Part 3

IT was surprising, how many people were of the same mind that week. The cause of it was lilies. It seemed as if there must have been a convention of lilies held in Fairview at that time, for they were out in full glory.

The tall tiger lilies blazed and glowed in the sunshine; the day lilies opened their white bells, the yellow lilies gleamed like gold, and away down on Silver Lake, lovely pond lilies, cool, and pure, and white, with golden hearts, lay amid broad green leaves.

The people who first got the idea in their heads that it would be nice to put some lilies in the church that week, were very young people. In fact, it came into one little head first—Kitty Grey's.

And how could she help thinking up all manner of splendid plans, when she lived so near to the beautiful lake that from her window up-stairs she could look across to the other shore and see here and there white blossoms on the water. She clapped her hands with joy when she first discovered them, and ran down-stairs crying:

"They're out! They're out! Mamma, can't Ray and I go in the boat and get some pond lilies right away now?"

Silver Lake was a shallow little thing—a saucerful of water, papa said—and Ray, though a little fellow, could manage a boat nicely. Mamma readily gave consent, and it was but a few minutes before Kitty sat in the stern of the boat, drawing her hand through the water, her very dearest friend Mabel in the bow, and Ray rowing with all his might to the spot where those wonderful lilies floated white and fair.

"I know what we'll do," Kitty said, as they filled the large basket they had brought with them as full as it could hold. "We'll trim the church for to-morrow."

"So we will," said Mabel.

And Ray said:

"All right; that will be splendid. I'll get a lot of ferns to put with these."

About that time, old Mrs. Parks was walking her garden, trimming off dead leaves and cutting flowers. She came along to a large bunch of red lilies, and clipped them off.

"We haven't had any flowers in church this long time," she said to herself. "I'll just send these over. They are such handsome things, it's a pity everybody shouldn't enjoy them."

So she brought them into the house, got down from the top shelf of the pantry an old blue pitcher, and putting her flowers in it, filled it with water, promising herself to take them to the parsonage between daylight and dark.

"Cinthy's tasty, and she can fix them up in shape for the church," she said.

Cynthia Morrow was the minister's daughter. She herself had a plan for making the little church beautiful—to smile a welcome to the Sabbath morning.

Down at the end of the garden was a plot of day lilies. They belonged to her. She had put them out herself, and watched and watered them, and waited for them, and now this week they blossomed out in queenly beauty. She intended to surprise her father next morning. How pleased he would be to find his favorite flower on the pulpit desk, its pure whiteness and its rare sweetness sending up incense with the songs of praise.

The next one who gathered lilies was Miss Alice Lynde. She was a young lady from New York, spending the summer with her uncle in Fairview.

Miss Alice took long walks every day over the fields and hills, and so her cheeks, which were pale when she came from the city, were getting to be the color of wild roses.

This morning her walk happened to be longer than usual. She went farther out into the country than she had ever been before, lured on by a glimpse of bright yellow flowers she could see in the distance. They turned out to be lilies. Miss Alice was delighted. She filled her arms with them at once, thinking while she chose the finest blossoms what a lovely bouquet she would make for the church.

It would seem as if all the people who had been gathering lilies that day had made an appointment to meet at the church after tea that evening, but they never had, though they all met.

Nobody felt quite at liberty to carry their flowers to the church. It might look as if they had set up to interfere with somebody's else arrangements. So all made their way to the parsonage at that pleasant time between the day and night when country people run in to see each other.

Each one found that Cynthia was already at the church; gone to carry over some flowers, her mother said.

What was Cynthia's surprise, as she stood on the platform arranging her vases, to see Kitty and Ray come in tugging a large basket full of pond lilies and ferns.

"Oh, what beauties! I am so glad you brought them," Cynthia was saying when Mrs. Parks put her head in at the door.

"I s'pose you've got flowers enough without these," she said, holding out a great bunch of red lilies.

"Oh, no, indeed!" Cynthia said. "How pretty they will be with the white ones! I wish we had somebody to help us arrange them."

While they were all bending over the flowers admiring them, a little rustle was heard, and when they looked up, there was Miss Alice gliding softly down the aisle with a great sheaf of yellow lilies in her arms. She made a pretty picture to the children's eyes, her white dress and white hat, her smiling face, and the lovely flowers.

Their admiring "O—h—" was not meant for the flowers alone.

"I should say that all the lilies in the country have agreed to come here and hold a meeting," said Mrs. Parks.

Miss Alice pulled off her gloves and went to work. She knew just how to arrange flowers. Mrs. Parks went home for some pans, Ray went for water, and Kitty hunted up some vases, while Cynthia sorted the flowers.

How lovely it was when all was done! There was a bank of pond lilies and ferns just under the pulpit. There was a mound of red and white lilies on the table, and vases on the desk of pure white and green only. Cynthia said that must be so. And then there was a masterpiece of beauty, made by Miss Alice's skilful fingers—a sort of pyramid of flowers, all colors mingled, with feathery ferns drooping about the whole.

Next morning at church everybody was surprised, because, as a rule, they did not have flowers in church at Fairview, beyond a simple handful in a vase. Nobody, though, was more surprised than the self-appointed flower committee themselves were when the minister's text was announced. They could not resist smiling at each other.

You see Mr. Morrow had been noticing the flowers rather more than usual that week. Even while he was considering what his text should be, his eye fell on a cluster of tall white lilies. He found himself studying their graceful shapes, their whiteness and fragrance, and then began to wonder at the thought that the same great God who made the worlds, made the tiny flowers, and that he took so much pains, making so many different shapes and colors, each with its own rare fragrance, to please us because he loves us.

It was not strange, then, that Mr. Morrow's text should be, "Consider the lilies."

THE GREENLANDER.

GREENLAND is a very cold country, much colder than it is here. For three months in the year the sun is never seen; and for nearly nine months the land is covered all over with snow. We have plenty of nice fruit in summer, and many good things all the year round; but the poor Greenlanders live mostly on seal's flesh, blubber, and oil.

Poor, poor Greenlanders, they live so miserably; and, what is much worse, many of them know nothing whatever of Jesus and his love! But God loves them; for He loved the world, and gave "his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life," so that, if a Greenlander hears of Jesus, he too may be saved.

Now, some good men pitied the poor heathen in Greenland, and thought they would like to go and tell them of Jesus, how he was born in Bethlehem, how good and kind He was to every one, how He gave sight to the blind, healed the sick, raised the dead, how He died on the Cross for sinners, how He went to the grave and then to Heaven, how He will come again.

Well, they went to Greenland and labored there for eight long, weary years. At last they got tired laboring so long without any apparent success, and thought upon returning to their homes. They had suffered a great deal from cold and hunger, and the people only laughed at them, and mocked them. But these dear missionaries had made a great mistake, for instead of telling the people as they meant to do of Jesus and his great love in dying and rising again from the dead, telling the sweet, sweet story of the Cross, they found them so very ignorant that the missionaries thought to begin with proving that God lives, and that He made all things. Now, this was a great mistake, for we are sinners, and we need to know—not that God is the Creator, but that "God is love," and that Jesus died.

One day a party of heathen Greenlanders came to the missionary village. They were led by a cruel and wicked Greenlander named Kajarnak, and entered the hut where the missionary was writing. He was finishing his final correction of the Four Gospels, and was at the moment engaged on that part of John's Gospel relating to the sufferings and death of Christ. Kajarnak was surprised at seeing the missionary writing, and at once asked him what he was doing.

"Writing."

"Writing!" said Kajarnak. "What is writing?"

The missionary tried to explain it to him, and then said, "I will read you what I have been writing."

He read the account of Christ's agony in the garden, and then upon the Cross, with the story of his being crowned, scourged, and spit upon. As he read, Kajarnak became interested.

"And why," he asked, "did they treat the man so? What had he done?"

"Oh!" said the missionary. "This man did nothing amiss, but Kajarnak did. Kajarnak filled the land with wickedness; and Kajarnak deserved to go to hell for it. But this man suffered all this to bear Kajarnak's punishment, that Kajarnak might not go to hell."

And then the missionary went on to tell about God's love, man's sin, and Christ's work for sinners, till the big tears were seen to roll down the poor heathen's cheeks, and unable any longer to restrain his feelings, he cried—

"Oh! Tell it all over again, for I, too, would like to be saved."

He was told it all over again—it was such a sweet story. Kajarnak believed the good news. His heart was drawn to Christ. He loved him. Kajarnak was saved.

Are you saved, dear young reader? You have often heard and often read of Jesus and of his sufferings. Perhaps, too, you have often wept as you thought of the cruel men scourging Jesus and spitting on his face. But though you cry very much, it won't save you. The blood of Jesus puts sin away, and nothing else will do it.

Will you now love Jesus? Poor Kajarnak, from "Greenland's icy mountains," with a heart colder than the ice, and darker than the darkest night, yet came to Jesus, believed in God's love, and was saved.

How I long that all my dear young readers too would seek the same Saviour, and love the Jesus that loved Kajarnak, the Greenlander.

SOME YOUNG HEROES.

IN a certain school, a knot of boys had their heads together disputing about something. You could never guess what it was if you tried. It would all have seemed strange to you: the schoolroom, the teacher, and the scholars—their odd dress and odder speech. It was in far-off Asia, and the scholars were not orderly as ours. The boys talked when they pleased, and made so much din that one could scarcely hear themselves think.

Missionaries had come to this city and opened schools and churches to teach the people that they must worship God alone, and that Jesus died to save them.

When the natives found that their boys were beginning to stray into Protestant schools, they said, "We must start schools of our own," and so they started one. But it was too late; some of the boys had already learned to love Jesus, sing sweet hymns, and read the Bible.

The teacher in this school was a very bitter enemy of the new religion, so he listened sharply that day when he heard a discussion going on among the boys. It was not in our language, but it was something like this.

One boy said it was not right to worship pictures of saints, nor to kiss them, and burn candles before them.

Another one said: "It 'is' right; it's the only true religion."

Others joined in with the first boy, and said it was wrong, and that we must worship none but God.

Then the dispute grew warmer, and there were cries of "Heretic! Heretic! Mean old heretic! Mean old Protestant!" and so on.

The teacher had made up his mind that this thing must be stopped; that the boys must not go any more where they would hear such bad doctrine, so he said in a loud, strong voice:

"Boys, stand up!"

They all stood up.

"Now let all the Protestants step out."

He did not suppose that any one would dare to confess to him that he was a Protestant, but those little Christians must have remembered the solemn words of the Saviour, how he said:

"If any men will confess me on the earth I also will confess him before my father which is in heaven."

There was a moment's pause, then seven little fellows stepped out. The teacher was amazed.

[Illustration: ONE OF THE SCHOLARS.]

"What!" he said. "Don't you believe in worshiping the pictures of saints?"

"No, sir, we don't; mad please, sir," said the bravest of them all, "if Jesus wanted us to worship pictures of the saints, wouldn't he have left us his own picture to worship?"

This was an unanswerable argument, but the tyrant teacher did not let them know how they had cornered him.

He said, "Boys, how shall these heretics be punished?"

And the boys decided they must be "spit upon."

So the whole school formed a procession and marched around those seven, spitting upon them as they went.

"Now sing!" the teacher said, and all the school except the seven struck up one of their patriotic songs.

"Sing, I tell you!" he said to the seven.

"We will, if you will sing the songs of Jesus," was the grand answer of the martyrs.

"Sing it yourselves!" said the teacher.

And, wonderful to tell, this sweet song came to the ears of the astonished teacher:

"Must Jesus bear the cross alone, And all the world go free? No, there's a cross for every one, And there's a cross for me."

THE SECRET OF IT.

ONE October afternoon Frank Stevens was gathering apples in his father's orchard. Great piles of golden pippins and rosy Baldwins lay under the trees, waiting to be sorted and packed in the barrels that were standing near. His brother Kent, many years older than himself, was helping. It so happened that their work lay for a time near the main road where people came and went. Leaning against the fence was Mr. Marvin, who had stopped for a little neighborly chat.

Down the hill, trotting leisurely along, came a black pony. On his back was Harry Porter, one of Frank's schoolmates. He, too, drew up by the fence, and as he called, "Halloo, Frank!" cast a longing eye at the red apples.

After chatting a few minutes, he trotted off again, an apple in his hand, and two in each pocket.

"That's a splendid boy!" said Mr. Kent Stevens.

"Yes; there's the making of a fine man in him," answered Mr. Marvin; "he's uncommonly bright, I noticed him at the examination last spring; clear as a bell he was, working hard examples and talking off the explanation as glibly as the professor himself. I reckon it would have puzzled some of us committee to have done it."

Frank listened in silence as the talk went on while he sorted the fair apples from the knurly. He had a gloomy, cross look on his face, as though his thoughts were not pleasant ones, and he did not work in his usual brisk way.

When Mr. Marvin went away, his thoughts came out.

"No wonder," he said, "that Harry Porter is always praised up so. He has some chance in the world. His father is rich; he has a new book every time he turns around; his father never goes away but he brings him one; then he goes travelling. He has been out West and been to Boston and New York. He has been on the top of Pike's Peak, and he has seen Bunker Hill monument and the obelisk. Why shouldn't he know more than any of the rest of us? He has lots of time besides, to study, and have fun, too. Out of school he needn't do anything but trot about on that pony. What's the use of a fellow like me trying to make anything of himself?"

It was not such a very long time ago that Kent Stevens had been a boy himself, even if he was now a young lawyer in the city. He came every summer to the old home for a play spell, he called it, and then he proved that he had not forgotten how to rake hay and pick apples. He had not forgotten, either, how a boy feels, so he was excellent company for Frank. He placed the last apple in a closely packed barrel, then he turned and looked curiously at his brother.

"Why, Frank! What has got into you to-day?" he said. "You don't seem one bit like our bright cheery boy. Do you think you are one of the fellows who has no chance? Let us sit down in this sunny spot and rest ourselves, and count up some of your chances.—A good home, a splendid father and mother—to say nothing of a very wise brother—a few good books, a weekly newspaper, a church and Sabbath-school, an excellent, day-school, good eyes and ears and stomach, a pair of legs that can run like a squirrel, two strong arms, and a very good mind, and here you talk of not having 'chances!'

"How do yours look when you cast your eye at little Tim Morey with a drunken father and a shanty for a home, or at Johnny Wilson, who is almost blind, or poor Will Smith who must go for the rest of his life on crutches and suffer much pain? Or compare your lot with the boys who work in the factory, who must go to their work at seven in the morning and stay until seven in the evening, day after day, year after year. What about their chances? Don't you know, dear boy, that as a rule, it is not boys with rich fathers who turn out to be the greatest men?

"Look at me," he said, straightening himself up and marching about with mock pompousness. "Haven't I put the sweat of my brow and my muscle into this old farm? Didn't I get out of my bed at cock-crowing and go after the cows in wet grass up to my knees?

"Haven't I milked and ploughed and planted corn and hoed it and husked it? And yet, I got through and had no more hard work than was good for me, I believe now, though I used to grumble sometimes just as you are doing now.

"I tell you, my boy, it is not in having this or that, or going here and there, that makes a success, but it is improving, to the very utmost, the advantages one has, though they be not the best.

"There is another secret too. One must be in dead earnest; must have an aim and stick to it in spite of anything, and the greatest secret of all is, that aim must not be alone to be a rich man or a learned man, but it must be this—'to make the very most of one's self for Christ's sake.' And you can't begin too young; the younger the better.

"I heard something about two men the other day, that is just in point here—but perhaps you are tired of my preaching and want to go in."

"Oh no, tell it," said Frank. "You know I would rather have you preach to me than anybody else."

"Well, a good many years ago two boys lived in the same town and went to the same school. They both had pretty good advantages and were naturally bright and clear-headed. All the difference between them was, that from the time they were very little fellows, John was always laying plans to have a 'good time.'

"Will loved fun as well as he did, but in both fun and work, his chief aim was to be right and true.

"As they grew up to be young men, Will held fast to the choice he had made when a little boy.

"The Lord Jesus Christ was his master.

"John had an entirely different master; he shirked his lessons, and wasted his time and money in what he called 'fun.'

"When school days were over, one of them had a fine start in his education, but poor John was almost a dunce, it was surprising how little he knew thoroughly.

"When Will went into business, he made a resolution in the very beginning to give a certain part of his money to the Lord's work, whether he made much or little. He was prospered, and he grew to be a rich, strong man, foremost in every good work; everybody loved and honored him. He was a grand temperance worker, and he gave great sums to the poor and helped educate many young men for the ministry. The more he gave away the richer he grew, but he kept giving, and for some time before his death it is said that he gave away a thousand dollars a day!

"Will was William E. Dodge who died a few weeks ago in the city. You remember the papers were filled with accounts of him. Nobody could say a word against him, and the whole city was in mourning.

"It is strange that as the boys came into the world about the same time, they left it within a few days of each other. But oh! so differently. There were no weeping friends at John's funeral. Nobody said over his coffin, 'Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord.' Not one cried, 'How shall his place be filled.'

"John had become a miserable sot. Nearly all his old friends had lost sight of him. He lived without God, and so he died without him, miserable and alone, and he was carried to his grave from the almshouse—just a rough pine box in a cart—and that was the last of John, for this life.