Part 1

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: BE CAREFUL FOR NOTHING; BUT IN EVERYTHING BY PRAYER AND SUPPLICATION WITH THANKSGIVING LET YOUR REQUESTS BE MADE KNOWN UNTO GOD. AND THE PEACE OF GOD, WHICH PASSETH ALL UNDERSTANDING, SHALL KEEP YOUR HEARTS AND MINDS THROUGH CHRIST JESUS.]

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Look on the Sunny Side,

AND OTHER SKETCHES.

BY

RUTH LAMB

Author of "Thoughtful Joe," "Katie Brightside," etc.

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LONDON: [THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY] 56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD; AND 164, PICCADILLY.

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CONTENTS.

LOOK ON THE SUNNY SIDE

MARTHA'S CHOICE

AS A LITTLE CHILD

A WITNESS FOR THE SABBATH

WHICH PAYS BEST

BEN BARRY'S CHRISTMAS BOX

TWO PICTURES BY THE WAYSIDE

A WORD IN SEASON

A RASH PROMISE, AND HOW IT ENDED

BEATEN WITH HIS OWN WEAPONS

WIDOW HENDERSON; OR, THE REBELLIOUS HEART SUBDUED

Look on the Sunny Side,

AND OTHER SKETCHES.

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LOOK ON THE SUNNY SIDE.

IT was drawing towards evening, when a woman, carrying a large bundle of work, entered a room on the ground floor of a ready-made clothes warehouse. She was bringing back a pile of finished shirts made by machine at her own home.

There were a number of girls and women at work in the room as she entered, some employed in fixing for the machinists, or finishing off their garments by making button-holes or putting on buttons. Others were cutting out, or making up parcels of garments to give to the out-door workers. All looked tired, for the day had been hot and close, and many glances were cast towards the clock, for this last working hour seemed longest of all to the weary women.

The new-comer, however, entered with a smiling face, though any one might tell that she, too, was tired, by the great drops of perspiration which she wiped from her hot face, and the look of relief with which she placed her heavy bundle on the counter, that its contents might be examined by the forewoman.

"Eh, Mrs. Duncan," said the latter, "here you come again with a heap of work! How do you get through so much this hot weather? I'm sure it seems to take all the strength out of me. It doesn't do to give in when I have to keep the whole room going," she added, dropping her voice; "but I've been as bad for looking at the clock this afternoon as the youngest learner amongst them. I never felt time go so slowly in my life, I think."

"And there's just the difference between you and me, Miss Evans. I've been looking at the clock, too, but it was because the time was going all too fast for me, and I was sadly afraid I should not finish before closing time; but I have managed it, I am thankful to say. You wonder how it is I get through so much; but you see I have seven little drivers and a big one to keep me going!"

The girls glanced at each other as they heard Mrs. Duncan's words, and many a kindly look was turned towards her. They knew that her husband, a skilled mechanic, had recently met with a serious accident, which had quite unfitted him for work. A painful operation had been necessary, and though he was recovering, it would most likely be months before he would be strong enough to earn anything.

There was a small weekly allowance from a club, the eldest of the eight children, a boy, was just earning enough to repay the cost of his food, and, for the rest, nothing but what the hard-working mother could earn by her constant labours with the sewing machine.

And yet the toil-worn mother never came into the warehouse to receive her hard-earned wages without bringing, as it seemed, a ray of sunshine along with her. No cross looks, no murmuring words; no railing at the rich because they were rich, or grumbling because her own lot was one of almost incessant labour, and her pay small at the very best.

"I must look over your work for form's sake, Mrs. Duncan," said the forewoman; "but it is always right, and amongst the best done of all that comes into this place. I wish everybody gave me as little trouble as you do." And the forewoman, having glanced at the work, put it aside, and wrote out an order for the money, which Mrs. Duncan must receive at the pay-desk on her way out.

"How is your husband getting on?" she asked, as she handed the ticket to Mrs. Duncan.

"As well as one can expect, Miss Evans, thank you. And he's very patient, considering that it is harder work for a man like him to be quiet than it is for some. He was always on the move, you see, when he was able to work, and to a willing man, the worst job you can give him is to lie still."

"That's true enough; but I didn't know your husband was one of that sort. I thought—" and then the forewoman hesitated, for she did not like to say to the self-devoting wife and mother what she had heard about John Duncan. How he spent in drink a large share of the money he had worked hard to win, and how the poor wife was often afraid to leave her tidy home, especially on a Sunday, lest she should return to find her crockery broken and the little ones frightened out of the house by the harsh words, perhaps even blows of the intoxicated father. And yet she had also heard that, when sober, John Duncan was a kind man enough and very proud of his comely wife and fine healthy children.

A flush crossed Mrs. Duncan's face as she heard the "I thought" of the forewoman. She guessed what was passing in her mind, and what had prevented her from giving utterance to it in words. "There's no harder-working man than John, when he can work, Miss Evans; but he has sometimes given the neighbours reason to talk, poor fellow! Still, if they do talk, it's not my place to help them by finding them materials. I'm in hopes that there's a better time coming to us, for all we may seem to be under a cloud now," said Mrs. Duncan, as she hastily whisked away a tear that was going to run down her cheek.

"You're just a wonder to me, Mrs. Duncan. I do not know how you keep up. Work, work, work, from early morning till nobody but yourself knows how late at night; with all those children to think about and care for; cooking, mending, nursing—for you've two little better than babies—and your husband as he is! It's enough to break down half-a-dozen women. And here you come with a smile and a pleasant word for everybody."

"Why, now, Miss Evans, we'll look at the other side, and see what a lot of things I have to keep me up. I've wonderful health, and feel strong and hearty. I'm willing to work, and you find me as much work as I can do. There's a real houseful of children but, then, those that are too little to work can run errands and amuse those that are less still. They're all very good, considering I cannot look after them so well as I should like. Then there's John! Ailing, to be sure, but living and likely to live, though he was in the very grip of death, as one may say, a month ago. Now haven't I something to be cheerful about, Miss Evans?"

"You are determined to look at the best side of everything, Mrs. Duncan; but I doubt there are not many of us that would bear up as you do, if we were in your place."

"Well, to say the truth, I don't bear up at all. It is just Christ that bears me up and my trouble too. He says, 'Cast thy burden upon the Lord,' and He does not tell me to do that without a plain promise that He will sustain me. He tells me to call upon Him in the day of trouble, and He will deliver me. So I lift up my heart to Him all the time I am treadling away at the machine, and my feet go faster and my heart feels lighter when I think that I've told Him all about it. Not but what He knew before. Still He has said He will be inquired of to do all these things that we want, and if we can receive for asking, surely it should not be too much trouble to speak. The wonder is that God is willing to answer such as I am."

"And do you really think God does answer you, Mrs. Duncan?" asked a pale-faced eager-looking girl, who had been listening attentively to the conversation between her and the forewoman.

"Do I believe God answers? To be sure I do, my dear. I don't mind telling you something about that, for I know we are so apt to get doubtful, in spite of all the promises, and the experience that a poor woman like me has had of God's faithfulness may help to strengthen some one else. You would hardly believe it now, but my poor John's sad accident has brought an answer to my prayer of years and years."

"Why, you don't mean to say you asked for that, Mrs. Duncan?"

"No, my dear. God forbid that I should ever desire pain and suffering for anybody, much less my husband. I wouldn't hurt a hair of his head. But you're not married, and you don't know what it is to walk one way and your husband another. For some time after I was John's wife, it did not matter to me that he never went down on his knees at home, or taught our first children anything about God, or entered a place of worship.

"We were both alike. We cared for none of these things. But the time came when God was pleased to show me what a poor helpless sinner I was, and to let me see that I could never save myself. I could not tell you now how it came about, it would take too long; but I think nobody in this world was ever more rejoiced after having been shown myself, to have a sight of my Saviour and realise what He had done for me.

"How thankful I was for my share in His salvation! And, oh, how I longed for John to feel like me! I prayed and prayed for him. I talked to him, begged of him to go with me to church, told him how happy I Was in thinking that I had a heavenly Friend that would never forsake me if I put my trust in Him. I sent the two eldest children to Sunday-school, and I wanted to a place of worship. But it was no use. John could not see any good in it. He did not hinder the children going on Sundays, he said the house was quieter without them; but he would neither go himself to the house of God nor let me. I have often been near giving up, but I was kept from that, though when one knew that one was praying for a right thing, it seemed hard to pray so long without getting an answer. I got almost desperate, I was so anxious for John, and I really did pray that he might be brought to Jesus, no matter how rough the way might be, or at whatever cost of hard work to me.

"Then this accident happened: poor John lay helpless and senseless, sometimes still enough, sometimes talking all sorts of wild talk, but knowing nobody. And then I wondered whether it could be that this was to be the end, and I was to get no answer to the prayers of all these years.

"One night the children were all gone to rest but baby, and I was just getting her to sleep to put her in the cradle beside her father's bed. I don't know how it happened, but I was praying aloud as I rocked her backwards and forwards, when all at once I heard poor John's voice from the bed. So weak and low it was, but it rung through me, like the loudest trumpet, for it brought the answer to my prayer.

"'Mary,' he said, 'I heard what you were asking God for me. I'm a poor good-for-naught, and I'm not worth all your praying and thought for me; but you're a good wife, and I can't bear you to keep asking and asking, and all for nothing. We've been sixteen years married, and I've never gone on my knees to God in all that time. I cannot kneel now, and I don't know how to pray, but if you'll come beside the bed and teach me what to say, I'll try.'

"I got up and reached him his medicine and gave him a drink, and then, with the little one in my arms, I dropped on my knees and prayed as well as I could for tears and sobs. But they were not sorrowful tears, for my heart was full of joy. At last I begun the Lord's Prayer, and John said it after me bit by bit, with his voice all trembling, like a little child learning from its mother.

"And when I got up, he said, 'Kiss me, Mary. I've never deserved to have you; but I hope, if I live, I shall be helped to behave better to you than I have done.'

"That was the beginning of better days for us, I am sure. John cannot be happy without daily prayer now, and I do believe he is a changed man, and that our latter days will be more blessed than our beginning.

"Now you understand how John's accident has been made the means of answering my prayer, and how it is that I can thank God even for what, at first look, seemed a sore trial."

There was a murmur of sympathy amongst the young folks in that busy room. The tired workers had forgotten their own weariness as they listened to Mrs. Duncan's story, and more than one amongst them told her that it made them ashamed of a complaining spirit when they saw the cheerful way in which she met her troubles and shouldered her burden, and that story was long remembered among them.

By this time, the new parcel of work was ready, and Mrs. Duncan bade Miss Evans and the young work-women "Good day," and went on her homeward way with a rejoicing and thankful heart. She had long been sowing in tears. She had been instant in prayer, despite long waiting and many discouragements, and her Heavenly Father had sent her a gracious answer, though it was indeed, after many days.

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MARTHA'S CHOICE.

MANY years ago, when I was comparatively new to family joys and cares, we had two servants, sisters, who had both lived some time in the family. One was older by ten years than the other, but each had won our good will and esteem by her steadiness and faithful service. Moreover, each had what is called a "follower," though not without my knowledge.

We profess to take an interest in all the members of our household, and we are accustomed to be treated with confidence by them, and are often consulted about their affairs, especially in matters of importance. I was not, therefore, surprised when Martha, the elder sister, asked for a few minutes' conversation; but I quite expected it would convey news of an approaching wedding, and terminate in the usual month's notice to leave.

Martha said, "I was wishing to ask your advice, ma'am, about my young man. You know what he is, and that most people would think he is rather above me, only I have saved a bit of money," added she, with pardonable satisfaction.

"You have earned your money well, and used it prudently," I interposed, by way of encouragement.

"And I did think how nicely it would come in to furnish a home; but I am not satisfied that George is the man to make one happy. He professes to go to church with me, and to be religious when we are together; but he never enters a place of worship when I am not with him, though he has all his Sundays to spend as he likes. Now, I think, if he really loved going to God's house, he would go all the same when it is my turn to stay in. Then he can go to theatres and such like places quite comfortably without me, for he knows it would be no use asking me to join him. So I have come to think that he attends theatres because he likes them, and church because he likes me. I don't deny that it would be a trial to break with George," she added, her trembling voice showing how much she was pained at the thought of a separation.

"Have you spoken to George about these things?" I asked.

"Yes, ma'am, and he just laughed at me, said I was a great deal too particular, and it was likely when a man had no settled home and no wife to make him comfortable, that he would want a little amusement. He 'was sowing his few wild oats now, and after he was married—.' When he spoke like this, I put in my word, and said a few grains often brought a large crop, and I did not want to have the reaping of it in sorrow; but he just laughed again, and told me to give notice, and then we would be married at the month's end."

"And is that what you have decided to do, Martha?"

"No, ma'am. I opened God's Word, for somehow it has a message for everybody and every time, and I read this verse, 'Can two walk together except they be agreed?' And I said—'No,' out loud, just as if I were answering a question that some person had asked me; for I had never noticed that verse before, and I did feel it was for me. I had not gone down on my knees to ask for guidance, but I did wish to see what was the right thing to do; and I know when my Lord and Master was here on earth, He used to answer people's thoughts. And now, ma'am, will you read this letter before I send it, and tell me what you think? Have I done right?"

"Certainly, Martha," I said, "and I rejoice to find that you go to the best of all sources, the Bible, for guidance."

I read the letter which Martha had written to George, and in which she announced her intention of remaining in her situation and of setting him free from his engagement. Poor girl! I knew what the writing of that letter must have cost her. How I sympathised with the brave heart, the Christian firmness, which made her resolve to give up her affianced husband—not because she did not love him, but because he did not love God.

"Martha," I said, "if George is worthy of your affections, your letter will not be long unanswered."

"I can leave myself in God's hands," she said; "but I have another trouble. My sister is young and pretty, and she is taken up with one who is far worse than George, for he makes game of people who even profess to be religious, and he is neither steady nor temperate. Will you try to persuade her to give him up? She is almost like a daughter as well as sister to me, for mother died when she was only five, and I took care of her for years till father married again."

I promised Martha to use my influence with Jessie, and I did all in my power, but in vain. Pretty foolish Jessie married a worthless, idle spendthrift, in defiance of tears, entreaties, and advice. And,—alas!—still reaps the fruit of her self-will in the companionship of a drunkard, amid poverty and perpetual domestic strife.

George did not answer Martha's letter. His family had always been against his marriage with her, because she was a servant and they were small tradespeople. So they encouraged him when he expressed his determination not to eat humble pie, and told him "there were as good fish left in the sea as any that had been taken out."

We were all sorry for Martha's trial, for such it was, but thankful that she never for a moment wavered in her resolution. She served us well for some years more, and then became the wife of a man like-minded with herself, and able to maintain her in comfort.

After sixteen years of married life, Martha's husband volunteered this testimony: "She has been a good wife and a good mother. She has brought up her children in the fear of the Lord, both by precept and practice, and has been a real help to me in everything. She has often told me about giving up the man she was to have married, but she always says, 'I thought it was a trouble at the time, though it was all for the best. It would have been no use to ask God's guidance, and then take one's own way.'"

A pleasant testimony this, after many days. Truly, "A woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised."

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AS A LITTLE CHILD.

A MOTHER and a little child of six years were together one afternoon, the former busily plying her needle, the latter building a wonderful castle with a box of jointed bricks. They were almost constant companions, for all the elders of the flock were at school, whilst Nellie was still her mother's pupil. A bright, merry, intelligent young creature was the little scholar. She needed neither coaxing nor driving; but loved to learn as the mother loved to teach.

As she laboured away at her building on that summer afternoon, the small architect reminded one of a bird by her ceaseless motion. She flitted about, piling brick upon brick; sometimes talking, sometimes singing, as she drew back now and again to observe the effect of her work.

And, childlike, she chattered for a time, hardly noticing how brief were her mother's answers, or that, very often, there was no reply at all to her many questions. But this state of things was so contrary to custom that it attracted Nellie's attention, and, turning towards her mother, she saw that her hands were lying idle in her lap, and that her eyes were filling with tears.

In a moment the bricks were on the ground and the castle a mere wreck. The child darted to her mother, exclaiming, "Mamma, mamma! What is the matter? Are you ill? Do tell me what you are crying for?" And at the same time, she softly wiped the tear from Mrs. Matthews' cheek, and followed this act by a loving kiss.

The mother lifted the child on her knee, and clasping her arms round her, wept quietly for a few moments. Then, as soon as she could speak, she said, "Nellie, your father and I are in great trouble about something. You are too young to understand why I am crying, darling, and I cannot tell you about it or I would, because I know my little Nellie would like to comfort her mother."

The little arms gave an answering pressure as the child said, "Can't I fetch or do anything, mamma?"

"Darling, I wish you could," was the answer.