think the delicate fragrance reached her senses.
A quiver passed over her face; she lifted her lids and
her look rested on the lilies. A flash of pleasure
lit up the dull eyes. She put out her thin hand and
said faintly, “Beautiful! Let me touch them.” I
took the stalk from the pitcher and gave it to her.
She put it to her face, and as the fresh fragrant
petals caressed her cheek, she smiled with such
an .expression of delight as brought tears to my
eyes.
After a while, she gave the lilies back to me, say
ing, “Put them where I can look at them all the
time.”
After this she took several spoonfuls of soup from
my hand, and then sank into a calm, natural sleep.
The next day she was better, and she continued
to improve.
This was my first mission work, but it was
by no means the last. I found more pure happiness
in ministering to these poor people and in teaching
the children and showing them how to keep them
selves and their homes and clean, than I had
ever found in attending society functions.
Two years later, after overcoming the opposition
of my parents to my making so poor a match in a
worldly point of view, I became the wife of the
pastor of the little brown church. We were married
one beautiful Easter morning, thus making that
sacred day doubly dear to me. I have had a happy
and useful life, as the companion and helper of a
noble, Christian worker.
THOUGHTS FROM MR. BRYAN.
God has indissolubly linked together an upright
life and a happy, successful life.
Do not envy a man that does evil; it is like envy
ing the happiness of a horse-thief between the theft
and the arrival of the sherin.
When God makes our happiness depend upon what
we do for others, he puts it in our own keeping; and
it is our own fault if we are miserable.
What we need in this country is a conscience that
will make a man quit a business that is dishonest.
