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standing near one of the large iron posts crying their afternoon
papers. I tarried near them because I was waiting for a particular car.
One little fellow said to the other,——
“How many papers have you sold to-day, Tommie?”
“Nearly one hundred an’ fifty,” was Tommie’s quick reply.
“Honor bright?”
“Yes; honor bright.”
“Whoopee! but ain’t you in big luck, Tommie?”
“Luck!” exclaimed Tommie, wiping the perspiration from his brow.
“There ain’t no luck about it; I’ve just been everlastingly at it since
four o’clock this morning—that’s all!”
And that is the all of real success. Those who achieve success are
“everlastingly at” what they are trying to do. Tommie was right in
declining to have his hard and honest work cheapened by calling the
result of it luck.
“You are the luckiest chap I ever saw,” I once heard a little boy
about sixteen years say to another boy of about the same age.
“Why do you say that?” asked the other.
“Because you have had your salary raised twice in the same year.”
“Well,” was the reply, “you may call it luck; but I don’t. I have
always done my work the very best I knew how. I have never once in
the whole year been a single minute late in getting to the office, nor
have I ever left a single minute before it was time for me to leave.
When I have worked over-time, I have not made any fuss about it.
My boss said when he raised my salary last week that he had taken
these things into account. So, I don’t see where the luck comes in.”
“All the same,” said the first boy, “some bosses wouldn’t have
raised your salary.”
“Then I would have the satisfaction of knowing that I had done my
duty.”
Boys, I tell you that’s right. Nine out of ten employers know that it
is to their advantage to show appreciation of faithful work and they
show it. When this appreciation comes luck has had nothing to do
with it. The thing that passes for luck is in nearly all cases the just
reward of honest endeavor.
 Do not, therefore, start out in life with the expectation that some
“lucky turn” will bring you sudden honor or wealth or position
without any effort on your part. Substitute that fine old word “work”
for that deceitful word “luck,” and base your hopes of future success
and usefulness upon the honorable labor that it is a God-given
privilege for every well and strong and right-minded boy to give his
heart and hands to performing.
 III.
AN EVENING AT HOME.

Boys and girls between the ages of eleven and seventeen ought to
spend their evenings at home, as much as possible. In these busy,
bustling twentieth century days, there are many families—so much
the worse for them—that scarcely know what it is to spend an
evening at home together. Not only the young people but the older
people are “on the go.” The evenings are crowded with calls and
invitations, which come from far and near. It is nothing to go five or
even ten miles to an evening concert or social gathering, the trolley is
so near, so cheap and so universal. But I tell you, boys and girls, no
matter what the pleasure or amusement afforded—no matter what
the instruction or culture received—there are no social or similar
opportunities good enough to displace the home circle. The sooner
young people realize this the happier they will be.

An Evening at Home.

Boys and girls ought to plan for some evenings at home. Let other
things have a share, but do not give up all the time to other things.
Once a week the young people ought to arrange for an evening at
home. Decline everything else for that evening, the same as you
would for any other engagement. Gather the family together. Make a
special place for grandma and grandpa. Sing merry songs; play
innocent and amusing games; take time to tell the home folks about
some of the things that you do and that you have seen in the world;
get acquainted with the home folks; be delighted in their delight; by
special appointment, spend one or two cheerful hours with the folks
at home each week.
The young folks themselves should take the lead in this matter. A
home is not merely a place with four walls where people meet to eat
and drink and sleep securely beneath a roof. Nay, boys and girls, a
house is reared to be a home—the center where a family may gather
into one; to be a serene retreat where the tenderest affections may
find rest; where love may have a dwelling place, and the amenities of
life gain ample scope; where parents and children may press one
another heart to heart; where sorrows and joys may be freely shared
in sacred confidence; in a word, where the great work of training
human beings for the duties of the present life, and the perfection of
another, may be begun and carried on.
There is one special reason for making much of the evenings at
home that young people are not likely to think of. Inevitably the
family circle will be broken up very soon. Perhaps not by death, but
most certainly by change. When Fred goes to college that is the
beginning of new ties and new associations, and the home privileges
can never be quite so complete to him again. The years of the
complete unity of the home are very few indeed. While these years
are passing, young people especially should make the most of them.
My dear boys and girls, get the benefit of these years; get their joys;
store up memories of home life, for they will be in future years the
most beautiful pictures of the heart. However some may sneer at it,
the memory of home and mother is a great power for righteousness.
It has saved many a person to God and native land and race.
“Be it ever so humble—
There’s no place like home.”
 IV.
[1]
THE MAKING OF A MAN.

Mr. Stamps, seated near the table, was glancing over the afternoon
paper. Mrs. Stamps, in an easy chair, was doing some fancy work.
Little Bobby, six years old, more or less, was playing with his toys on
the floor. All at once the precocious little boy stopped short in the
middle of his sport and, looking up at his mother, asked,—
“Mama, who made the world?”
“God,” replied Mrs. Stamps, sweetly.
“Who made the sea?” continued Bobby.
Mrs. Stamps answered, “God.”
“Well,” said Bobby, “did God make everything?”
“Yes, my son; the Lord made everything.”
“And did he make everybody?”
“Yes; the Lord made everybody.”
Bobby was silent for a moment. Presently he looked anxiously at
his father, and then, turning to his mother, he asked,—
“Mama, did God make papa, too?”
“Yes; God made papa also.”
After a lengthy pause Bobby asked,—
 Bobby and His “Man.”

“Mama, do you think that I could make a man, if I was to try real
hard?”
“You had better run out to play now, Bobby,” said Mrs. Stamps,
somewhat non-plused by her son’s curiosity.
Bobby left the room almost immediately. He went straight to the
beach in front of the house, and labored long and earnestly in piling
up some wet sand. Pretty soon he was joined in his work by two
other little boys. For some time the three little fellows worked
vigorously in piling up the mud. Mrs. Stamps called her husband to
the window, so that he might see what the boys were doing.
“Wife,” said Mr. Stamps, “I believe those little Satans are trying to
make a man.”
Toward sunset Bobby ran into the house and exclaimed with
delight,—
“Mama, we’ve got our man almost finished. We didn’t have but one
marble, and we used that for one of his eyes. I came in to ask you to
give me a marble, so that we might put in his other eye.”
“It’s too late to bother now, Bobby,” said Mrs. Stamps. “Wait until
to-morrow morning; then I will give you a marble and let you finish
your man.”
The next morning, bright and early, Bobby went out to look for his
man. Lo and behold! the sea had washed the man away during the
night. But, Bobby, of course, did not suspect that. He thought that
the man had gone away of his own accord. So the little fellow spent
the entire morning looking for his man. He looked under the house;
he looked in the stable; he went up to the garret; he walked up and
down the beach; he went into the woods—looking for his man. But
his man was nowhere to be found.
Two or three weeks later an African Methodist Episcopal
Conference assembled in Bobby’s town. Among the ministers present
there happened to be a short, chubby, tan-colored brother with only
one eye. When Bobby spied him he examined the man curiously and
cautiously from head to foot. The examination ended, Bobby
concluded that that was his man. At once the little fellow left his
mother and went over and took a seat beside the man. Bobby’s
mother was somewhat embarrassed. The man was evidently pleased,
although, to be sure, he himself was not quite certain why he should
be an object of special interest to the little boy. The man went to the
secretary’s table to have his name enrolled—Bobby went with him.
He went into the vestibule to get a drink of water—and Bobby
followed him there. But all the while the man was still in doubt as to
the cause of the little boy’s apparent affection. By this time,
thoroughly exasperated, Bobby’s mother decided to go home. She
approached the pew in a very ladylike manner and said,—
“Bobby, dear, come; we must be going home now.”
“All right, Mama,” said Bobby in dead earnest, “but you will please
let me take my man home with me—won’t you? I just found him to-
day, and you know I’ve been looking for him for over two weeks!”
Then, for the first time, it suddenly dawned upon Mrs. Stamps
what was the matter with Bobby. In spite of herself she laughed
heartily at the boy’s perversity. Finding that his mother hesitated to
reply, Bobby turned to the man and said,—
“Come on: we’re going home now. Why did you leave before I
finished you?”
 V.
FALSE PRIDE.

Once upon a time the head clerk in a carpet store requested one of
his junior clerks to go to a patron’s home to measure a room, and
suggested that he take along a five-yard sample. The junior clerk
objected to “carting” such a big bundle, as he said, “all over town,”
and asked that one of the boys be sent with it. The proprietor of the
establishment, who happened to overhear the remark, privately told
the head clerk to inform the proud young fellow that a boy would be
sent on after him with the roll. Shortly after the young man reached
the house, the proprietor of the establishment covered him with
confusion by appearing at the house in person with the roll of carpet
under his arm. Handing the bundle to the bewildered young man,
the proprietor remarked:
“Here is the carpet, young man. I hope I have not kept you waiting
for it. If you have any other orders, I’ll take them now.”
 “Here is the Carpet,
Young Man. I Hope I
Have Not Kept You
Waiting.”

A young woman of my acquaintance refused to carry home a yeast

cake, though it was needed at once for the family baking and she was
bound directly homeward. She said that she wasn’t a delivery wagon,
and so the yeast cake had to be sent to her home.
A great many foolish young people are so absorbingly regardful of
their trim appearance on the street that they will never under any
circumstances carry a basket or bundle, however much
inconvenience they may cause others by refusing to do so.

Now, it is not proper pride or self-respect which prompts people to

act as the young folks acted whom I have just referred to. It is
silliness which prompts them to act so. Any honest work is honorable
that is honorably done, and you will notice that young people of good
social position and strength of character are above such pettiness.
Only inferior people act that way. Superior people do not act so,
because they are well aware that they cannot be compromised by
doing straightforwardly, without fuss or apology, whatever needs to
be done. Yet, I admit, that it seems to be human nature that whatever
is distasteful or supposedly menial should be done by somebody else.
When young people, or old people for that matter, are tempted to be
foolish in such things they should remember the lesson of humility
that Christ taught his disciples, when in that warm Oriental country,
where only sandals are worn, He performed the necessary service of
washing the disciples’ feet. For us to be above our business—for us to
think ourselves too good or too dainty to soil our hands with honest
toil—for us to feel that it is a lowering of our dignity to carry a bundle
through the street, is to prove by our conduct that we are not up to
the level of our business, that we are possessed of a great amount of
false pride, and, in a higher sense, it shows that we have a foolish and
wicked distaste of true service. There is nothing low, nothing
degrading, nothing disgraceful, in honest labor, in honest work of
any kind, whether it be to boil an egg properly, to sweep a floor well,
to carry a bundle or package through the streets, or bring a pail of
water. In fact, if somebody were to say that “chores” done or undone
are the making or the unmaking of boys and girls, it would be a
homely way of putting an important truth. Bringing up coal or
bringing in wood, weeding the garden bed, running errands, washing
dishes, sewing seams, dusting furniture, doing any odd jobs where
there is need, cheerfully, faithfully—these lead to the highway of
greater opportunities and are the usual avenues to the only manhood
and womanhood that is worth having. My young friends, the castle of
your noblest dream is built out of what lies nearest at hand. It is the
uncommonly good use of common things, the everyday
opportunities, that makes honored lives, and helps us, and helps us
to help others, along the sun-road. “He that is faithful in that which
is least is faithful also in much.” “Pride goeth before destruction, and
a haughty spirit before a fall.”
 VI.
THANKSGIVING AT PINEY GROVE.

The people of the Piney Grove settlement, both white and black,
had been free for nearly a generation. The whites had been freed
from the curse of being slave-holders, and the blacks had been freed
from the curse of being held in bondage. But never in the history of
this little town, in the very heart of the so-called “Black Belt” of
Georgia, had the people known anything about the proper
observance of Thanksgiving Day until 189–. And in that year the
revolution was brought about by a young colored woman named
Grace Wilkins.
Grace Wilkins was the only daughter of Solomon and Amanda
Wilkins. Solomon and his wife were farmers—plain, simple, ordinary
country folk. Amanda was literally her husband’s helpmeet. She went
along with him every morning to the field, and, in season, chopped as
much wood, picked as much cotton, hoed as much corn, pulled as
much fodder, and plowed as much as her husband did. Up to her
fourteenth year Grace had been reared on a farm, and had learned to
do all the things that any farmer’s child has to do—such as milking
cows, feeding hogs and chickens, hoeing cotton and corn, picking
cotton, pulling fodder and the like. In her fourteenth year, acting
upon the advice of an uneducated colored preacher, her parents sent
Grace away from home to attend one of the great normal and
industrial institutes for the training of the black boys and girls of the
South.
 Grace Before Going to
School.

At first her mother and father were filled with forebodings. It was
the first time that they had ever allowed their daughter to be away
from them, and they missed her so much and longed for her so
constantly that they thought that they had made a mistake in sending
her off to “boardin’ school.” Ignorant and superstitious neighbors,
though they knew as little about such matters as did Solomon and
Amanda, were loud in saying that “Sol” and “Mandy” would live to
regret the step they had taken in sending Grace away from home.
The only rays of sunshine that came in to brighten these periods of
mental unrest and gloom on the part of Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins were
found in the letters which they received regularly from their
daughter. Grace invariably informed her parents, whenever she
wrote, that she was “well an’ doin’ well.” Thus reassured from time to
time, Solomon and Amanda managed somehow to undergo the
terrible strain of having their daughter absent from them for eight
months. But meantime they were firmly of the opinion that, once
they got their hands on her again, they would never allow Grace to
return to school.
With glad and thankful hearts Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins joyously
embraced their daughter when she came home at the close of her
first year in school. With keen and genuine interest, they listened to
her wonderful accounts of the great school and of the great man at
the head of it. Grace dressed differently and talked differently; and
her mother said, speaking one day in confidence to her husband
shortly after Grace’s return, “Dat gal’s sho got a new walk on her!”
Grace Wilkins brought back a toothbrush with her from school.
That was something which she had never had before. She used that
toothbrush every morning and night. That was something that she
had never done before. She was now careful to keep her hair well
combed every day. That was something that she had been
accustomed to do on Sundays only or on special occasions. She
washed her face two or three times a day now, as her mother and
father noticed. Before she went to school she had been in the habit of
giving her face, as the old people say, “a lick and a promise” early
each morning. Besides, Grace kept the house cleaner than she had
kept it before. She brought home with her a brand-new Bible which
she read regularly at home and always carried to church and Sunday
school. She also had a song book called “Jubilee Songs and
Plantation Melodies,” and it gladdened the hearts of the good “old
folks at home” to hear their daughter sing from a book some of the
very songs that they had sung all their lifetime and which were so
dear to them.
All these things and others made a deep and abiding impression
upon Solomon and his wife. And finding that withal their daughter
was just as loving and kind as she had been before, and that she was
just as industrious and faithful as formerly, Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins
were not long in deciding that their daughter should go back to that
school another year, and that they would work hard and stint
themselves in order that they might keep her there until she had
finished the normal course.
So back to school Grace Wilkins went—that year, and the next
year, and the next. It was the proudest day in Solomon’s and
Amanda’s lives when they sat in the magnificent chapel of the school
and heard their daughter read her graduation essay on “The Gospel
of Service.” Glad tears welled up in their eyes when they heard the
principal call their daughter’s name, and then saw Grace step up to
receive her certificate of graduation.
Coming back to Piney Grove to live, “Miss Gracie”—everybody
called her that after graduation—established a little school which she
called “The Piney Grove Academy.” It was the first public school for
colored children ever opened within the corporate limits of the little
village. Before that the schools were district schools or county
schools, which were taught about in different places for only three or
four months in the year, mainly during the summer. Miss Gracie
began her school the first day of October. By special arrangement she
used the first three months for the public term allowed by the state,
and supplemented that with a five-months term, for which the pupils
were required to pay fifty cents each per month. The plan worked
well, the parents joining in heartily in the movement, and the Piney
Grove Academy soon became the model school for the surrounding
counties.

Grace’s Graduation.

Among other things Miss Gracie had learned at school what was
the import of our national Thanksgiving Day. At the opening of the
second year of the Piney Grove Academy she decided that she would
inaugurate an annual Thanksgiving service. Accordingly on the
opening day of the second year Miss Gracie informed the pupils of
her plan, and told them that she would begin the very next day to
prepare a suitable program for the exercises. Afterwards Miss Gracie
secured the cooperation of the village pastor—the same man who had
been instrumental in having her parents send her away to school.
Through him she was permitted to talk to the people at the church
two or three times about the proposed celebration. She was careful to
tell them that the Thanksgiving festival was meant specially to be a
home festival in addition to being a time for the people to come
together in their accustomed places of worship to thank God for the
blessings of the year. She urged them, therefore, as far as they were
able without going to unnecessary expense, to have family dinners
and bring together at one time and in one place as many members of
the family as possible. She explained to them how this might be done
successfully and economically, and with pleasure and profit to all
concerned. She also urged them to be planning beforehand so that
nothing might prevent their attending church Thanksgiving Day
morning. She was going to hold the exercises in the church, because
her little school was not large enough to furnish an assembly hall for
the people who would be likely to be present.
On Thanksgiving Day nearly everybody in town went to the
exercises. Many white people attended, including the county school
commissioner and the school trustees. It was the first Thanksgiving
service that any of them had ever witnessed.
The program was made up, for the most part, of choice selections
from negro authors, composers, orators, and so forth. A selection
from Frederick Douglass on “Patriotism” was declaimed; one from
Booker T. Washington’s Atlanta Exposition speech was also
delivered. Paul Laurence Dunbar’s poem entitled “Signs of the
Times” (a Thanksgiving poem) was read by one of the pupils, and
also “The Party,” another of Dunbar’s pieces, was rendered. “The
Negro National Hymn,” words by James W. Johnson and music by
his brother, Rosamond Johnson, was sung by a chorus of fifty voices.
At the opening of the service the president’s Thanksgiving
proclamation was read and appropriate remarks were made by Miss
Wilkins. The closing remarks were made by the Rev. John Jones, the
village pastor. The remarks of Mr. Jones were in the congratulatory
mood. He was naturally proud of Miss Gracie’s achievements,
because he had had something to do with putting her on the road to
an education. He spoke of the teacher as the leaven that was
leavening the whole lump, and the applause which followed the
statement showed plainly the high esteem in which the teacher was
held by all the people. Everyone enjoyed the service. None of the
villagers had ever seen anything like it before. After singing
“America” all of them went away happy, many of them, in obedience
to Miss Gracie’s previous counsel, going home to eat for the first
time, well knowing what they were doing, a Thanksgiving dinner.
At the home of Miss Wilkins there was an excellent spread of
’possum, potatoes, rice, chicken, pickles, macaroni, bread, a precious
Thanksgiving turkey, and the inevitable mincemeat pie. Besides Miss
Gracie, there sat at the table that day her parents, Mr. and Mrs.
Solomon Wilkins, John and Joseph Wilkins, brothers of Solomon
who had come from a distance, Mary Andrews, a sister of Mrs.
Wilkins, who also came from a distance, Grandma Wilkins, Grandma
and Grandpa Andrews, the Rev. John Jones, his wife, his daughter,
and his only son, Jasper Jones.
Jasper had gone to school at T—— one year after Gracie went, and,
of course, was one year later in finishing the course there. On this
Thanksgiving Day, nevertheless, he had been out of school long
enough to have successfully established himself in the business of
poultry raising and dairying.
Just before the dinner party was dismissed the Rev. Mr. Jones
arose and said:
“There is another little ceremony you’all is invited to witness befo’
you go out to see the baseball game. I am authorized by these
credentials which I hol’ in my hands to unite in the holy bonds of
matrimony Miss Grace Wilkins and Mr. Jasper Jones. If there is no
objection, these two persons will please stan’ up, an’ I’ll tie the knot.”
Of course there were no objections. The knot was tied. And when
the villagers learned of the occurrence not long afterwards they had
additional reason for believing that they were right when they voted
that Piney Grove had never seen the like of such a Thanksgiving Day,
and that Miss Gracie Wilkins was one of the best women in all the
world.
 VII.
THE LOUD GIRL.

I do not know of a more sorrowful spectacle than that of a girl who

is loud in her dress, loud in her manners, and loud in her speech. It is
a great mistake for a girl to suppose that this loudness will be
mistaken by her friends and acquaintances for smartness. The desire
to be regarded as bright and witty has led many a girl into the folly of
being loud in her manners. She often cherishes the illusion that the
attention such manners attract is combined with admiration, when
the truth is that those who witness her strange conduct are simply
wondering how it is possible for her to throw to the winds that charm
of all girlhood—modesty.
One afternoon not long ago I saw a group of girls of the loud type.
They came into the street car in which I was sitting. They all wore
boys’ hats. One wore a vivid red jacket with brass buttons, and
another had on a brass belt. A third one had on a most conspicuous
plaid skirt. This third one had a box of bonbons, and when the three
were seated she opened the box and offered it to her companions,
saying as she did so, in a voice loud enough and shrill enough to be
heard in every part of the car:
 Blab-Mouthed and
Noisy.

“It’s my treat; have some, chums!”

Upon this invitation one of the girls dived down into the box like a
hungry bear, and held up a piece of the candy in triumph and then
dashed it into her mouth with a great guffaw. “O, Mame!” said one of
the girls, “if you ain’t just horrid to go and take the very piece I
wanted!”
“Mame” laughed and, taking the candy from her mouth, offered it
to the other girl, saying as she did so:
“Well, here it is, Lulu!”
“Lulu” struck the candy from “Mame’s” hand, and it flew across
the aisle into the lap of a lady sitting opposite the girls. This set all
three of the girls to giggling and tittering, and they seemed in danger
of convulsions when the owner of the box of candy let it fall and a
part of the candy rolled out on the floor.
The conductor came forward and picked up the box and candy and
handed them to the owner. She giggled out her thanks, and “Lulu”
said: “Why didn’t you give him a gumdrop for his trouble?”
This seemed to impress the other girls as a most brilliant
witticism, and they fell to tittering violently over it.
Presently a gentleman came in and stumbled slightly over the feet
of one of the girls thrust out into the aisle.
 Modest and
Quiet.

“I beg your pardon,” said the gentleman, as he lifted his hat,

whereupon the three girls grinned and giggled and giggled and
grinned immoderately, and one of them said:
“Roxy, you had better ride out on the platform, where there is
more room for your feet!”
“Roxy” then struck “Lulu” for making this speech. “Lulu”
pretended to be much offended and flung herself over to the other
side of the car, where she made a grimace at the other girls.
The conduct of these girls during the half hour that they were on
the car was such as caused every father and mother who saw them to
regard them with pity. The loud girl, my dear readers, is always an
object of pity. She should be a sorry object for her own
contemplation. An old writer has said: “You little know what you
have done when you have first broken the bounds of modesty; you
have set open the door of your fancy to the devil, so that he can
represent the same sinful pleasure to you anew.”
Now, the loud girl may be entirely innocent of any actual wrong-
doing, but she is regarded with dislike, distrust, and even disdain, by
the better class of people. She acquires a reputation for rudeness and
coarseness, and the people of refinement will not associate with her.
Her character suffers, no matter how innocent she may be of any
intention of doing wrong. Delicacy, modesty, is the certain sign of
sweetness, purity and gentleness of character, just as indelicacy is the
certain sign of a lack of these beautiful traits.
 VIII.
THE ROWDY BOY.

You can tell him wherever you see him. There are certain marks or
appearances which he carries about with him and which are never
absent. For one thing you will find him with a cigarette stuck in his
mouth, and a cigarette is one of the deadliest poisons in the world for
boy or man. He wears his hat on the side or cocked back on his head.
Frequently he stuffs both hands in his trousers’ pockets. He doesn’t
attend school regularly; sometimes he starts for school and ends at
the bathing pond or the baseball park. He is late at Sunday school, if
he goes at all, and he stands ’round on the outside at church while
the service is going on inside. He steals rides on trains and on trolley
cars, and on passing vehicles of all descriptions. He is saucy and
impudent to older people, and is always ready and willing to quarrel
or fight with his mates. He is what the boys call a “bully.”
The loud girl and the rowdy boy are two things of which we have
seen enough in this world. They are things; they are hardly worth the
dignity of being called human beings.
I saw one of these rowdy boys in his own home not a great while
ago. His mother said to him:
“Johnnie, you must always take off your hat whenever you come
into the house.”
“Good gracious alive,” he said, “I can’t do anything right. What is
the use of grabbing off your hat every time you come into your own
house?”
 He Stuffs Both Hands
in His Trousers
Pockets.

His mother looked sad, but said nothing. Presently she discovered
that her little boy had brought some mud into the house on his shoes.
In her sweetest tones she said:
“Johnnie, you must go to the door and wipe your feet now. See
how you are tracking up the floor there!”
“Well,” said the rowdy boy with a snarl, “can’t the old floor be
scoured? You must think this old house is gold.”
Now, I am a preacher, boys, and, being a preacher, of course I am
what is called a “man of peace,” but I tell you that that was one time I
came pretty near wishing that I wasn’t a preacher so that I might
have given that boy what he deserved. I was sorry, for the time being,
that he wasn’t my son. No manly little boy will ever talk to his mother
in any such way. I suppose that boy thought it made him appear to
be a very important personage, but he was very much mistaken.
Don’t be rowdy, boys; don’t be rough; don’t be rude. You were made
for better things.
 IX.
HONESTY.

Early in the morning two little boys came to the market place.
They arranged their little stands and spread out their wares, and sat
down to wait for customers. One sold watermelons and fruit, and the
other sold fish and oysters. The hours passed on and both were doing
well. By-and-by Sammie had only one melon left on his stand. A
gentleman came along and said:
“What a fine, large melon! I think I will buy that one. What do you
ask for it, my boy?”

“How Much for the

Melon?”

“This is my last melon, sir; and though it looks fair, there is an

unsound spot on the other side,” said the boy, turning the melon
over.
“So there is,” said the man. “I don’t believe I’ll take it. But,” he
added, looking straight at the boy, “is it very good business for you to
point out the defects of your goods to customers?”
“Perhaps not, sir,” said the boy with becoming modesty, “but it is
better than being dishonest.”
“You are right, my boy; always speak the truth and you will find
favor with God and man. I shall not forget your little stand in the
future.”
Then turning to the other boy’s stand the man asked:
“Are those fresh oysters?”
“Yes, sir,” said Freddie, “these are fresh this morning—just
arrived.”
The gentleman bought them and went away.
“Sammie,” said Freddie, “you never will learn any sense. What did
you want to show that man that spot on the melon for? He never
would have looked at it until he got home. I’ve got an eye to business,
myself. You see how I got rid of those stale oysters—sold them for
just the same price as fresh oysters.”
“Freddie,” said the other boy, “I wouldn’t tell a lie, or act one
either, for twice the money we have both earned to-day. Besides I
have gained a customer and you have lost one.”
And it turned out just as Sammie said. The next day the gentleman
bought a large supply of fruit from Sammie, but he never spent
another penny at Freddie’s stand. It continued that way through all
the summer. At the close of the season he took Sammie into his
store, and, after awhile, gave him a share in the business.
 X.
UNCLE NED AND THE INSURANCE
[2]
SOLICITOR.

Turner Tanksley, a representative of the Workingmen’s Industrial

Aid Insurance Company, called upon Edmund Grant, an elderly
colored man, with a view to getting him to insure his life.
“Good morning, Uncle Ned,” said Mr. Tanksley.
“Mawnin’, Boss,” said the old man, raising his hat and making a
low courtesy.
“Uncle Ned, do you carry any insurance?” inquired the solicitor.
“Does I car’y what?” asked Uncle Ned in great surprise.
“Do you carry any insurance? Is your life insured?” asked the
solicitor by way of explanation.
“Bless Gawd! Yas, yas,” replied the colored man, “long ago—long
ago.”
Then the solicitor asked: “In what company?”
Uncle Ned answered: “I’m a Baptis’, sah; I’m a Baptis’—a deep-
watah Baptis’.”
Mr. Tanksley realized that the old man had not understood the
question, but, anyhow, he asked:
“How long has it been since you joined?”
 “Dat’s jes’ what My
’ligion Does,” said the
Old Man.

“I j’ined,” replied Uncle Ned, “de same year dat de stars fell—I
reckon you know how long dat’s been?”
“That’s a long while,” commented the insurance man; “quite a long
while. Does your company pay any dividends?”
“Boss,” said Uncle Ned with a broad grin, “dat question is plumb
out uv my reach. What is you tryin’ to git at?”
“Why, Uncle Ned,” said Mr. Tanksley, “a dividend is interest paid
on your money; and if you have been paying your money into one
company for more than thirty years surely you ought to have been
receiving your dividends long before now, especially if it’s an old-line
company.”
“Well,” said Uncle Ned, “hit sho is de ole-line comp’ny—hit sho is.
De Lawd sot hit up Hisse’f ’way back yondah on Calvaree’s tree. But I
ain’t nevah hyeahed tell uv no intrus’ nor no divverdens ner nothin’
uv dat sawt; an’ you ain’t hyeah me say nothin’ ’tall ’bout payin’ in no
money fer thirty yeahs—you know you ain’t. Salvation’s free, white
man; salvation’s free—you knows dat ez well ez I does.”
The way Uncle Ned laughed when he had delivered himself of this
remarkable speech would have done your soul good.
 “Oh, I see,” said Mr. Tanksley with much condescension, “I see
that I’ve misunderstood you. You’re talking about your soul’s
salvation.”
“Dat’s what I is,” chimed in Uncle Ned, “dat’s what I is.”
“I came,” resumed the solicitor, “to talk to you about insuring your
body in case of accident, sickness or death.”
“Accerdents is fer us all,” said Uncle Ned, with a far-away
expression on his face, “accerdents is fer us all, an’ dah ain’t no gittin’
’roun’ death.”
“That’s true,” responded the patient solicitor, “that’s true;
insurance companies can’t prevent sickness and accidents and death
any more than you can, Uncle Ned, but insurance companies can and
do help you to bear your burdens in the time of trouble.”
“Dat’s jes’ what my ’ligion does,” said the old man with supreme
satisfaction, “dat’s jes’ what my ’ligion does.”
“But we do it in a different way,” persisted the solicitor.
“Well, how does y’all do?” asked Uncle Ned.
Then the solicitor went over the details of the Workingmen’s
Industrial Aid Insurance Company with his accustomed rapidity,
telling about the initiation fees, monthly premiums, accident
benefits, sick benefits, etc., etc., laying much stress especially upon
the “endowment fund” that would be paid upon the death of the
insured. When he had finished the elaborate narrative Uncle Ned,
who had given the most earnest attention to the speaker, inquired:
“Boss, who you say de money goes to w’en I dies?”
“To your wife,” answered the solicitor, “or your children, or
anybody you might name.”
“Well, Boss,” said the old man, “lemme ax you one question: Don’t
you think dat would he’p de uddah fellah mo’n hit would me?”
“What other fellow?” asked Mr. Tanksley.
“My ole ’oman’s secon’ husban’,” replied Ned; “you know des ez
good ez I does dat ef I wuz to die an’ leave my ole ’oman two hundred
or three hundred dollars, dah’d be some cullud gent’man done
changed her name ’fo’ ole Ned got cole in de groun’.”
Uncle Ned’s originality made it very hard for Turner Tanksley to
suppress a smile. Without giving the solicitor a chance to speak,
Uncle Ned continued:
“An’ dah’s anuddah way to look at hit. Wimmins is mighty cu’ious.
Yas, sah; wimmins is mighty cu’ious. Ef I wuz to go into dis thing
you’s tellin’ me ’bout, I dasn’t let Dinah know hit. White man, you
don’t know—no, sah, you don’t know. Ef dat ’oman knowed she’d git
all dat money w’en I died, she would sho put a spidah in my
dumplin’—she sho would, an’ fuss thing I know I’d wake up some
mawnin’ an’ fine myse’f dead, an’ all on account uv dis thing dat you
calls ’showance. No, sah, I don’t want nothin’ to do wid hit. De
Baptis’ church is good ’nuff fer me.”
When the solicitor turned the corner he heard Uncle Ned singing
some kind of religious song with the following refrain:
“I’m Baptis’ bred, an’ Baptis’ bo’n.
An’ w’en I die, dah’s a Baptis’ gone.”
 XI.
THE STRENUOUS LIFE.

They were having a rough-and-tumble time of it and Pansy was

getting some pretty hard blows. She took them all good-naturedly,
nevertheless, and tried to give as good as she received, much to the
delight of her little boy friends. A lady who was standing near, afraid
for the little girl, chided the boys and said:
“You shouldn’t handle Pansy so roughly—you might hurt her.”
And then Pansy looked up in sweet surprise and said with amusing
seriousness:
“No; they won’t hurt me. I don’t break easy.”
It was a thoroughly childlike expression, but it had more wisdom
in it than Pansy knew. She spoke out of a little girl’s experience with
dolls, some of which, as she had learned, broke very easily. Pansy
knew how delightful it was to have a doll that didn’t break so easily.
Though she was not a homely girl by any means, and though she was
not a wicked little girl, yet she wanted it understood that she was not
like a piece of china. That was why the other children liked her so
much—because she knew how to rough it without crying or
complaining at every turn. Pansy was not a cry-baby.
 “I Don’t Break Easy.”

There is all the time, my dear boys and girls, a great demand
everywhere all through life for people who don’t break easily—people
who know how to take hard knocks without going all to pieces. The
game of life is sometimes rough, even among those who mean to play
fair. It is very trying when we have to deal with people who break
easily, and are always getting hurt and spoiling the game with their
tears and complaints. It is so much better when we have to deal with
people who, like little Pansy, do not break easily. Some of them will
laugh off the hardest words without wincing at all. You can jostle
them as you will, but they don’t fall down every time you shove them,
and they don’t cry every time they are pushed aside. You can’t but
like them, they take life so heartily and so sensibly. You don’t have to
hold yourself in with them all the time. You can let yourself out freely
without being on pins as to the result. Young people of this class
make good playmates or good work-fellows, as the case may be.
So, boys and girls, you must learn to rough it a little. Don’t be a
china doll, going to smash at every hard knock. If you get hard blows
take them cheerily and as easily as you can. Even if some blow comes
when you least expect it, and knocks you off your feet for a minute,
don’t let it floor you long. Everybody likes the fellow who can get up
when he is knocked down and blink the tears away and pitch in
again. Learning to get yourself accustomed to a little hard treatment
will be good for you. Hard words and hard fortune often make us—if
we don’t let them break us. Stand up to your work or play
courageously, and when you hear words that hurt, when you are hit
hard with the blunders or misdeeds of others, when life goes roughly
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