The Dupuyer acantha. [volume] (Dupuyer, Mont.) 1894-1904, 1896-11-19

"And when the child was grown, it
fell i'll on n day that he went out to
his father to the reapers. And he said
unto his father, my head, my head!
And he said to a lad, carry him to his
mother. And when he had taken him,
and brought him to lis mother, he sat
on her knees till noon, and then died."
III Kings, w., IS, 10, 20.
There is at least n happy home in
Shunem. To the luxuriance and splen-
dor of a great house had been given
the advent of a child. Even when the
Angel of Life brings a new soul to the
poor mans hut, a star of joy shines
@ the manger. Infancy, with its
helpleSSnesS and innocence, had passed
away. Days of bOyhood had come
days of laughter and frolic, days Of
sunshine and promise, days of strange
questions and curiosity and quick de-
velopment. | suppose among all vthe
treasures of that house the brightest
was the boy. One day there is the
shout of reapers heard afield. A boys
heart always bounds at the sound of
sickle or eoythe. No sooner had the
harvesters cut a swath across the field
than the lad joins them, and the
swarthy reapers feel young again as
they look down at that lad, as bright
and beautiful as was Ruth in the har-
vest fields of Bethlehem cleaning after
the reapers. But the sun was too hot
for him. Congestion of the brain
seized on him. l see the swarthy Ia
borers drop their sickles; and they
rush out to see what is the matter,
and they fan him, and they try to cool
his brow; but all is of no avail. In the
instant of consciousness, he puts his
hands against his temples and cries
father said: Garry him to his moth
en-" just as any father would have
said; for our hand is too rough, and
our voice too harsh, and our foot is
too loud to doctor a sick child, if there
be in our home a gentler voice and a
gentler hand and a stiller fOotstep.
But all of no avail. While the reapers
of Shunem were busy in the field,
there came a stronger reaper that
way, with keener scythe and for a
richer harvest. He reaped only one
sheaf; but, o, what a golden sheaf was
that! l do not want to know any
more about that heart-breaking scene
than what J. see in just this one pa
thetic sentence: "He sat on her knees
till noon, and then died" Though hun
dreds of years have passed away since
that boy skipped through the harvest
field and then was brought home and
died on his mothers lap. the story still
thrills us. Indeed, childhood has a
charm, always and everywhere. l
shall now speak to you of childhood;
its beauty, its susceptibility to impress
sion, it's power over the paternal
heart, and its blissful transition from
earth to heaven.
The child's beauty does not depend
upon form or feature or complexion or
apparel. That destitute one that you
saw on the street, bruised with I'M
kindness and in rags, has a charm
about her. even rn.ler her restitution.
You have forgotten a great many per-
sons whom you met, of finely-cut feat
ures and with erect posture and with
faultless complexion, while you will
always remember the poor girl who, on
a cold, moonlight night, as you were
passing late home, in her thin shawl
and barefoot on the pavement, put out
her hand and said: please to give
me a penny" All. how often we have
walked on and said: 80, that is moth
ing but street vagabondism;" but af-
ter we got a block or two on, we
stopped and said: "Ah, that is not
right" and we passed up that same
way and dropped a mite into the suf-
fering hand, as though 1t were not a
matter of second thought, so ashamed
were we of our hard-heartedness.
With what admiration we all look, up
on Il group of children on the play
ground or in the school. and we clap
or hands almost invOluntarily, and
say: "How beautiful All stiffness
and dignity ara gene, and your shout
is heard with theirs, and you trundle
their hoop, and fly their kite, and
strike their ball, and all your weari-
ness and anXiet.I are gone as when n
child you bounded over the playground
yourself. That father who stands rig
id and unsy %.mplthctic amid the sport
fulness of children ought never to
have been tempted out of a crusty and
irrcdeemable sOl%itaIiness. The waters
leap down the rocks. but they have
not the graceful step of childhood.
The morning Ome out of the gates of
the East, throwing it's silver on the
lake and it's gold on the towers and its
fire on the cloud: but it is not so bright
and beautiful as the morning of life!
There is no light like that which is
kindled in a child's eye; no color like
that which blooms on a child's cheek;
no music like the sound of a child's
voice. It's face in the poorest picture
redeems any imperfection in art.
When W. are weary with toll, their
little hands pull the burden off our
back.
O. what a dull, stale, mean world
this would be without the spOrtfulness
of children. When l find people that
do not like children. I Immediately
doubt their moral and Christian char
actcr. But when the grace of God
come upon a child, how unspeakably
attractive. When Samuel begins to
pray, and Timothy begins to read the
Scriptures, and Joseph shows himself
tnVulnerable to temptatiOn-how beau
tiful the scene! l know hat parents
sometimes get V when their
children become piOus, because they
have the idea that good children al
ways die. The strange questions about
God and eternity and the dead excite
apprehension in the paternal mind
rather than congratulation. Indeed,
there are some people that seem
marked for heaven. This world is too
poor a garden for them to bloom in.
The hues of heaven are in the petals.
There is something about their fore
head that makes you think that the
hand of Christ has been on it, saying:
Let this one come to me, and let it
come to me soon." While that one tar
ried in the house, you felt that there