“A Little Child Shall Lead Them”

1104 IMPROVEMENT ERA. "But, Brother Penrose," I interrupted, "in what you have just said you imply that yellow journalism pays. Is that correct?"' "Yes. There is a large class of general readers who take pleasure in feeding on this literary garbage and 'spicy' falsehood." "That, I suppose, becomes a snare to the feet of the young and unwary journalist, does it not?" "It does. The journalist must be clean, if he is to do good work. Drinking and gambling and lying, once they are begun, inevitably drag the weakling down. The reporter comes in con- tact with all classes of society, in his quest for news. But here, as everywhere else, strength of character is at a premium. When the newspaper man goes on the downward path very far, he gen- erally leaves the clean paper and gravitates to the disreputable sheet." Mr. Penrose believes that there is ample room for growth and individual progress in journalism. "The journalist may broaden his own powers and learn to appreciate the best thoughts and modes of expression, and thus gn w into a power in the community. " The Gospel of Smiles. BY HAROLD GOFF. Blest is the man who believes in the gospel of smiles— who keeps a song in his heart whether the skies be blue or gray. When sorrow and disappointment come to him, he hides them away in himself somewhere, and the friend whom he greets, seeing only the smile, hearing the cheery salutation, and feeling the warmth of his handclasp, believes there is °nly joy in his soul. How bright the world because of him! He goes into places where darkness has reigned, and sunshine enters with him and remains. He walks among the subjects of pain, and drives that despot from his realm. He descends into the valley of death, and life abounds. Thus, in all his journey through the world, he carries a blessing for his fellowmen; and though, at last, even he sinks down before defeat, he hears the sound of victory's music, and through the shadow of failure he can see God's smile.

'A Little Child Shall Lead Them." JTHOR OF "ADE BUILDER," ETC. BY NEPHI ANDERSON, AUTHOR OF "ADDED UPON," "THE CASTLE I. The baby was very sick. The doctor, leaving an hour ago, had said that he could do no more for it; it might live to grow up, or it might at any time follow its mother into the world of spirits. Edith held it in her lap and looked down into its pitiable small, wan face, wondering at its littleness and weakness, and of what more she could do for her wee baby brother. The baby's mother had died when it had come into the world, now nearly two weeks ago. The father, being a seaman, was away, far on the other side of the world, and would not be home for months yet. So there were the eight-year-old sister Jennie, herself, and the baby— and the baby, apparently, would not stay long with them. It was ten o'clock in the evening. Jennie was fast asleep in her bed in the corner. As the elder sister sat with the baby un her lap, she felt lonely and heartsick. Her very bones ached with weariness, and she could easily have fallen asleep where she sat, even though a dying babe was in her lap; but she steeled her- self to endure. For the last month she had lived under high ten- sion. She had watched and worked during her mother's last ill- ness, and had cared for the child since. What more could she do now? Her eyes hungered on the child. "You sweet little thing, bless you!" she whispered. "Mother gave you to me to keep and 'tend, and I'm doing the best I can. What more can I do? What— I haven't— and mother asked me

1106 IMPROVEMENT ERA. to — I have forgotten! And perhaps it is too late now. 0 baby! 0 mother!" The young woman arose, and carried the baby to the bed in the corner. She gently shook her sleeping sister, who awoke, rubbing her eyes. "Jennie, wake up! wake up! You must watch baby a little, while I run for the minister. Here, are you awake? Let him lie with you. I'll not be long." She made the little girl sit up in bed, wrapping the clothes well around her; then placed the baby near her, where it would be safe. Then she threw a shawl over her head, and hurried out. There was a cold, drizzling rain falling, and the pavement stones were slippery with mud. The lights were out in the shops, and the gas lamps on the corners were but hazy blurs. Edith heeded neither darkness nor wet, but sped on down a narrow, ill- smelling street, it being the nearest way to the parsonage. Drnnken men and women reeled by her, but she noticed them not, as they were common enough sights in the big English sea- port where she lived. A light yet burned in the parsonage, so she hurried up the steps an 1 rang the bell. A maid admitted her, and she asked if the minister was in. She was told that he was, and was shown to a small waiting room. Presently, the parson entered. Edith's acquaintance with him was slight, as she very seldom attended his services. He met her with a smile, peculiar to ministers, and the girl noted that there was a dimple in his chin. He stood waiting for her to state her errand. "The baby is very sick," she stammered, "and he hasn't been christened yet— nor baptized. Won't you come and attend to it, sir?" "I— I — what is your name, my good woman?" "I'm Edith Dexter— John Dexter's daughter." "John Dexter?" "Yes. You may not know him, but—" "Yes, I remember him. He is not — " "No; he does not belong to your church," replied the girl, surmising what the minister's pause meant. "He does not belong to any church; but mother was a member of your congregation.

"A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM." 1107 You remember her, sir? Because she asked me to, I have come to you. The baby may not live Ions:, and I have neglected to have it baptized. You see — " she went ou hurriedly, as she noted the minister's smile change to an expression which looked like a frown— "you see, I'm not a regular church goer, and so, in the stress of our troubles, I forgot to take the little one to church; but if you'll come nov, sir." "You have been very neglectful," said he, "in denying the saving grace of the gospel to an helpless babe." "Yes; perhaps I have; but then—" She hardly knew what to say, so her words ended in a moan. The parson went to the window and looked out. The rain beat against the glass. He looked at his watch. "It is late tonight," he said, "and I have much to do; a number of calls yet to make before morning, but I shall come to you as soon as possible." He took her address and bade her good night. She ran back home through the darkness and rain. Jennie was heroically trying to keep awake, and the baby was lying as she had placed it. The young woman threw her wet shawl over a chair by the fire in the grate, and picked up the infant. It opened its eyes and looked at her, but lay very still. ''Baby dear! baby dear! ' she crooned as a mother would. "Dear little brother, stay with us! We want a brother so bad — a brother to grow up to be a man. Baby, dear, dear — " She lifted the tiny thing up and gently pressed her lips to its cheek. "What shall we name you? John, after father, or Paul? Jennie, what shall we name little brother?" But Jennie was fast asleep. Outside, the noises grew fewer, as the city took upon itself the quiet of midnight. The rain still fell, and a wind from the sea drove it against the windows. Edith placed some coal on the fire, and drew her chair nearer. She tried to have the baby feed from a spoon, but it would not respond to the coaxing touches. Why did not the parson come? Dear baby! What a frail, flower-like thing it was! thought Edith. Why should it have to be baptized, anyway? She had a faint recollection of the preacher's saying that baptism was for the remission of sins. But what sins had the baby committed? What

1108 IMPROVEMENT ERA. wrong could it have thought or done in its few days of earthly life? But the mother had been a believer, and if by any rite or ceremony in this life the baby would get a safer journey to heaven to join its mother, why, by all means, let it be done. There may be something in it, or the mother would not have been so anxious. As for herself, she had not bothered much with religion, especially since Paul Weldon had become religious and had tried to convert her to his peculiar views. Paul used to come to see her. It seemed an age since she had quarreled with him and had sent him away, though it had been only a year. He, also, was a seaman, and goodness knows in what part of the world he was roving. Sailors get to see the world, anyway, while the women stay within the narrow confines of the smoke-begrimed town, grinding out their lives in some shop or mill. . . . The clock struck twelve. There is the minister! No; it was but a gust of wind. The watcher with her babe looked out of the window, but all was still now. She paced softly back and forth on the flour until one o'clock, but no parson came. Then she sat down again by the glowing coals. The baby was cold; its little hands and feet were like ice. She rubbed them gently by the fire, but the child lay motionless in her hands. Its faint breathing could hardly be detected. The clock struck two. How the wind howled outside! The sign-boards of the shops on the corners rattled and creaked! A boat on the river signalled hoarsely that it was coming into harbor. Jennie slept soundly in the corner. The little babe became stiller and colder, if that were possible; then there was a twitching of the face, a spasmodic movement of its limbs, and then it lay limp and dead. The girl knew now that all was over with "little brother," so she placed him gently in his crib and spread the sheet over his lifeless form. Then the intense strain was relaxed, and Edith sank into a chair, sobbing out her grief until the early hours of the morning. Added to all her sorrows was now another: she had permitted the child to die unbaptized. She had neglected it until it was too late. What if it had died in its sins, and was now beyond the reach of salvation, beyond the reach of its sainted mother! And she — she had been the cause of its destruction!

'UA LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM." 1109 The minister came as the daylight was creeping through the window. He explained that he had been detained longer than he had expected. "It's now too late," she said, "the child is dead." He stood looking at the distracted young woman, and there was a mixture of sternness and pity in his gaze. "You have neglected a solemn duty," he said; "and now we must trust that God will have pity." "In what way?" asked she, realizing in a dim way what she wanted to know. "We shall hope that the child is an Elect infant," he replied. "And if he is not, what then?" "It is not for me to say." "Do you mean, parson, that there is a possibility of my little brother's having been lost? he who has been innocent of any wrong or sin?" "We all sin and fall short of the salvation of the Lord." "But he was such a mite— and he lived only two weeks- he-" "There is no sin so small but it deserves damnation. . . . Can I be of any service to you in any way?" Edith Dexter arose. She was not a bad looking girl, though now she was sadly worn with toil and shaken with sorrow. She straightened herself, however, holding her head firmly erect. "No;" she said defiantly, "you cannot help me— neither you nor your religion— a religion which sends innocent babes to hell. No, thank you!" The parson retreated to the door, paused there for a moment, and then passed out. When he had gone, the young woman went to the dead child, lifted the cover, and touched softly its cold cheek. Then she drew the sheet over again. She locked the door, then blew out the lamp. The rain had ceased, and the clouds were scudding before a wind high up in the heavens. Edith lay down by her sister, gently drew the sleeper's head against hers, and remained still. In a little while she, too, was fast asleep.

1 1 10 IMPRO VEMENT ERA . II. One warm afternoon in July Paul Weldon stood in the open doorway of No. 14 Willmington Street, looking into the little front parlor. He heard a noise, as of someone scrubbing a floor at the back, and he hesitated whether or not to give some taps with the knocker, or to go around to the back. As a rule, women do not like to have visitors on wash or scrub days, and he was not sure of a welcome under the most favorable conditions. Paul was a young man of twenty-eight, tall and well-formed. He was dressed in clothes that had the marks of a tailor's recent pressing, and he looked "sprucy" enough to call on the finest lady in the land. Paul rapped, and the scrubbing ceased. A back door opened part way, and Edith Dexter' s head peered around. "Who is it? What's wanted?" she asked. Then she recog- nized the visitor and continued, "Why, Paul, is that you? Come in and sit down, while I finish the floor." She closed the door and went to work again. Paul stepped in and looked around. He saw the same little parlor with the same furniture and ornaments that had been there a year ago. Not even a chair had been changed from its accustomed place, and his own photograph leaned, as usual, against the vase on the mantel. When Edith came in, he saw that she had changed her dress and smoothed her hair. They looked at each other earnestly, as they soberly shook hands. "You look well," she said. "And you," he replied, "you have changed a bit." "Yes; we live in a world of change. I suppose you have heard of us?" "Yes; I saw your father at Suez, on his way through the canal to Calcutta. He told me about your troubles, and he asked me to call on you when I got home. I landed yesterday after- noon." "Thank you. Is he well? I haven't had a letter for three weeks." "He was well, and bearing up under his trouble manfully. I

"A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM." 1111 was to tell you, from him, that you were to take care of yourself and Jennie, and you were not to work too hard." "He's a dear dad," she said with a smile. "Where's Jennie? She's grown some, I suppose?" "She'll be home from school shortly." "Are you through with your Saturday's house-cleaning, Edith?" "Nearly, just a little dusting." "Dusting? I don't see any dust." "No, I suppose not; but I can." "Well, when you're through, let's take a little trip across the river. The air is clean and cool out there, and Jennie will enjoy digging in the sand." "Well, I—" "I promised your father to help you. You look tired. An out will do you good. I've a lot to tell you, and you've a lot to tell me. It will be pleasanter to talk out there." She had seated herself on the piano stool, and now she looked at the young man across the room, debating within herself whether or not to go. It took but a moment to decide, however. "It's good of you. Yes; I'll go." Half an hour later Paul, Edith, and the delighted Jennie were on the ferry boat crossing the big Mersey river. The wind came cool from the sea, sweeping the smoke of the city inland. They landed at New Brighton Pier. The tide went out, and the clear, firm sand lay in great banks along the shore. Jennie soon became busy with bucket and spade, while Edith and Paul sat on one of the nearby seats watching her. They looked not only at the playing child, but out at the river, alive with craft of all kinds: the small sail boat, tacking back 'and forth up the river; fishing smacks coming in from the Irish sea; the ferry-boats loaded with passengers, and serving as movable bridges between the busy cities on either side; the little low-lying tug boats with hawser attached to a string of coal-laden barges; another puffing tug, bringing in a big sailing ship, per- haps laden with a cargo from the antipodes; big tramp steamers, carrying freight to and from all parts of the world; the palatial ocean gray-hound, slowly but majestically gliding down the river

1112 IMPROVEMENT ERA. into the sea, which it will cross in a week and disembark its passen- gers on the American shore. From the river they look out to the open sea and sky, dotted with sails and streaked with smoke. The lighthouse stands high on the uncovered rocks, and children are wading in the pools of water left by the receding waves. The grim port lies watching at the mouth of the river. The eye lingers on sea and sky, on such a day as this, not landward on houses or green fields or forests beyond. "The sailor must lead a free, open life," remarked Edith. "You think so because you look at it from a distance," he replied. "Your viewpoint is from the land. It is dreary and hard enough to be that fisherman on yonder smack, or the sailors on that big schooner, not to mention the slaves in the stoke-hole of an ocean liner." Paul told her of his voyaging for the past year, and she spoke of her hard experiences at home. Not once did either of them mention that which had caused their last quarrel — there might never have been a quarrel between them, it was so com- pletely hidden. They both seemed glad enough to forget any unpleasantness of the past in the enjoyment of the present. He told some merry jokes, and she laughed roses into her cheeks. Jennie played until she became hungry, and then they opened the basket and partook of an appetizing luncheon. On the way home, she asked him to eat Sunday dinner with them. "You don't go to church?" he enquired. "No; I haven't been for six months." "I ought to run home and see mother, but — " "Go see your mother," she interrupted; "you can visit with other people when you no longer have a mother. Come and see us when you return." "May I, Edith?" "Why, certainly. Come at any time. You're welcome." A seaman on land is usually his own master. Paul Weldon was in no hurry to ship on a long voyage that summer; in fact, he was seriously thinking of quitting the sea for good. Edith's work at the shop was not confining, so she had a good many afternoons off, which were usually spent with Jennie and Paul on the river,

"A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THE Mr 1113 or on the sands, or in the parks. Every Sunday morning the two sisters went to the cemetery, and spent the morning in caring for their two graves. The second Sunday after his return, Paul went with them. It was a beautiful morning, and the tram-car ride to the suburbs and then the walk out between the fields to the grave yard were delightful. Jennie was talkative, but Edith was silent. She never performed this weekly duty unaccompanied with ser- ious thoughts. There were the two mounds— the one under which all that was earthly of her mother lay, and the little one, covering the remains of the tiny brother who had died without baptism. The uncertainty of his fate had grieved her very much. The minister had hinted that the babe was lost, and whenever that thought came to her, her heart sank like lead, the beauty of field and flower vanished, and her soul seemed to harden; and such a feeling at the graves of loved ones, was indeed to be in misery. "Edith," asked Paul that morning, "why do you never go to church?" "Because I do not believe in the preacher, or what he says." "I suppose you mean the Presbyterian minister that your mother worshiped with?" "Yes." "Well, there are others. You might find some that would please you." "No; I have tried a good many. They are all very much alike. Would you advise me to try yours? Everbody's religion and preachers, like everybody's children, are the best." Paul laughed. "I fear you would not fancy my minister," he said. "Why not?" "Well, he is only a boy, not so old as I am; he can't preach; he doesn't know much scripture, and he makes a good many grammatical and other errors when he talks." The young woman looked at Paul as if he were trying a joke on her. "It's a fact," he continued; "but for all that he knows more gospel truth than many a highly educated minister."

1114 IMPROVEMENT ERA. "Perhaps; I shall not deny that; but let's not talk about religion today; we might get into another discussion. The graves look fresh, don't they, after the rain?" Paul and Edith were much together during the summer. He had loved the girl for years, and he had told her of it a number of times in the past. Since his return he had not spoken to her of his love, but he had shown by every action towards her that he still felt the same; and she appeared to feel more kindly towards him. He had tried a number of times to talk to her about that which lay so near his heart, but each time she had evaded the sub- ject; she was getting somewhat of a puzzle to the young man. One Sunday evening, towards the close of the summer, they were alone. Jennie had gone to bed, and the weather did not per- mit of a walk. They were sitting by the table, one on each side of the lighted lamp, she turning over the leaves of a magazine, and he doing nothing at all but looking at her. The conversation had been somewhat halting, and then there had been a long pause. "Edith," he began, "you must listen to me tonight. You know I love you, have never ceased loving you; but 1 don't under- stand you. Sometimes you act as if you thought a little of me, and then again you seem not to care." "I do care for you, Paul." "Not enough to marry me, I fear." "I'm not going to marry." "Edith, don't say that! You can't mean that!" "I do mean it." She ceased playing with the magazine, and looked directly at him across the table. "I don't understand. You have given me encouragement, haven't you?" "Yes, I suppose I have; and I will say this, Paul, I shall marry you, if I ever marry at all; but I have made up my mind not to get married. I suppose I have been wrong in encouraging you, but I couldn't bear to treat you other than kindly, because — ■ you see— I do think a lot of you; and you have been very good to me and Jennie." He looked dumbly at her. "You don't understand. No, of course not; but I'll tell you —

"A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM." 1115 that is no more than right. . . . When mother died, she left a little baby. I cared for it until it, too, died— in about two weeks. Mother, before she went, asked me to see that it was properly baptized, but I, in my worry and care, forgot to do it. The night before it died, I went in a hurry to mother's minister and asked him to come and baptize the child. He came in the morning, when it was too late. And then he intimated to me that, because of my neglect, the poor, innocent thing had not gone to its mother in heaven, but that it was among the lost!'' "But, Edith—" "Wait, listen. I spoke impatiently to him; I could not help it. My heart hardened against him and his religion. After the little thing had been laid beside its mother, I thought much on what the minister had said — got out my catechism and read what it said there — and, oh, it said it plainer than the preacher did! 'Elect infants, dying in infancy, are saved;' which implies that some infants are not elect and, therefore, not saved. I read also that punishment for sin in the next world is 'everlasting separa- tion from God, and most grievous torments in hell-fire forever' — and my baby might be suffering that! Paul, it seems as though I was its mother, and I loved it very dearly. The next time the minister called on us, which was a few days after the funeral, I told him that if my babv had gone to hell, I wanted to go there, too. It was wicked of me, I know, but I couldn't help it. I felt like that, then, and I feel like that yet." "And so do I, Edith." She did not notice what he said, but continued in a hard voice: "I made up my mind then and there that I would have noth- ing more to do with ministers and religion. I won't say but there is some good in them, but I have suffered sc — " "Such doctrine is all wrong, Edith. Surely you do not believe that your babe is in hell?" "No; but the books teach that it might be possible. And I have been taught it; but I don't know— I don't know!" "Edith, what's that got to do with your loving me, and your marrying me?" "Much, Paul, much. Can't you see?"

1116 IMPROVEMENT ERA. "No; I can't see, Edith." He arose and went around to her chair. The tears were flowing unhindered down her cheeks. "I love you, and want you," he said tenderly. "Don't!" she sobbed. "I can't — I mustn't marry you!" She pushed him gently away, and he went back again to his seat. He was silent. "I'll be plain with you," she went on presently. "If we should get married, we may — we very likely would, have children. Who is to assure me that they will be Elect children? They may be predestined to hell-fire forever, and I would be the mother who would bring them to such a fate. No; Paul, never, never!" She breathed hard for a few minutes and then bowed her face on her hands as she sobbed. Paul went to the window, and then back to the table, stopping again at her chair. He placed his hand on her bowed head. After a time she controlled herself, and smiled faintly up at him. "Listen to me," he pleaded. "I'll go over here and talk to you across the table." "All right, I'll listen." "I have said very little to you about my religion sin^e I came back, Edith, because I remember what took placj a year ago; but, my dear girl, I tell you most solemnly that your babe is not among the lost. It is saved in the kingdom of God, for Jesus said 'Of such is the kingdom of heaven.' Your Westminster Con- fession and your catechism are mistaken. Let me read to you what the Lord says about infants." He took from his pocket a book, and turning over its leaves for a moment he read: . Little children need no repentance, neither bap- tism. Behold, baptism is unto repentance, to the fulfiling of the commandments unto the remission of sins. " 'But little children are alive in Christ, even from the foundation of the world. 'Little children cannot repent, wherefore it is awful wicked- ness to deny the pure mercies of God unto them, for they are all alive in him because of his mercies.' " "Where is that found?" she asked. "That is from the Book of Mormon." "Is that the book you spoke to me about?"