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EDUCATOR
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FO^TBf.
To My Little Nameaake.
BT LINDA WARFEL.
“Linda, toe have named the baby for you.”
Mbs.
Birdie. In your cradle nest!
Though my lips have ne’er caressed,
Nor my fingers lightly pressed
Your wee frame—
Tenderly my heart is stirred
By a mother's written word,
That she calls her household bird
By my name.
Lovingly your image fair.
In my inmost heart has share,
And I cherish fondly there
Dreams of thee I
Pure and holy Is the thought,
By your unseen presence brought,
Os a love as yet untaught
Onto me.
Baby! though I ne’er should know
Your pure features here below,
Words of kindness, ere I go,
Let me sayl
“Lindal” while you bear my name,
Let no crimson spot of shame
Blot Its fair, unsullied fame,
While I stay.
From life's sorrows oft, that rise—
Life's best angels in disguise—
Learn this lesson and be wise,
“Life is brief.”
Read, with thoughts of pure intent,
Warning words in kindness meant,
List the teachers God hath sent,
Love and Grief.
Baby! so the swift years fly,
Drawing closer earth and sky,
They will call us both to He
In the tomb;
But, ere life’s sands are all told,
Earth to me will have grown cold;
I’ll be feeble, gray, and old,
In yoiit bloom.
Birdie! when the years have flown,
And your feet can walk alone—
When upon vour heart has grown
Maidenhood!
Keep yon, darling, from the strife
Os a sickly, fevered lifts,
And from ill with pleasure rife,
Pure and good.
Ever close your guileless heart
’Gainst the tempter's ready art.
Mine has learned that joys depart.
Why not thine?
You, like me, may shed hot tears,
Like me, be oppressed with fears.
Ere come and gone have twice ten
years,
Baby, mine!
Guide aright those little feet,
That when lift* has fled so fleet,
They may tread the golden street
HJp above;
gaep your lips from guile of men,
That when rings the glad “Amen!”
They may sing, with thousands ten,
•“God 3s love!”
THE SABBATH
SCHOOL,
Johnny’s Conversion.
The following account of the con
version of a little boy, as related by
Ilia father, will, w« are sure, interest
our little readers, and, we trust, be
blessed to them:
“When my child was about three
years old, and while speaking to him
of a divine Savior, I said to him:
Johnny, the Lord Jesus came into
the world to save sinners little sin
ners like you, as well as big sinners.’
He looked up and said: ‘What is a
sinner, papa?’ ‘You are a sinner, John
ny.’ ‘No, I am not; papa. I dont know
what a sinner is.’ I described some
of his little faults, but without apply
ing the description, and remarked:
Any little boy who docs so is a sin
ner. These things do not make him
a sinner; but they show that he is a
sinner, for, if sin was not in him, it
would not come out in this or in any
other way.’
“With blushing face and flowing
tears he sobbed as though his little
heart would bresk. Laying my
hand gently on his head I asked him
with tenderness, what was the cause
of his grief; but he only wept more
loudly, and clung to me the more.
I then asked: ’Have you found out
who is a sinner!" ‘Yes, papa!’ ‘Who
is a sinner!" ‘I am a sinner, papa!'
‘Then the gospel, is good news to
you, Johnny; for it tells you of Jesus,
the sinner's friend.’ It was my hah
The Educator.
VOL. 1. FAYETTEVILLE, N. C., NOVEMBER 7, 1874. NO. 7.
it to direct his blind to Christ Jesns
alone.
“When my child was about seven
years old I was occupied, during a
few months, in a large village, in
making known the gospel of the
grace of God. Many poor, neglected
sinners were there brought together
to heat- and about forty of them
were led by grace to know the joy
ful sound. Infidels, openly immoral
persons and graybeaded sinners were
of the Humber saved; and in the
midst of these was my own little one,
confessing Christ his all in all.
“A few of the particulars of his
conversion may serve to show the
simplicity of his faith in Christ.
“One evening, after a meeting at
which Christ alone was exalted, and
God’s way of saving sinners through
him was declrred, my little boy came
to me, led by his mother, who said:
‘Papa, Johnny wishes to say some
thing to you, ‘Well, my dear,’ said I
‘what is it you wish to say?’ He re
plied quietly: ‘I believe now, papa.’
‘What do you believe?’ I inquired,
being careful not to anticipate or
suggest. I believe, with my heart, that
Jesus is the Son of God, and that he
died on the cross for sinners; and
God the Father raised him from the
dead, and he is now at the right hand
of God in heaven, Lord of all.’ These
were his precious words, and he add
ed: ‘I do believe this, papa, with all
my heart.’ Giving thanks to God, I
asked my little one this question:
‘Are yonr sins forgiven, Johnny?’ ‘I
don’t know.’ This was said just as a
little child would speak.
“About a week after he oame to
me with a placid countenance and
said: ‘papa, I believe more now.’
‘What do you believe now, my dear?’
‘I believe with my heart, as I told
you last week, that Jesus is the Sou
of God,who died on the cross for
sinners, and that God raised him
from the dead; and he is at the right
hand of the Father, Lord of all. And
I believe that God has forgiven my
sins for Jesus’sake. All fear is tak
en away, papa, and I am now wait
ing for Jesus to come from heaven.’
“It was a touching sight when, in
the midst of a group of rescued sin
ners, this little one stood and confes
sed his faith in Jesus, the divine and
only Savior of his soul. There stood
ihe infidel and the gray-headed sin
ner, and, in the midst of such, this
little one of seven years old, oonfess
ingalike the grace by which they were
all equally saved from sin and death,
and the value of that precious blood
in which their various sins were all
and forever washed away.”— Pure
Streams.
A Pretty Incident.—A gentle
man relates that many years ago he
was on a visit to the Isle of Man, and
during his walks he strolled into the
quiet churchyard, where repose the
bodies of many faithful and humble
Christians. Near a grave in a corner
of the churchyard he noticed a lady
with a little girl, (the latter about
twelve years of age,) to whom she
was relating the story of, “the Dairy
man’s Daughter,” whose remains lay
beneath their feet. As the lady pro
ceeded with the narrative he observ
ed the little girl lift up her eyes fill
ed with tears, and heard her say that
she would try and be as good as the
dairyman’s daughter had been. After
planting a beautiful lily on the grave
they walked slowly away. The gen
tleman, upon making inquiry, found
that the lady was the Duchess of
Kent and the little girl her daughter.
The latter is now Queen of England.
An unsophisticated person once
declined a plate of macaroni soup
with the remark that they “could’nt
palm off any biled pipe-stems on liim.”
.Schoolmistress.-“ Johnny, I'm ash
amed of you. When I was your age
I could read as well as I do now.
Johnny. —“Aw, but you'd a different
teacher to what we've got."
RELIGIOUS INTEL.
LIGENO
We respectfully invite any minister
of the gospel to communicate to ns
promptly any items suited for this
department of the Educator. Eve
ry minister should subscribe. Ad
dress
Waddbll A Smith.
Fayetteville N. C.
That Other WllUe.i
"Willie, why don’t you go and
play with the boys and not be forev
er stuck at my feet?”
Such was Mrs. Grey’s impatient
question, one day, when her little
son came and seated himself in the
parlor, when his mother was convers
ing with a visitor.
“I would rather be with you than
the boys,” he answered, timidly.
“Oh, I never saw such a booby!*
“Is it wrong to wish to be near
yon, mamma?” said the child, and his
nether lip trembled as he spoke.
“Wrong? Os course not. But you
are old enough to have some manli
ness about you. See yonder are
Will and John Gowdy on the ice.—
Run along and keep them company.
I want to talk with Mrs. Brown.”
The boy picked up his little cap,
and went out without another word,
Mrs. Grey turned to her visitor.
“Isn’t he a queer child?” she ask
ed.
The other raised her sad eyes, and
fixed them with such a pained ex
pression on the mother’s face, that
for a moment Mrs. Grey felt almost
offended. She wag a sorrowfhl look
ing woman, this Mrs. Brown.
“I had a son once; but he is gone
now,” she said, at last, and there
were tears in her eyes.
Mrs. Grey gazed at her wonder
ingly. She had not known this be
fore.
“It is a bitter thing to tear open
partially healed wounds,"Mrs. Brown
oontinued; “but let me tell you my
story.
“Several years ago, I Was about to
give a party; a grand affair it «l< to
be, and my head was almost turned
while making preparations. My
Willie (his name was Willie, too,)
was about sixteen year old. He had
never been to school; I had educated
him myself. At home he was all a
mother’s heart could desire; but he
was shy, and when I forced him into
company, he appeared so awkward,
that I often felt ashamed of him.—
This was one reason for my decid
ing to give a party. If he was ob
liged to act the part of host, he
Would overcome his bashfulness, I
thought. But Willie never approv
ed of it.
“I shall be glad when that party
is over,” he said, one day; for since
you have got it into yonr head, I
have lost my mother.”
“Poor little baby!” I responded,
slightly provoked at his lack of in
terest. “I wonder how many more
years I shall have yon tied to my
apron-stringsl”
I spoke sneeringly, and a proud
flush instantly overspread his face.”
“I will be tied there no longer,” he
returned. “I will seek other com
pany in the future.”
“I was frightened at the result of
my words. Htill I made no response.
My boy, putting on his coat and
hat, went out. It was the first time
in his life lie had left me without in
forming me where he was going.
“In good time the party come off.
It was a gay affair, and none were
gayer than WilUe. He was a sort
of an extremist, and took no medi
um stand. After that his books and
work were neglected, and his days
as well as his evenings were spent
abroad. Fast young men became
iiis constant companions. I was left
alone to mourn over the change I
had wrought. At first, he made it a 1
rule to be in at night at ten o'olock; |
but, after a time, he began to stay
out later, ami daybreak sometimes
found him from home- I tried to
expostulate, tried to srin him hack
to his old habits, hut my efforts were
unavailing. He had got a taste of a
new life, and it held Umby a chum
Well do I remember the first night
he came home in a Mate of intoxica
tion. It was has •erartrcnth birth
day, just a year from the time I had
given the party. I bad seen him
under the infiaeaee off urine once or
twice hut on this night, he
had drank so deeply, that some of
his companions had to help him
home.
“The hours of that night were
dreadful hours of self reproach and
agony. I was so gbd when morn
ing came to« dispel the. gSooan—so
glad when reason returned to my
erring child. He was very much j
ashamed. He sank again and again,
he would do better; but his nsdus
were worthless. Two nights later
he eras again brought home intoxica
ted. After that it is* a common
occurrence. He fell lower and low
er, squandered aft my ready monear,
and, when I refused to mortgage my
property, that he might have more,
he left me with an with.
“That night a large firm waste*-1
bed, and it was soon discovered that
Willie was one of the perpetrators
of the deed. The next morning the
town was wild with notrmnt and
I was almost erazed with anxiety,
for my boy had fled. The new* pis
sed from mouth to nsstk My
house was scorched and my son cal
led a villain: hot I had no power to
prevent either. No me p«e me a
word of sympathy.
“Ton have only yourself to blame,'"
said t blount old woman, who called
during the day. TV hoy wan hap
py at home, but yon drove him into
bad company.”
“That night at the hoar of twelve,
as I sat alone, a window was opened
softly, and Willie stepped into the
room. With a glad «y I sprang
toward him. but he pushed me rude
ly away.
“C ui yon hida me anywhere?” he
said. Had you given me money
yesterday, this would not have been.
“Oh, Willie,” I cried.
“Yes, mother” he said, sternly,
“you have made me a criminal. I
want to tell yon I have secretly mar
ried Kate Hastings. God known
what will become of her.”
Kate was a pretty little creature
only sixteen years old, iaar rent, as
the violets which grew around her
home. My bleeding heart gave a
quick, painful throb as he cootinwed.
“The world now will not befiere
we are married. She will be scorn
ed by aIL Hark! they are coming.
Mother, I am too yonug. too wicked
to die, but I must die, I must die.—
Farewell!”
“I aaw his purpose now. for has
hand clutched a revolver; ad spring
ing to my feet, I threw my arms
about him to shield him from my
self But he shook me off. The
next moment the load report ofa
pistol echoed through the house.—
One glance showed me Us lifelem
form, stretched on the fioor. Then
existence was a blank to me.
“When I awoke to crmrfcinrwem,
the morning sun was shining, an 1
the house eras filled with people.—
But even justice was ratified, and I
was toon left alone with the dead.—
All day. deartess and nutimim, I
sat beside the mangled corpse.—
Some people, kinder than the rest,
came in to make preparations forth
funeral, and passed silently oak hot
I did not heed them.
“Kate Hastings came jnt after
dark. She was dressed in deep
moaning, ami her free was » gkart
i ly that it startled me.
“Yon; toe, have come to repreach
me?” I said.
i “No, mother. Yoa satfer eaoagh
without my reproaches. I hare
i came to watch with the dead.”
» “I wish to watch alone,” I said.
“It is I who will watch alone,” she
■ returned. “It is my right. lam his
i wife.”
“How calm she was! There was
not even a tremor of the voice to tell
how she suffered.
“Yes, it is your right, my porr
child!” I said. “It gives me another
pang to give him np, even to you,
my daughter, still I do it.”
“She looked np quickly.”
“He has told you?”
“Yes.”
“Yet yon speak kindly to me, and
do not condemn ns!”
| “A sad but beautiful smile for a
moment lighted her features. She
raised one of my hands, and kissed it
reverentially.
“Thank you!” she said: “Some
time you will be glad for having
j shown this kindness to one so much
in need of it. Now, mother, leave
me.”
“I left the appartment; but I did
not retire. All night I sat on the
floor, outside the door, hoping that
Katie would bid me enter, bnt no
| such a summons came. Daylight re
turned, and the busy world again
1 moved: still I heard no movement in
the chamber of death. At last my
anxiety became so great, that I open
ed the door, and glanced in. The
giri knelt by the corpse, apparently
asleep. Softly I stole forward, and
then raised the drooping head. But
no and eyes met my gaze; nothing bnt
the white face, the starting orbs of a
corpse. Katie had died by her own
hand, an a bottle which she clntched
proved.
3 “The next day, they bailed the
pair, my erring child-wife, in one
grave;; and, as the clods fell on the
coffin, the brightness of my life went
out forever.”
Mrs. Brown could say no more,
for sobs choked her utterance. Her
lhaener, too, was deeply affected, as
her pole fooe and tearful eyes showed.
Leaving the bereaved mother for
a moment, Mrs. Grey stold softly to
the door, and called.
“Willie.”
The child heard her, and came
quickly to her side.
“What is it, mamma?”
“It is lonesome without yon, dar
ling: she said drawing him to her.
A smile lit np hia face.
“Then you do love me, mamma?”
“Love you? Oh, Willie!”
Her arms were about him now,
and she was sobbing on hia shoulder.
“Did some poe tell you about those
had boys?” he asked, wonderingly.
-They have got a flask of whiskey,
“Thank God! you are saved, my
daring!” she cried, hysterically.
She drew him closer to her, she
clung to him, she showered kisses on
his wondering face. But never, un
til he was a man, with son of his
own, did she tell him the history of
that other Willie, whose childhood
and his had been so much alike, and
how by the knowledge of that other
Willie’s unfortunate career, he bad
been saved by her, perhaps, from a
like fat*. ______
I 11 ow he Got a Greek Test a
ment. —The Rev. John Brown, when
a poor shepherd boy, conceived the j
idea of learning Latin and Greek, and
having procured a few old books, act-,
sally accomplished the task while
lending his cattle on the hills. On
une occasion he went to Ediuknrg,
plaided and bar*loot, walked into a
bookseller's store and asked for a
Greek Testament. “What, arc you
getng to do with a Greek Testament?
said the bookseller. “Read it,” was;
the prompt reply. “Road it,” «**-
duns! the bookseller with a smile:
I “ye may have it for nothing if y«’H I
Inmd it. Taking the book, he quiet
ly rrad off a few verses, and gave the
translation, on which he was permit
tod to curry off the Greek Testament j
in triumph
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EDUCATOR
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What Mlvtill wo do with
our Daughters?
Bring them up in the way they
should go.
Give them a good, substantial, com
mon school education.
Teach them how to cook a good
meal of victnals.
Teach them how to wash and iron
olotbes.
Teach them how to darn stockings
and sew on buttons.
Teach them how to make their own
dresses.
Teach them to make shirts.
Teach them to make bread.
Teach them all the mysteries of
the kitchen, the dining-room, and
parlor.
Teach them that a dollar is only
one hundred cents.
Teach them that the less they live
within their income, the nearer they
get to the poor-house.
Teach them to wear calioo dres
ses, and do it like a queen.
Teaoh them that a good, round
rosy romp is worth fifty delicate con
sumtives.
Teach them to wear thick, warm
shoes.
Teach them to do the marketing
for the family.
Teach them to foot up store bills.
Teach them that God made them
in His image, and that no amount of
tight lacing will improve the model.
Teaeh them every-day, hard, prac
tical common sense.
Teach them self-reliance. /
Teach them that a good, eteady
greasy mechanic, without a cent, is
worth a dozen oil-patel loafers in
broadcloth.
Teach them to have nothing to
do with intemperate and dissolute,
young men.
Teach them to climb apple trees,
go fishing cultivate a garden, drive
a road team or a farm wagon.
Teach the accomplishments—music,
drawing, painting—if you have tho
time and monoy to do it with.
Teach them to say no, and mean it)
or yes, and stick to it.
Teach them not to wear false hair.
Teach them to regard the morals,
not the money, of the bean.
Teach the essentials of life—truth,
honesty, uprightness; then, at a suit
able time, let them marry.
Rely upon it, that on your teach
ing depends in a great measure the
weal or woe of their after life.— Ex.
The Great Master.—"l am my
own master!” cried a young man
proudly, when a friend tried to per
suade him from au enterprise which
he had on hand: “I am my own mas
ter!”
“Did you ever consider what a re
sponsible post that is?” asked his
friend.
“Responsible? Is it?”
“A master must lay out the work
which he wants done, and see that it
is done right. lie should try to *•
cure the best ends by the best mean- -
lie must keep on the lookout again -
obstacles and accidents, and waii'it
that everything goes straight, else bo
must fail.”
“To be master of yoursell
your conscience to keep clear, your
heart to cultivate, your temper t >
1 govern, your will to direct, and your
[judgement to instinct. Nou ai ’
j master over a hard lot, and if you
don't master them they will master
you."
“That is so,” said tl»c young man.
“Now I could undertake no such
thing,” said his friend. “1 should fail
sure, if I did. Saul wanted to l>e hia
own master and failed. Herod did.
Judas did. No man is fit for it*
“Oik* is my Master, even Christ. ’
I work under his direction. 11* i*
regulator, ami where lie is Master
all goes right. “One is my master,
eveu Christ,” repeated the young
man slowly and seriously; “every
hody who put* himselt sincerely un
der his leadership wins at last.”