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Children's Edition of Touching Incidents and Remarkable Answers to Prayer by S. B. Shaw

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buying him the fur-trimmed overcoat and get a coat and shoes for Goodman's
children, as they were praying so hard for them, but I have enough to
do without clothing other people's children. If Goodman would quit his
cranky notions and use his talents for people who could understand him,
instead of preaching to those ragamuffins he might now be receiving a
magnificent salary and clothing himself and family decently."

"But Paul," said Mrs. Ellis, "Surely you would not have Mr. Goodman
sacrifice his convictions simply for money and praise, when you yourself,
are convinced that his doctrines are sound? Besides he must be doing a
good work down among the poor classes of the city as it appears the rich
don't want him."

"Then let the poor give enough to keep him."

"They do give far beyond their means but the Lord calls on such as us
to give. I know it has been an unusually hard year but the Lord has
blessed us and He will hold us to an account. I feel very sad as the
anniversary of our darlings' departure draws near and I dread to think
of any little ones suffering while we could so easily help them."

"I don't see how you can feel that we have been so blessed. When the
house is so quiet and I think of those white graves in the cemetery I
confess I feel very bitter."

"Paul, my dear husband, don't feel that way. Just think of our three
treasures in heaven, an added claim to that glorious realm, away from
this cold and suffering. Remember also that we have one left, to live
for, to train. And, Paul, let us train him for the Master and in such a
way that we may never have the feeling that it were better if he, too,
had departed when he was pure and innocent. Let us encourage benevolence
and gentleness and if he wishes to go without the fur-trimmed coat, why
not do as he asks?" Mrs. Ellis kissed her husband and quietly left the

Long and late, Paul Ellis sat there and many things, ghosts of the past,
rose before him. As the midnight chimes rang out he knelt and prayed.
"Oh, Lord, forgive me. I have gone astray and turned to my own way. I
have been prejudiced. It was my influence which turned the tide against
Robert Goodman. Thou knowest. Now, if Thou wilt only forgive and help
me I will walk in the light as Thou sendest it, even consenting to be
called a 'holiness crank.'"

[Illustration: ]

A few days afterward Robert Goodman received a large package from an
unknown friend containing a warm overcoat and three pairs of shoes. His
father also received a present. It came through the mail and was an
honest confession of a wrong done him, also a check for one hundred
dollars. One year later this church gave a unanimous call to Brother
Goodman and the revival which broke out that winter was unprecedented
in the annals of that church. Verily, "A little child shall lead them."

--Luella Watson Kinder, in _Christian Witness_


"If I could only have your faith, gladly would I--but I was born a
skeptic. I cannot look upon God and the future as _you_ do."

So said John Harvey as he walked with a friend under a dripping umbrella.
John Harvey was a skeptic of thirty years standing and apparently hardened
in his unbelief. Everybody had given him up as hopeless. Reasoning ever
so calmly made no impression on the rocky soil of his heart. Alas! it
was sad, very sad!

But one friend had never given him up. When spoken to about him--
"I will talk with and pray for that man until I die," he said; "and I
will have faith that he may yet come out of darkness into the marvelous

And thus whenever he met him (John Harvey was always ready for a "talk,")
Mr. Hawkins pressed home the truth. In answer, on that stormy night, he
said: "God can change a skeptic, John. He has more power over your heart
than you, and I mean still to pray for you."

"Oh, I have no objections, none in the world--seeing is believing, you
know. I'm ready for any miracle; but I tell you it would take nothing
short of a miracle to convince me. Let's change the subject. I'm hungry
and it's too far to go up town to supper on this stormy night. Here's a
restaurant: let us stop here."

How warm and pleasant it looked in the long, brilliant dining saloon!

The two merchants had eaten, and were just on the point of rising when
a strain of soft music came through the open door--a child's sweet voice.

"'Pon my word, that is pretty," said John Harvey; "what purity in those

"Out of here, you little baggage!" cried a hoarse voice, and one of the
waiters pointed angrily to the door.

"Let her come in," said John Harvey.

"We don't allow them in this place, sir," said the waiter, "but she can
go into the reading-room."

"Well, let her go somewhere. I want to hear her," responded the gentleman.

All this time the two had seen the shadow of something hovering backwards
and forwards on the edge of the door; now they followed a slight little
figure, wrapped in a patched cloak, patched hood, and leaving the mark
of wet feet as she walked. Curious to see her face--she was very
small--John Harvey lured her to the farthest part of the great room where
there were but few gentlemen, and then motioned her to sing. The little
one looked timidly up. Her cheek was of olive darkness, but a flush
rested there, and out of the thinnest face, under the arch of broad
temples, deepened by masses of the blackest hair looked two eyes whose
softness and tender pleading would have touched the hardest heart.

"That little thing is sick, I believe," said John Harvey, compassionately.
"What do you sing, child?" he added.

"I sing Italian or a little English."

John Harvey looked at her shoes. "Why," he exclaimed, and his lips
quivered, "her feet are wet to her ankles; she will catch her death of

By this time the child had begun to sing, pushing back her hood, and
folding before her her little thin fingers. Her voice was wonderful; and
simple and common as were both air and words, the pathos of the tones
drew together several of the merchants in the reading-room. The little
song commenced thus:

"There is a happy land,
Far, far away."

Never could the voice, the manner, of that child be forgotten. There
almost seemed a halo around her head; and when she had finished, her
great speaking eyes turned toward John Harvey.

"Look here, child; where did you learn that song?" he asked.

"At the Sunday School, Sir."

"And you don't suppose there is a happy land?"

"I know there is; I'm going to sing there," she said, so quickly, so
decidedly that the men looked at each other.

"Going to sing there?"

"Yes, sir. Mother said so. She used to sing to me until she was very
sick. Then she said she wasn't going to sing any more on earth, but up
in heaven."

"Well--and what then?"

"And then she died, sir," said the child; tears brimming down the dark
cheek now ominously flushed scarlet.

John Harvey was silent for a few moments.

Presently he said: "Well, if she died, my little girl, you may live, you

"Oh, no, sir! no, sir! I'd rather go there; and be with mother. Sometimes
I have a dreadful pain in my side and cough as she did. There won't be
any pain up there, sir; it's a beautiful world!"

"How do you know?" faltered on the lips of the skeptic.

"My mother told me so, sir."

Words how impressive! manner how child-like, and yet so wise!

John Harvey had had a praying mother. His chest labored for a moment--
the sobs that struggled for utterance could be heard even in their
depths--and still those large, soft, lustrous eyes, like magnets impelled
his glance toward them.

"Child you must have a pair of shoes." John Harvey's voice was husky.

Hands were thrust in pockets, purses pulled out, and the astonished child
held in her little palm more money than she had ever seen before.

"Her father is a poor, consumptive organ-grinder," whispered one. "I
suppose he's too sick to be out tonight."

Along the soggy street went the child, under the protection of John
Harvey, but not with shoes that drank the water at every step. Warmth
and comfort were hers now. Down in the deep den-like lanes of the city
walked the man, a little cold hand in his. At an open door they stopped;
up broken, creaking stairs they climbed. Another doorway was opened, and
a wheezing voice called out of the dim arch, "Carletta!"

"O Father! Father! see what I have brought you! Look at me! Look at me"
and down went the silver, and venting her joy, the poor child fell;
crying and laughing together, into the old man's arms.

Was he a man?

A face dark and hollow, all overgrown with hair black as night and
uncombed--a pair of wild eyes--a body bent nearly double--hands like claws.

"Did he give you all this, my child?"

"They all did, Father; now you shall have soup and oranges."

"Thank you, sir--I'm sick, you see--all gone, sir!--had to send the poor
child out, or we'd starve. God bless you, sir! I wish I was well enough
to play you a tune," and he looked wistfully towards the corner where
stood the old organ, baize-covered, the baize in tatters.

One month after that the two men met again as if by agreement, and walked
slowly down town. Treading innumerable passages they came to the gloomy
building where lived Carletta's father.

No--not _lived there_, for as they paused a moment out came two or
three men bearing a pine coffin. In the coffin slept the old organ-grinder.

"It was very sudden, sir," said a woman, who recognized his benefactor.
"Yesterday the little girl was took sick and it seemed as if he drooped
right away. He died at six last night."

The two men went silently up stairs. The room was empty of everything
save a bed, a chair and a nurse provided by John Harvey. The child lay
there, not white, but pale as marble, with a strange polish on her brow.

"Well my little one, are you better?"

"Oh no, sir; Father is gone up there and I am going."

Up _there_! John Harvey turned unconsciously towards his friend.

"Did you ever hear of Jesus?" asked John Harvey's friend.

"Oh yes."

"Do you know who he was?"

"_Good Jesus_," murmured the child.

"Hawkins, this breaks me down," said John Harvey and he placed his
handkerchief to his eyes.

"Don't cry, don't cry; I can't cry, I'm so glad," said the child

"What are you glad for, my dear?" asked John Harvey's friend.

"To get away from here," she said deliberately. "I used to be so cold
in the winter, for we didn't have fire sometimes; but mother used to hug
me close and sing about heaven. Mother told me to never mind and kissed
me and said if I was His, the Savior would love me and one of these days
would give me a better home, and so I gave myself to Him, for I wanted
a better home. And, oh, I shall sing there and be so happy!"

With a little sigh she closed her eyes.

"Harvey, are faith and hope nothing?" asked Mr. Hawkins.

"Don't speak to me, Hawkins; to be as that little child I would give all
I have."

"And to be like her you need give nothing--only your stubborn will, your
skeptical doubts, and the heart that will never know rest till at the
feet of Christ."

There was no answer. Presently the hands moved, the arms were raised,
the eyes opened--yet, glazed though they were they turned still upward.


"See!" she cried; "Oh, there is mother! and angels! and they are all
singing." Her voice faltered, but the celestial brightness lingered yet
on her face.

"There is no doubting the soul-triumph there," whispered Mr. Hawkins.

"It is wonderful," replied John Harvey, looking on both with awe and
tenderness. "Is she gone?"

He sprang from his chair as if he would detain her; but the chest and
forehead were marble now, the eyes had lost the fire of life; she must
have died as she lay looking at them.

"She was always a sweet little thing," said the nurse softly.

John Harvey stood as if spell-bound. There was a touch on his arm; he

"John," said his friend, with an affectionate look, "shall we pray?"


For a minute there was no answer--then came tears; the whole frame of
the subdued skeptic shook as he said--it was almost a cry: "Yes, pray,

And from the side of the dead child went up agonizing pleadings to the
throne of God. And that prayer was answered--the miracle was wrought--
the lion became a lamb--the doubter a believer--the skeptic a Christian!

--A Tract.


[Illustration: "The children saw their fate. They then knelt down and
commenced to pray."]

When the Lawrence Mills were on fire a number of years ago--I don't mean
on fire, but when the mill fell in--the great mill fell in, and after
it had fallen in, the ruins caught fire, there was only one room left
entire, and in it were three Mission Sunday School children imprisoned.
The neighbors and all hands got their shovels and picks and crowbars and
were working to set the children free. It came on night and they had not
yet reached the children. When they were near them, by some mischance
the lantern broke, and the ruins caught fire. They tried to put it out,
but could not succeed. They could talk with the children, and even pass
to them some refreshments, and encourage them to keep up. But, alas, the
flames drew nearer and nearer to the prison. Superhuman were the efforts
made to rescue the children; the men bravely fought back the flames; but
the fire gained fresh strength, and returned to claim its victims. Then
piercing shrieks arose when the spectators saw that the efforts of the
firemen were hopeless. The children saw their fate. They then knelt down
and commenced to sing the little hymn we have all been taught in our
Sunday School days. Oh! how sweet: "Let others seek a home below, which
flames devour and waves overflow." The flames had now reached them; the
stifling smoke began to pour into their little room, and they began to
sink, one by one, upon the floor. A few moments more and the fire circled
around them, and their souls were taken into the bosom of Christ. Yes,
let others seek a home below if they will, but seek ye the Kingdom of
God with all your hearts.

--Moody's Anecdotes


"I came home one night very late," says Brother Matthew Hale Smith (in
his "Marvels of Prayer"), "and had gone to bed to seek needed rest. The
friend with whom I boarded awoke me out of my first refreshing sleep,
and informed me that a little girl wanted to see me. I turned over in
bed and said:

"'I am very tired, tell her to come in the morning and I will see her.'

"My friend soon returned and said:

"'I think you had better get up. The girl is a poor little suffering
thing. She is thinly clad, is without bonnet or shoes. She has seated
herself on the doorstep and says she must see you and will wait till you
get up.'

"I dressed myself and opening the outside door I saw one of the most
forlorn-looking little girls I ever beheld. Want, sorrow, suffering,
neglect, seemed to struggle for the mastery. She looked up to my face
and said:

"'Are you the man that preached last night and said that Christ could
save to the uttermost?'


"'Well, I was there, and I want you to come right down to my house and
try to save my poor father.'

"'What's the matter with your father?'

"'He's a very good father when he don't drink. He's out of work and he
drinks awfully. He's almost killed my poor mother; but if Jesus can save
to the uttermost, He can save him. And I want you to come right to our
house now.'

"I took my hat and followed my little guide who trotted on before, halting
as she turned the corners to see that I was coming. Oh, what a miserable
den her home was! A low, dark, underground room, the floor all slush and
mud--not a chair, table, or bed to be seen. A bitter cold night and not
a spark of fire on the hob and the room not only cold but dark. In the
corner on a little dirty straw lay a woman. Her head was bound up, and
she was moaning as if in agony. As we darkened the doorway a feeble voice
said: 'Oh, my child! my child! why have you brought a stranger into this
horrible place?' Her story was a sad one, but soon told. Her husband,
out of work, maddened with drink and made desperate, had stabbed her
because she did not provide him with a supper that was not in the house.
He was then upstairs and she was expecting every moment that he would
come down and complete the bloody work he had begun. While the conversation
was going on the fiend made his appearance. A fiend he looked. He
brandished the knife, still wet with the blood of his wife.

"The missionary, like the man among the tombs, had himself belonged to
the desperate classes. He was converted at the mouth of a coal pit. He
knew the disease and the remedy--knew how to handle a man on the borders
of delirium tremens.

"Subdued by the tender tones, the mad man calmed down, and took a seat
on a box. But the talk was interrupted by the little girl, who approached
the missionary, and said: 'Don't talk to father; it won't do any good.
If talking would have saved him, he would have been saved long ago.
Mother has talked to him so much and so good. You must ask Jesus, who
saves to the uttermost, to save my poor father.'

"Rebuked by the faith of the little girl, the missionary and the miserable
sinner knelt down together. He prayed as he never prayed before; he
entreated and interceded, in tones so tender and fervent that it melted
the desperate man, who cried for mercy. And mercy came. He bowed in
penitence before the Lord and lay down that night on his pallet of straw
a pardoned soul.

"Relief came to that dwelling. The wife was lifted from her dirty couch,
and her home was made comfortable. On Sunday, the reformed man took the
hand of his little girl and entered the infant class to learn something
about the Savior 'who saves to the uttermost.' He entered upon a new
life. His reform was thorough. He found good employment, for when sober
he was an excellent workman; and next to his Savior, he blesses God for
the faith of his little girl, who believed in a Savior able to save to
the uttermost all that come unto God by him."


[Illustration: She had not talked long until nearly every child in the
room was in tears.]

Several years ago, when residing at G----, we became acquainted with
Sister W---- who was especially fond of children. Her own were grown,
and desiring to make a home for some homeless child, she went to the
county farm, where there were several, in search of one. Among the
children there she found a beautiful, little, bright-eyed girl, about
nine years old, named Ida. Her heart went out to her at once and she
expressed to the lady in charge her desire to take Ida, and her willingness
to care for her as she would if she were her own child.

But the matron said "Oh, you have no idea what a terrible child she is!
We can do nothing with her, she is stubborn and has an awful temper and
it is impossible to control her. We are intending to send her to the
Girl's Reform School."

Sister W---- who was an earnest Christian, was surprised but not
discouraged. She could not bear the thought of such a little child being
sent to such a place and so she said to the matron: "Well, I'd like to
take her with me and see if I cannot help her to be good."

"Well," said the matron, "you can try her if you want to, but you will
be glad to bring her back again."

Acting upon this permission, Sister W---- talked with Ida and easily
gained her consent to go with her. Not many days had passed before she
found that there was considerable reason for what the matron had said.
Ida was hard to control and at times became terribly angry without cause;
but Sister W---- prayed for her and dealt patiently and tenderly with
her and told her how Jesus loved her, and would help her to be good if
she would only give him her heart. Her prayers and loving labor were not
in vain and it was not very long until little Ida was converted. The
change was so great that all who were with her could plainly see that
Jesus had indeed given her a new heart.

Soon after this we had charge of a children's meeting held in a mission
hall in G----. Among the children gathered there were many of the worst
boys in town. Little Ida was present. We knew how much Jesus had done
for her and felt led of the Spirit to ask her to lead the meeting. She
looked up at us much surprised but her little heart was full of the love
of God and she consented to do the best she could. Words cannot describe
what followed. In tears, Ida told, in her own touching way, how Jesus
had saved her--just what a naughty girl she had been before she was
converted but how Jesus had "taken the angry all away" and given her a
new heart so that she loved everybody and loved to do what was right.
Then she pled with them to give their hearts to God, and told them how
Jesus died on the cross for them, and how He loved them and wanted to
save them.

She had not talked long until nearly every child in the room was in
tears, and how shall we describe that touching scene? We had an altar
service. Ida knelt with those who were seeking and prayed for them and
told them how to find Jesus; and right there many were converted and
gave bright, clear testimonies that their sins were forgiven and Jesus
had given them new hearts. Thus did God that day honor a little girl's
testimony and exhortation and fulfill His own work, "A little child shall
lead them."

Very often do we call to mind that scene, and we find it one of the
sweetest of the memories of years of evangelistic work.



Not long ago I stood by the death-bed of a little girl. From her birth
she had been afraid of death. Every fiber of her body and soul recoiled
from the thought of it, "Don't let me die," she said; "don't let me die.
Hold me fast Oh, I can't go!"

"Jennie" I said, "You have two little brothers in the other world, and
there are thousands of tenderhearted people over there, who will love
you and take care of you."

But she cried out again despairingly: "Don't let me go; they are strangers
over there." She was a little country girl, strong limbed, fleet of foot,
tanned in the face; she was raised on the frontier, the fields were her
home. In vain we tried to reconcile her to the death that was inevitable.
"Hold me fast," she cried; "don't let me go." But even as she was pleading,
her little hands relaxed their clinging hold from my waist, and lifted
themselves eagerly aloft; lifted themselves with such straining effort,
that they lifted the wasted little body from its reclining position among
the pillows. Her face was turned upward, but it was her eyes that told
the story. They were filled with the light of Divine recognition. They
saw something plainly that we could not see; and they grew brighter and
brighter, and her little hand quivered in eagerness to go, where strange
portals had opened upon her astonished vision. But even in that supreme
moment she did not forget to leave a word of comfort for those who would
gladly have died in her place: "Mama," she was saying, "Mama, they are
not strangers. I'm not afraid." And every instant the light burned more
gloriously in her blue eyes till at last it seemed as if her soul leaped
forth upon its radiant waves; and in that moment her trembling form
relapsed among its pillows and she was gone.

--_Chicago Woman's World_


A little girl in a wretched tenement in New York stood by her mother's
death-bed, and heard her last words: "Jessie, find Jesus."

When her mother was buried, her father took to drink, and Jessie was
left to such care as a poor neighbor could give her. One day she wandered
off unnoticed, with a little basket in her hand, and tugged through one
street after another, not knowing where she went. She had started out
to find Jesus. At last she stopped from utter weariness, in front of a
saloon. A young man staggered out of the door, and almost stumbled over
her. He uttered passionately the name of Him whom she was seeking. "Where
is He?" she inquired eagerly. He looked at her in amazement.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"Will you please tell me where Jesus Christ is? for I _must_ find
Him"--this time with great earnestness.

The young man looked at her curiously for a minute without speaking, and
then his face sobered; and he said in a broken, husky voice, hopelessly:
"I don't know, child; I don't know where he is."


At length the little girl's wanderings brought her to the park. A woman
evidently a Jewess, was leaning against the railing, looking disconsolately
at the green grass and the trees.

Jessie went up to her timidly. "Perhaps she can tell me where He is,"
was the child's thought. In a low, hesitating voice, she asked the woman:
"Do you know Jesus Christ?"

The Jewess turned fiercely to face her questioner and in a tone of
suppressed passion, exclaimed: "Jesus Christ is dead!" Poor Jessie trudged
on, but soon a rude boy jostled against her, and snatching her basket
from her hand, threw it into the street.


Crying, she ran to pick it up. The horses of a passing street car trampled
her under their feet--and she knew no more till she found herself stretched
on a hospital bed.

When the doctors came that night, they knew she could not live until
morning. In the middle of the night, after she had been lying very still
for a long time, apparently asleep, she suddenly opened her eyes and the
nurse, bending over her, heard her whisper, while her face lighted up
with a smile that had some of heaven's own gladness in it: "Oh, Jesus, I
have found you at last!"

Then the tiny lips were hushed, but the questioning spirit had received
an answer.



A friend of mine, seeking for objects of charity, got into the room of
a tenement house. It was vacant. He saw a ladder pushed through the
ceiling. Thinking that perhaps some poor creature had crept up there,
he climbed the ladder, drew himself up through the hole and found himself
under the rafters. There was no light but that which came through a
bull's-eye in the place of a tile. Soon he saw a heap of chips and
shavings, and on them a boy about ten years old.

"Boy, what are you doing there?"

"Hush! don't tell anybody--please, sir."

"What are you doing here?"

"Don't tell anybody, sir; I'm hiding."

"What are you hiding from?"

"Don't tell anybody, if you please, sir."

"Where's your mother?"

"Mother is dead."

"Where's your father?"

"Hush! don't tell him! don't tell him! but look here!" He turned himself
on his face and through the rags of his jacket and shirt my friend saw
the boy's flesh was bruised and the skin broken.


"Why, boy, who beat you like that?"

"Father did, sir."

"What did your father beat you like that for?"

"Father got drunk sir, and beat me 'cos I wouldn't steal."

"Did you ever steal?"

"Yes, sir, I was a street thief once."

"And why don't you steal any more?"

"Please, sir, I went to the mission school, and they told me there of
God and of Heaven and of Jesus and they taught me, 'Thou shalt not steal,'
and I'll never steal again, if father kills me for it. But, please sir,
don't tell him."

"My boy, you mast not stay here; you will die. Now you wait patiently
here for a little time; I'm going away to see a lady. We will get a
better place for you than this."

"Thank you sir, but please, sir, would you like to hear me sing a little

Bruised, battered, forlorn; friendless, motherless; hiding away from an
infuriated father he had a little hymn to sing.

"Yes, I will hear you sing your little hymn." He raised himself on his
elbow and then sang:

"Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,
Look upon a little child;
Suffer me to come to Thee.
Fain would I to Thee be brought,
Gracious Lord, forbid it not;
In the Kingdom of Thy grace
Give a little child a place."

"That's the little hymn, sir; Goodbye."

The gentleman went away, came back again in less than two hours and
climbed the ladder. There were the chips and there was the little toy
with one hand by his side and the other tucked in his bosom underneath
the little ragged shirt--dead.

-John B. Gough.


Very tiny and pale the little girl looked as she stood before those three
grave and dignified gentlemen. She had been ushered into Brother Gordon's
study, where he was holding counsel with two of his deacons, and now,
upon inquiry into the nature of her errand a little shyly she stated
that she desired to be baptized.

"You are quite too young to be baptized," said one of the deacons, "you
had better run home, and let us talk to your mother."

She showed no sign of running however, as her wistful blue eyes traveled
from one face to another of the three gentlemen sitting in their
comfortable chairs; she only drew a step nearer to Brother Gordon. He
arose, and with gentle courtesy that ever marked him, placed her in a
small chair close beside himself.

"Now, my child, tell me your name, and where you live."

"Winnie Lewis sir, and I live on ---- Street. I go to Sunday school."

"You do; and who is your teacher?"

"Miss ----. She is very good to me."

"And you want to be baptized."

The child's face glowed as she leaned eagerly toward him, clasping her
hands, but all she said was, "Yes, sir."

"She cannot be more than six years old," said one of the deacons, disapp

Brother Gordon said nothing, but quietly regarded the small, earnest
face, now becoming a little downcast. "I am nine years old; older than
I look," she said.

"It is unusual for anyone to be baptized so young," he said, thoughtfully,
"We might pray for you though."


The brother did not seem to hear as he asked, "You know what being
baptized means, Winnie?"

"Yes sir"; and she answered a few questions that proved she comprehended
the meaning of the step she wished to take. She had slipped off her
chair, and now stood close to Brother Gordon's knee.

"I want to obey all of God's Word. You said last Sunday, sir, that the
lambs should be in the fold."

"I did," he answered, with one of his own lovely smiles. "It is surely
not for us to keep them out. Go home now, my child. I will see about it."

The cloud lifted from the child's face, and her expression, as she passed
through the door he opened for her, was one of entire peace.

The next week Winnie's desire was granted. Except for occasional
information from Miss ---- that she was doing well, Brother Gordon heard
no more of her for six months.

Then he was summoned to her funeral.

It was one of June's hottest days. As the minister made his way along
the narrow street where Winnie had lived, he wished for a moment that
he had asked his assistant to come in his place; but as he neared the
house, the crowd filled him with wonder; progress was hindered, and as
perforce he paused for a moment, his eye fell on a crippled lad crying
bitterly as he sat on a low door-step.

"Did you know Winnie Lewis, my lad?" he asked.

"Know her, is it sir? Never a week passed but what she came twice or
thrice with a picture or book, mayhaps an apple for me, an' it's owing
to her an' no clargy at all that I'll ever follow her blessed footsteps
to heaven. She'd read me from her own Bible whenever she came, an' now
she's gone there'll be none at all to help me, for mother's dead an'
dad's drunk, an' the sunshine's gone from Mike's sky intirely with Winnie,

A burst of sobs choked the boy; Brother Gordon passed on, after promising
him a visit very soon, and made his way through the crowd of tear-stained,
sorrowful faces. The Brother came to a stop on the narrow passageway of
the little house. A woman stood beside him drying her fast falling tears
while a wee child hid his face in her skirts and wept.

"Was Winnie a relative of yours?" the brother asked.

"No, sir; but the blessed child was at our house constantly, and when
Bob here was sick she nursed and tended him and her hymns quieted him
when nothing else seemed to do it. It was just the same with all the
neighbors. She took tracts to them all and has prayed with them ever
since she was converted, which was three years ago, when she was but six
years of age, sir. What she's been to us all no one but the Lord will
ever know and now she lies there."

Recognized at last, Brother Gordon was led to the room where the child
lay at rest, looking almost younger than when he had seen her in his
study six months before. An old bent woman was crying aloud by the coffin.

"I never thought she'd go afore I did. She used regular to read an' sing
to me every evening, an' it was her talk an' prayers that made a Christian
of me: you could a'most go to heaven on one of her prayers."

"Mother, mother come away," said a young man putting his arm around her
to lead her back. "You'll see her again."

"I know, I know: she said she'd wait for me at the gate," she sobbed as
she followed him; "but I miss her sore now."

"It's the old lady as Mrs. Lewis lived with sir," said a young lad
standing next to Brother Gordon, as one and another still pressed up
towards the little casket for a last look at the beloved face. "She was
a Unitarian, and she could not hold out against Winnie's prayers and
pleadings to love Jesus, and she's been trusting in Him now for quite
awhile. A mighty good thing it is, too."

"You are right, my lad," replied the minister. "Do you trust Him, too?"

"Winnie taught me, sir," the lad made answer, and sudden tears filled
his eyes.

[Illustration: "Mother, mother, come away." said a young man, putting
his arm around her to lead her back. "You'll see her again."]

A silence fell on those assembled, and, marveling at such testimony,
Brother Gordon proceeded with the service feeling as if there was little
more he could say of one whose deeds thus spoke for her. Loving hands
had laid flowers all around the child who had led them. One tiny lassie
placed a dandelion in the small waxen fingers and now stood, abandoned
to grief beside the still form that bore the impress of absolute purity.
The service over, again and again was the coffin lid waved back by some
one longing for another look, and they seemed as if they could not let
her go.

The next day a good-looking man came to Brother Gordon's house and was
admitted into his study.

"I am Winnie's uncle, sir," he said simply. "She never rested till she
made me promise to get saved, and I've come."

"Will you tell me about it, my friend?" said Brother Gordon.

"Well, you see, sir, it was this way. Winnie always had been uncommonly
fond of me; and so was I of her,"--his voice broke a little--"and I'd
never been saved, never felt, as I believed, quite right. Yet I knew her
religion was true enough, and a half hour before she died she had the
whole family with her, telling them she was going to Jesus, and she took
my hand between her little ones and said, 'Uncle John, you will love
Jesus and meet me in Heaven, won't you?' What could I do? It broke me
all up, and I've come to ask you, sir; what to do so's to keep my promise
to Winnie, for she was an angel if there ever was one. Why, sir, we were
all sitting with her in the dark, and there was a light about that child
as though it shone from Heaven. We all noticed it, every one of us, and
when she drew her last breath and left us, the radiance went, too; it was
gone, quite gone."

The man wept like a child, and for a minute Brother Gordon did not speak.
Within a month the uncle was thoroughly converted, baptized, and a sincere
follower of Christ. In the evening after this baptism, Brother Gordon
sat reading in his study, thinking of his little child. "It is truly a
wonderful record! Would we had more like her. Why do we not help the
children to get saved, letting them feel that they are really one with
us? We need their help fully as much as they need ours. 'Take heed that
ye despise not one of these little ones; for I say unto you, That in
heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in

--L. C. W. _Copyright by B. Wood_, 1895.


Johnny Hall was a poor boy. His mother worked hard for their daily bread.
"Please give me something to eat, for I am very hungry," he said to her
one evening.

His mother let the work that she was sewing fall upon her knees, and
drew Johnny toward her. As she kissed him the tears fell fast on his
face, while she said, "Johnny, my dear, I have not a penny in the world.
There is not a morsel of bread in the house, and I cannot give you any

Johnny did not cry when he heard this. He was only a little fellow but
he had learned the lesson of trusting in God's promises. He had great
faith in the sweet words of Jesus when he said, "Whatsoever ye shall ask
the Father in my name he will give it you."

"Never mind, mama; I shall soon be asleep, and then I shall not feel
hungry. But you must sit here and sew, hungry and cold. Poor mama!" he
said, as he threw his arms around her neck and kissed her many times to
comfort her.

Then he knelt down at his mother's knee to say his prayers after her.
They said "Our Father," till they came to the petition, "Give us this
day our daily bread." The way in which his mother said these words made
Johnny's heart ache. He stopped and looked at her, and repeated with his
eyes full of tears. "Give us this day our daily bread."


When they got through he looked at his mother and said, "Now mother, do
not be afraid. We shall never be hungry any more. God is our Father. He
has promised to hear us, and I am sure he will."

Then he went to bed. Before midnight he woke up, while his mother was
still at work, and asked if the bread had come yet. She said "No; but I
am sure it will come."

In the morning, before Johnny was awake, a gentleman called who wanted
his mother to come to his house and take charge of his two motherless
children. She agreed to go. He left some money with her. She went out
at once to buy some things for breakfast; and when Johnny awoke, the
bread was there, and all that he needed!

Johnny is now a man, but he has never wanted bread from that day; and
whenever he was afraid since then, he has remembered God's promises, and
trusted in him.

--_Lutheran Herald_


Some years ago we knew a Brother and Sister G----, who told of the
remarkable experience of their little girl, only seven years old, who
had a short time ago gone home to heaven. The parents were devoted
Christians who had taught their children to love and honor God. During
little Ella's illness she manifested wonderful patience and told of her
love for Jesus. The morning she died she called her papa and mama to her
side and said: "I have been in heaven all night. My room is full of
angels and Jesus is here. I'm going to heaven." Then she asked them to
promise to meet her there. As soon as they could control their feelings
they made her the promise. Then she kissed them and called for her little
brother and sister and other friends. She talked with each one in turn,
telling them in substance, the same she had told her papa and mama,
asking each one to make her the same promise, and kissing each one
good-bye. That was a touching scene. Those who were there said it seemed
more like heaven than earth to be in her presence. In the midst of many
tears all promised her they would surely meet her in that bright and
beautiful home to which she was going. Just before she died she asked
her mama to dress her in white and also to dress her doll in white and
put it by her side in her coffin. Then she folded her own little hands
and closed her eyes and said, "Jesus is calling me and I must go now.
Good-bye," and she was gone.

Little Ella's death was glorious and she is not the only one that has
left us such bright, joyous testimony. We have ourselves known of many
children and older ones who had quite similar experiences. And though
we may not all see, before we die, all that Ella saw, if we love Jesus
and do what he asks us to, he will surely fulfill to each of us his
promise: "I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a
place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where
I am, there you may be also."


[Illustration: "I have been in heaven all night. My room is full of
angels and Jesus is here."]



Into her chamber went
A little girl one day,
And by a chair she knelt,
And thus began to pray:--

"Jesus, my eyes I close,
Thy form I cannot see;
If Thou art near me, Lord,
I pray Thee to speak to me."

A still, small voice she heard within her soul--
"What is it child? I hear thee; tell the whole."

"I pray thee, Lord," she said,
"That Thou wilt condescend
To tarry in my heart
And ever be my Friend.

"The path of life is dark,
I would not go astray;
Oh, let me have Thy hand
To lead me in the way."

"Fear not; I will not leave thee, child, alone."
She thought she felt a soft hand press her own.

"They tell me, Lord, that all
The living pass away;
The aged soon must die,
And even children may.

"Oh, let my parents live
Till I a woman grow;
For if they die, what can
A little orphan do?"

"Fear not, my child; whatever ill may come
I'll not forsake thee till I bring thee home."

Her little prayer was said,
And from her chamber now
She passed forth with the light
Of heaven upon her brow.

"Mother, I've seen the Lord,
His hand in mine I felt,
And, oh, I heard Him say,
As by my chair I knelt--

"'Fear not, my child; whatever ill may come
I'll not forsake thee till I bring thee home.'"


Jimmy was lying on an old cot out in the orchard, getting some of the
nice spring sunshine on his thin body. There was an anxious frown on his
face now, and every little while he would turn on his side, look through
the orchard, and call "Kittv kitty! kitty! Annette, Come, Ann-ette."

But Annette did not come. His mother came and reminded him that Annette
was very old indeed, and it might be that she would never come again.

"She was here yesterday, Mother," he answered her, and the big tears
came to his eyes "She felt perfectly fine then."

"I know, but she's an old cat. She never strays away of her own accord,
and certainlv no one would steal an old blind cat."

Later on during the day a man came walking up to their house. He introduced
himself as the new neighbor who just moved across the little creek. He
made inquiries as to where he could buy fresh vegetables and milk. And
just as he was about to leave he remarked, "I did a strange thing early
this morning. There was an old cat came over to my place. One ear was
almost gone and it was blind. I'm not much of a hand to make way with
things, but I felt so sorry for that poor old animal that I killed it."

"Oh!" With a strangled sob Jimmy quickly left the room.

His mother explained to the man it had been their old pet. He was very
sorry, but of course that did not bring the cat back.

"When I saw it, I just banged it over the head with a stick and then
buried it. You will never know how badly I feel about it."

When he was gone, mother went out to find Jimmy and comfort him. He was
out in the orchard on his knees. Quietly she went up and knelt beside
him, slipping her arm about his shoulder.

He turned to her at once. "Mother, there's something funny about Annette.
I've been praying and I feel all happy inside. It's just as if she wasn't
dead at all!"

"What would we ever do without our Comforter, son?" she said. "He does
help us bear our burdens in a wonderful way."

"I'll say he does. This morning I felt so bad I didn't know what to do,
and then when that man said--he had killed Annette--I thought I just
could not stand it. And here I am happy as anything again. And just
because I took it all to Jesus. I think Annette is all right now."

"She was very old, son. It wouldn't have been much longer anyway.

But Jimmy was running swiftly across the field toward an old blind cat
that was staggering in his direction.

Apparently the new neighbor had only stunned the cat and she had dug her
way out of the shallow hole and come home again.

It was years before she really died, and long before she presented Jimmy
with a very tiny kitten with two whole ears and two very bright eyes.

This story may sound strange to you, so perhaps I had better add that
it is really true.

--Mary M. Naylor.


God often uses children to win grown folks for Christ. Little children
not only have a deep faith but a childlike trust in believing that God
answers their prayers. "All that ye ask in my name, _believing, that
ye shall receive_."

As a young girl, I went to Sunday School and learned about Jesus. Although
I knew about my Savior and what He had done to save me, yet I never
accepted Him as _my own Redeemer_ and Friend.

As years went by, I went into sin and shared in the common sins of worldly
people. I knew better than to do the things I did, but sin is a miry
clay pulling its victims down deeper and deeper. For ten years I never
entered a church house except to attend my father's funeral. I saw him
go into eternity without being able to point him to the "Lamb of God
which taketh away the sin of the world."

During these years I had married and God had given us a dear little boy.
Donald began to attend Sunday School early in years. Often on Sunday
mornings he would get ready for Sunday School after a sleepless night.
Wild parties were a part of the ungodly life we lived in our home.
Sometimes I took him to the church house door and there he would beg me
to come in and meet the Christian people who, he said, would be so glad
to see me.

Donald learned much of the Scriptures. He would pray and ask God's
blessings at the table. In Aug. 1932 we were living in Minneapolis. One
evening in particular I shall not forget. I was in an apartment below
the one in which we lived, partaking in a drunken party. Donald was then
12 years old. He suffered over my sins and came to the door to call me.
I promised him to come up soon, but I continued on for some hours with
the drunken crowd. When I did come up to our apartment I found Donald
on his knees by his bed with his Testament and an old hymn book of my
mother-in-law's. The books were open on the bed. He looked up through
his tears and said, "Mother, I am praying for you." I looked at the
Testament and hymnal which were wet with tears that he had shed for his
ungodly mother. On September 15th, following this experience I went to
a mission. That night a group of Christians united in asking God for my
soul. When the song, "Lord, I'm coming home," was sung after the service
I made my way to the altar. While kneeling there I felt someone very
close to my side. It was Donald who was praying for his mother. God heard
my prayer to be saved. He was merciful and washed away my sins. Psalm
51 has become precious to me.

God saved me for service. I marvel at his grace and mercy toward me. I
cannot cease to thank Him for picking me up out of the miry clay. I am
thankful also for my little boy who never ceased to pray for his mother.
Now, my life is in God's hands. I want to help others find the Savior.
I am especially burdened for others in the bondage of sin as I was. But
even more than that, I am burdened for children who have no opportunity
of knowing Jesus as their personal Savior.

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