CHILDREN’S PAGE.

CABIN PRAYER-MEETINGS—WHICH WAS THE HERO?

LILLIE E. BARR, ATLANTA, GA.

Dear Teachers and Children:

I wish I had space, so I could tell you all of the beautiful, interesting and helpful things that happen day by day in my work; but as I have not, I must content myself with giving you one or two incidents. First, let me tell you about an impromptu prayer-meeting held in one of the many cabins which dot the hills all over. A few nights ago I went to see a sweet old Christian, who for three years has not known an hour’s rest from pain, and yet is as merry as a cricket, receiving the little offerings of food and shelter which her poor neighbors bring her with cheerful gratitude as from her God. One day I asked her how she could be so patient and so gay. “Why, chile, it’s all on de journey, an’ I don’t know no reason why the way should be made easier fur me than it was fur the Master,” she answered. While I was trying to make her more comfortable, several women came in, none of whom could read, and after we had talked a little while about our sweet Lord Jesus, one said: “Please read the chapter where Jesus says: ‘I pray not for these alone, but for all of them who shall believe on me through their word.’” A little tin lamp was brought, and as I opened my Bible I glanced at the living picture before me. The lamp threw its feeble light over the patient sufferer, and lit up the dusky faces of the women bending eagerly forward as I read those blessed words. No sooner had I finished the chapter than one began that beautiful slave song, “Steal away, steal away, steal away to Jesus.” Instantly it was caught up. Our hearts had touched the heart of Christ in this grand prayer chapter. As soon as it was ended, another chapter was asked for, and then another, and another, intermingled with prayer and song. It was just such a prayer-meeting, I imagine, as the one held by the disciples when, being gathered together, Jesus stood in their midst and said, “Peace be with you.” I knew, I felt that I had been with Jesus.

With the light and grace of this prayer-meeting still about us, we came down an alley and into a court known as Campbell’s Block. It is a square, built round with cabins of one or two rooms without windows. A large wash-shed and well occupy the centre of the court. Look now into the rooms; everywhere dirt and filth, crying children, quarreling children, women smoking, women dipping snuff, women idling, women washing, women fretted with care until they are prematurely old, and not one woman in the block able to read, and so gain strength from the blessed word of God. And this block is one out of four in our field. One house only shows any sign that for the poor there is anything beautiful; but that, like a grand sermon, stands amid this misery and sin, from ground to roof a mass of flowers. I could not help thinking what a joy they must be to the ministering angels, as they pass through this place of suffering and sin. To me they were the promise of redemption for the block. Like a pure thought in a sinful heart we found old Mr. and Mrs. Pleasant in one of the rooms. He is blind and helpless with paralysis, consequently the providing of rent, food and clothes devolves upon his aged wife. After reading them the two last chapters in Revelation, the old man cried out: “It’s worth while being blind to know the first thing I shall see will be the New Jerusalem.” “Yes indeed, George, now we must work harder than ever to win home,” answered his wife, as she brushed the tears away. We have begun a prayer-meeting in this block, and I ask your prayers for its success. To these cases I might add ever so many more; but if I give you big folks any more room, I shall crowd my story to the children out, and that wouldn’t be one bit fair—would it, little ones?

I shall introduce my story by asking the boys to pay particular attention, as I want them to decide whether Jesse Dobbs or Jim Prescott—the two boys whom this story is about—is the true hero.

“Who minds de cold? Come on, Jesse; de boys is going to make up a company and have heaps of fun down by Big Bethel.” I must explain that Big Bethel is the name of a church.

Jesse glanced out at the sunshine and called, “Mammie, mayent I go with Jo down to Big Bethel?”

As the answer was yes, the two bounded away and soon joined several boys, the leader of whom, from his coarse, bloated face to his heavily booted feet, was the very picture of a young ruffian. As Jesse and Jo came up he was saying, “Dare aint a fatter roost to pick den old Judge Gibbs’ in de world; ’sides dat, you ken git 15 cents a piece fur every chick’n. Den you brings de money to me, and I gibs you so much out of it. ’Stand what I say?”

“Yar, yar,” came from the other boys.

“’Sides dat, dares heaps of fun clearing off a chick’n roost, and I, fur one, aint feared to go into nobody’s yard. Now is you gwine to be ready to-night to follow your captain? I’s your captain.”

“Captain of what?” asked Jesse.

“Captain of the roost-clearing brigade; dat’s what. Is you going to jine us, Dobbs? If you aint I’ll most kill you fur coming here to spy into our plans.”

Jesse paused an instant, then he said, “No.”

“Why not, I’d jist like fur to know?” demanded Jim, angrily.

“Because I aint going to jine no thieving company.”

The words were hardly spoken before Jim lifted his foot and kicked him in the side. Kick followed kick in such rapid succession, that Jesse was almost senseless before Jim could be pulled off; and when I formed his acquaintance he had been in bed nine months, a large tumor having formed in the side where he had been kicked. When I asked him about lying so long in bed, he answered:

“At first the time was awful long, but by-and-by I began to take notice how mother worried when I ’plained of de pain and de tiredness, so I took to trying not to ’plain fore her, and that kinder drawed off my ’tention from de pain.”

For nine months he had been trying to help his mother by being patient. Three weeks ago he died from the effects of that cruel kick—died forgiving all who had injured him, and bearing his cross of suffering like a noble little Christian to the end.

Which was the hero—Jim, who boasted he wasn’t afraid to steal from any man, or Jesse, who wasn’t afraid to say no, although forewarned that he would be almost killed if he said it?

I say Jesse was.

What do you all say?

From this story I hope you will all try to be more gentle and loving, for we never know what months of pain and suffering, not only to others, but also to ourselves, one rude action may cause.