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somersaults, and performed all man
ner of wonderful feats. Then they
were all convicts in prison, and Rob
came and preached them a sermon.
This was the sermon:
“My brothren —”
“People in jail aren’t brothren,” said
Laura, looking up from her book.
“Oh, yes, they are,” said Rob:
“brothren is just a kind of preach
word, and means everybody but the
minister —My brothern, folks ought to
be good, and not steal things, and
quarrel, and get angry. When you be
gin to be bad, you can’t tell how bad
you may get to be The minister
knows of a boy that begun by wouldn’t
let his brother take his skates when
he didn’t need ’em all himself, and he
grew up so’t that he set a house afire.”
“Is that true, Robby?” asked Fred,
with very eyes.
“Course not; that’s a ’lustration
Sermons are true, and ’lustrations are
just to make you understand ’em. Now,
my brothren, you mustn’t steal, or do
any more bad things, ’cause you can’t
do it any way, and if you try to get
out, they’ll shoot you.”
The convicts now marched back to
their cells under the sofa. Rob lay
upon the carpet, with his arms under
his head, and said, very gravely,
“When I am a man, I shall be a min
ister.”
“I thought you were going to be an
engineer,” said Laura.
“Well, p’raps I shall. Cars don’t run
on Sunday, and I could think up my
sermons all the week, and then go and
preach ’em.”
“Oh, you can’t make sermons just
thinking them up on an engine,” said
Laura, positively; “you have to do ’em
in a study with books and writing.”
“I could,” persisted Rob; “I shall say
my sermons like Mr. Challis, and I
know lots of texts.”
Laura looked at papa, who was smil
ing at them over the top of his paper,
and asked, doubtfully, “Could he,
papa?”
“I suppose he could,” said papa.
“But I thought ministers had to be
just ministers, and not part something
else.”
“I know of a boy,” said papa, “who
preaches first-rate sermons, and he
does a great many other things—goes
to school, brings in wood, takes care
of a horse.”
“Me, papa?” asked Rob.
Papa laughed and shook his head.
“He preaches them to people on the
street; he preached one to me to
night.”
“Oh!” said Laura, and Rob sat
straight up and looked at papa.
“He preaches them with a shovel.”
Rob laughed heartily at this, and
Laura looked more puzzled than ever.
Fred came and leaned his arms on
papa’s knee.
“Now, papa,” he asked, “how could
anybody preach with a shovel?”
“I will tell you,” said papa. “All
through this month of snowy weather
there has been one hundred feet on
Beech street of clear, clean footpath.
No matter how early I go down town,
it is always the same —clean to the
very edge of the walk. People pick
their way through the slush, or wade
through the drifts, or follow the nar
row, crooked path the rest of the way;
but when they come to this place,
they stamp their feet, and stand up
straight, and draw a long breath. It
makes you feel rested just to look at
it. The boy that keeps that sidewalk
clean preaches a sermon with his
shovel. It is a sermon on doing things
promptly without delaying; a sermon
on sticking to things day after day
without wearying; a sermon on doing
your own part without waiting for oth
er people to do theirs.”
“Maybe a man does it,” said Rob.
“No, it is a boy; I have seen him at
it. I saw him one day when it was
snowing very fast, and I said: ‘Why
do you clean your walk now? It will
soon be as bad as ever.’ ‘Yes, sir,’
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said he, ‘but this snow will be out of
the way. I can brush it off now eas
ily, but when it is tramped down it
makes hard work.’ I call that a first
late sermon, and every one who does
his work in his very best way preach
es a sermon to all around him.”
The bell rang, and somebody called
papa away, but Rob kept thinking of
the little crooked, narrow path he had
made to the barn and well, and what
a stingy little pile of kindlings he had
split for the kitchen, and he made up
his mind he would try and preach a
sermon with the shovel the next day.
Laura saw that her mother had laid
aside her own book to show some pic
tures to little Nell.
“That’s what mamma is always do
ing,” she thought, “preaching sermons
about loving other people better than
yourself; I guess I’ll preach one about
‘Do unto others;’” and Laura left her
story and amused her little sister un
til her blue eyes were too sleepy even
for smiles.
The next day Rob widened his path
and shoveled it clear down to the firm
ground, and then he called Fred to
admire it.
“It’s nice,” said Fred; “I guess it’s
as nice as that sermon boy could make.
’Spose’n we go and shovel a path for
Mrs. Ranney.”
“Come on,” said Rob; “that’ll be a
sermon about —about —I wonder about
what?”
“Being kind,” said Fred; “but I don’t
know what the text for it is, unless
it’s ‘Love one another.’ ”
“That’s a pretty good text,” said
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Rob, “that fits to most anything
good.”
*
MOLLY’S PARTY.
Beth and Molly were neighbors, and
there was a high wall between their
father’s gardens. Molly had her play
house on one side of the wall, and
Beth had hers on the other side. Mol
ly’s house was full of pretty pink dish
es, and Beth had a little stove, with
kettles and saucepans.
“I’ll be Bridget, and cook,” said
Beth, ‘and you be Mrs. Spreadeagle,
and give a party.”
“Oh, yes!” said Molly, arranging her
cups and saucers.
“And you must call through the
dumbwaiter,” went on Beth, “and say,
‘Bridget, make some tooty sooty cream
and a Charlotte Ruche immediately!”
“I’ll be the dumb-waiter, and pass
over your things,” said Jack, seating
himself on the wall.
“All right;” said Molly. “O Bridg
et,” she shouted, “make some two
footed cream!”
“Yes, mum!” called Bridget, putting
a cake in her basket. She handed the
basket to Jack, and Jack handed it to
Molly.
But, alas! when Mrs. Spreadeagle
looked into the basket, it was empty,
and on top of the wall sat the dumb
waiter, munching the cake.
Naughty Jack was a little ashamed,
“Your cream must have melted,
mum,” he suggested. “Better try
again.”
So they sent up the basket again,
and this time it brought down three
enormous red and yellow apples from
Jack’s big pockets.
“O Jack, you are good!” cried Molly.
“You can have a piece of my party.”
So Mrs. Spreadeagle, Bridget and
the dumwaiter sat down together, and
a jollier party was never seen. —The
Youth’s Companion.
*
A NEGRO JURY’S VERDICT.
A prominent lawyer in the Real Es
tate Trust building, who has just re
turned to Philadelphia from a South
ern trip, says The Philadelphia Times,
tells of the following verdict which
was reached by a jury impaneled by
the coroner to determine the causes
of the death of a negro.
w a Headaches. -*■ Headaches. Headaches.
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“We, the undersigned, bein’ a coro
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now dead and gone afore, hab been
sittin’ on de said nigger aforesaid, and
find dat de same died on de 14 day ob
December, come to death by failin’
from de bridge ober de ribber and
broken his neck where we find he was
subsequently drowned and afterwards
washed to de ribber side where we
supposed he was frozed to death.”
*
The Sunday School class was sing
ing “I Want to be an Angel.” “Why
don’t you sing louder, Bobby?”
“I’m singing as loud as I feel,” ex
plained Bobby.—Delineator.
*
He —“I suppose you will erect a
handsome monument to your hus
band’s memory?”
The Widow —“To his memory? Why,
poor John hadn’t any. I found his
pockets full of letters I’d given him to
post.”
Be Your Own Judge.
One of the peculiarities of the
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13
