XXIX

THE SOLDIER'S OUTFIT—THE UNIFORM

The uniform helps to change a variegated mass of men into an army. A regiment would not look anything like what it does were it not for the uniform.

It is the kilts that not only have a history but that give the Highlanders their glorious influence. The Scotchman thinks the kilties are the only soldiers, and one can respect his enthusiasm, for great deeds have been done by the troops from the land of the heather.

The uniform puts the finishing touch on a soldier.

I have seen the boys take the oath, but it was after they visited the storehouse and came out in the glory of the khaki, with their swagger stick, that you saw written all over them, "I'm a soldier of the king."

That uniform is the badge of service. Every one who wears it is a marked man. His uniform proclaims him. He does not need a tag.

A girl was once converted at some church meetings, and she went up to an old member and with shining face, said, "Oh, Mr. Blank, I am a Christian, and I wish you were one too." The old man flushed and said, "My dear little girl, I have been a Christian for forty years." "Oh, I'm sorry," she said, "I'm sorry I spoke. I never knew."

He was a Christian but nobody knew. He lacked the marks.

But a soldier, once he dons the uniform, is at once known.

More than that, a uniform is like a flag. It represents the empire. Each nation has its own flag and its own uniform, and wherever its soldiers go, they carry, so to speak, their country with them.

If they are bad, they dishonour their flag and bring disgrace on their colours and the uniform.

One of the greatest motives behind the men in the war was "the honour of the company or the regiment or the battalion or the brigade."

One company lost a trench and were heartsick with depression, and when the time came, half dead with weariness and hunger and thirst, they retook it and were happy because they had saved the honour of the company. The uniform means that.

A bad man or a coward not only hurts himself, but he brings disgrace on the company. Every deed of evil or cowardice comes back on the flag and the country to which the man belongs who wears its uniform.

The uniform speaks to the soldier of duty—it makes duty easier. In New York the street sweepers were clad in a white uniform and they say every man felt a little bigger and better and more anxious to do better work because of the uniform.

A boy in the Trail Rangers or the Boy Scouts can't help feeling the influence of his uniform.

A mother told me about her daughter, a Girl Guide, doing something wrong in school one day when she had on the uniform. The mother said, "Oh, daughter, you did not do it with the uniform on, did you?" And it nearly broke the child's heart.

You can't do things in uniform you might do in plain clothes. It makes you a member of a league of honour, in spite of yourself. It bucks a fellow up and sort of puts him on his honour. It says, "Here, you are not your own now. You belong as you never did before to your country, and your country is counting on you." A chap can hardly go back on that!

The uniform proclaims loyalty too.

To don the khaki meant that the boy heard the call. The S.O.S. sounded his country's need, and up he sprang because he was a loyal subject. Of course, some loyal subjects could not and did not have to join the army. But every one who could did, unless he was a shirker and a slacker.

Loyalty means doing your duty. It means ready to do your bit whether at home or on the firing-line. It does not matter which, if it is your bit.

More than that, the uniform puts responsibility on the wearer. You know how big even a boy can feel when he joins the Boys' Brigade or the Boy Scouts and gets a uniform on. It makes him feel inches taller, and his chest gets thicker, which is perfectly right. He will do things in uniform and under the spell of what it all means that before he would hardly dare believe to be possible.

The uniform is full of history, just as the flag is, and somehow when it is donned, all the great history presses on the wearer and makes a bigger man of him, if he has anything in him, and makes him able for big things.

"Britain be proud of such a son!—

Deathless the fame which he has won.

Only a boy—but such a one;

Standing forever by his gun;

There was his duty to be done—

And he did it."

 

If your dad had a boy or if you had a brother who heard the world's call, and signed up and was measured and had his muscles and heart and lungs and eyes all tested, and then in one big moment, while his dad's throat was choking, stood up erect before the officer and swore in for service; and if later that boy or brother came up home all shining in buttons, with his boots black and his puttees neat and strong, and his belt tightening up his loins—you know just how a new passion of loyalty would surge through you.

If you were a girl you would be sorry, and decide to try to go as a nurse, or perhaps drive a car; if you were a young boy, you would hit your toy drum harder and step out more briskly and tell all the other boys you thought you could get the job of a drummer.

Oh, the uniform does help to deepen our sense of loyalty.

Now, girls and boys, I am telling you all this for a purpose. You know there is another army all over the world called the Salvation Army, made up of people who wear uniforms and play bands and go to war against the worst of all enemies, the one called Sin. And they do a wonderful lot of good in the world and deserve our respect and support. They have won by their loyalty even homage from kings.

But did you know your father and mother, who are members of the church, belong to an army too, and wear a uniform too? It is the great army of Jesus Christ, those who have sworn to be His servants and to do His work, and the uniform is just their Christian life.

I know some church members do not look or act any different from those who are not. But the real member tries to and when he joins he puts on the uniform of a Christlike life which works for Christlike ends.

When the Christians first began to live it all out, the world used to say, "See how these Christians love one another." Their Christian membership was like a badge. Everybody knew where they belonged.

I want to ask you to join up there and put on the uniform of church membership. I will tell you why.

It helps to make you a better Christian. It is taking your stand on His side, and you can't do that, if you mean it, without being made deeper and stronger.

I do not think any one can be as good outside the church as in it, and I am sure we should be better inside than out of it. Those who are good without going to church are good because the church has made it possible. Just as all who were not in the army were safe because the great army and navy were protecting them. But it is not fair to borrow other people's money to live on. You should have your own. And it is not fair to get the good the church brings us without coming in and helping her. It is not fair to give no return for service received.

So I ask you to join God's church because it helps you, and it helps the church and it tells everybody where you stand.

Then it expresses your loyalty. Jesus gives us His church and if everybody refused to come in, it would die, and His work would perish.

Announce your loyalty now! Fight the fight now!

"He is counting on you!

On a love that will share

In His burden of prayer,

For the souls He has bought

With His life blood and sought,

Through His sorrow and pain

To win 'home' yet again.

He is counting on you;

If you fail Him—what then?"

 

It is very hard to be a citizen-at-large, that is, a citizen of the world. You have to be a citizen of some country.

A great Scotch poet said:

"Breathes there a man with soul so dead

Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land."

 

To love the world you have to know how to love your own part of it.

And so in order to tell the world of our loyalty to Christ, we need to fasten down to the church that stands for Christ.

To have a sort of general love for God without helping to spread His cause will soon result in the loss of your love for God.

Take away the church for ten years, and you would not want to live in your town after.

And then it is a fine thing to put the church uniform on as early as possible. It is not fair to live your life for yourself and your own pleasures until you get too old for them, and then bring what is left and offer it to God.

In the Old Testament days it was the unblemished lamb that was asked for; and, dear girls and boys, God wants you now, in the days of your youth. The church needs your fresh, bright young lives. The future so big with promise needs strength and vigour, and you have it. Therefore, do not stand off, but line up soon, and then you will have a long life of service, and not a poor little meagre piece at the end.

The sooner you become an out-and-out worker for Jesus, the more you will be able to help Him. There is no life sadder than to have to go out at the end with no record of service.

A young man, dying, had given himself to God but seemed sad and troubled, and they asked him what was the matter, had he lost his trust? "Oh, no," he said, "not that, but I have to go and meet Jesus with empty hands!"

And some one wrote a hymn which says:

"Must I go and empty handed,

Thus my dear Redeemer meet,

Not one day of service give Him,

Lay no trophies at His feet?"

 

You, girls and boys, put the Christian uniform on now; join up soon. Then think of the long and splendid record of service that will be yours if you stand loyal to the army of Jesus Christ.

XXX

"Q" AND "S" GROCERY

Did you ever hear of that sort of a store? When I first saw the sign I wondered what it meant. I had heard of college societies with letters that describe them, and I had seen letters like that on music sheets; but whatever could it stand for over a grocery store?

Perhaps it meant "Quick and Sure" or perhaps it was the name of the men who owned it, only I could not see why they should be ashamed of their name, for most merchants want their name known.

At last some one told me it stood for "Quality" and "Service." Then I saw what a splendid sign it was.

It made people curious. It was so mysterious-looking that everybody would ask about it and talk about it, and that would advertise it; while the meaning, once found out, made you feel confident. A store that serves out quality is worth going to.

Any one who can show that he has quality and that he is anxious to serve is worth getting acquainted with.

Think of those two things.

(a) Quality.

So many hunt after quantity. When I was a very small boy my grandfather used to offer me my choice between a nickel and a big copper penny, and I took the penny every time. It was more to hold. I could feel it better.

Every child would rather have a big apple than a little one, and they all hunt the plate for the biggest piece of cake or pie. Some big people are no better, for they do not always look for quality, either.

Big things do appeal to us.—Big mountains and big seas, and big trees and big houses, and big horses and big automobiles, and big men, and I suppose it has a place.

It is wonderful to stand in the mountains and just feel their great size; it is an inspiration to go out to British Columbia and stand in some forest corridor and look up at those great Douglas firs, that tower up above your heads and spread their branches over a field.

In Vancouver, at Stanley Park, there is one so big that autos back into it and have a photograph taken.

But after all, the chief thing is not size, but meaning and character. There are some big vegetables that are so big they are no use. They are soft and overgrown.

Soul is more important than bulk.

"For tho' the giant ages heave the hill

And break the shore and ever more

Make and break and work their will

Though world on world in myriad myriads roll

Round us each with different powers

And other forms of life than ours

What know we greater than the soul."

 

Have you ever gone out on a frosty night and looked up at the sky and thought of the great spaces above you, and the sun millions of miles off? Did you know that if a train travelling one mile every minute could fall off the earth and keep going, it would take forty millions of years to reach the nearest fixed star? And yet your soul is more important than it all!

"Knowest thou the value of a soul immortal?

Behold the midnight glory, worlds on worlds

Amazing pomp. Redouble this amaze;

Ten thousand add, add twice ten thousand more

Then weigh the whole; one soul outweighs them all,

And calls the astonishing magnificence

Of unintelligent creation poor."

 

There is a wonderful instrument used by men of science, called a microscope, and it shows us that the smallest things are more wonderful even than the big things you can see with your eye. The little insect that makes the coral, that is so graceful, is an object of wondrous beauty under the microscope.

When you buy a flower, it is not the biggest you want, it is the richest and loveliest, the one of quality.

What is it makes a man? Not size. That may make a prize-fighter, but who wants to be a prize-fighter? He is muscle and bone and beef, but that is not manhood.

A real man is a gentleman, even if he is not much to boast of in size. The real signs are not those of bigness, but something inside of him—the peculiar quality that makes you honour and love him.

Here is what Margaret Sangster says of it:

THE LITTLE GENTLEMAN

I knew him for a gentleman

By signs that never fail;

His coat was rough and rather worn,

His cheeks were thin and pale;

A lad who had his way to make

With little time for play;

I knew him for a gentleman

By certain signs to-day.

He met his mother on the street,

Off came his little cap;

My door was shut, he waited there

Until I heard his rap.

He took the bundle from my hand;

And when I dropped the pen,

He sprang to pick it up for me—

This little gentleman of ten.

He does not push or crowd along.

His voice is gently pitched;

He does not fling his books about

As if he were bewitched.

He stands aside to let you pass,

He always shuts the door.

He runs on errands willingly,

To forge or mill or store.

He thinks of you before himself;

He serves you if he can,

For in whatever company

The manners make the man.

At ten or forty 'tis the same.

The manner tells the tale;

And I discern the gentleman

By signs that never fail.

 

I have read of three women who were once talking about pretty hands. Not one of them tested the matter by the size of their hands, and yet they, too, forgot quality. One said she kept hers pretty by washing them in milk; another dipped hers in berry juice, and the third washed hers in the fragrance of flowers.

While they were talking, a poor old woman came and asked for something to eat, and they were so busy talking about the kind of hands they had they could not help her.

Another woman whose hands were worn with work, and hardened by the sun, and all wrinkled, and who was passing by, listened to the poor old woman's cry, and fed her. Then she asked the three what they had been doing, and they said, "We will leave it to you to say whose hands are the loveliest." And do you know, girls and boys, she passed by the hands of milky whiteness and the hands that smelt of flowers, and turning to the working woman said, "She has the prettiest, for she uses them for gifts to others!"

It is quality of character that counts.

You may be as big as a giant and as strong as a horse, and yet lack in the only thing that really counts or lasts—a quality that gives you worth.

What is worth anyhow? What are you worth? You say, "Oh, my daddy is a millionaire. We have a lovely house and gardens, and I get new dresses every month. Whew! We are worth a lot!"

Well, perhaps you are, for a man can have money and something more. If he has only money piles, he is terribly poor.

You are worth just what you are. Just what your quality is.

They used to talk years ago of "ladies of quality" and they meant the upper uppers—the swells and people with titles. Now we know there are splendid ladies with titles, but it is not the title that makes them ladies of quality, it is what they carry in their hearts.

I will tell you how to get character quality.

"I would be true, for there are those who trust me,

I would be pure, for there are those who care;

I would be strong, for there is much to suffer,

I would be brave, for there is much to dare.

"I would be friend to all—the foe—the friendless;

I would be giving and forget the gift,

I would be humble for I know my weakness,

I would look up, and laugh—and love—and lift."

 

But you need quality in work too. We live in a pushing day when we judge by quantity. Pile things up, drive ahead, keep moving, hustle along. Do a lot of things.

Now, there is a better rule—not how much, but how well done.

I have a lovely picture with a beautiful frame that has a history. It is the picture of The Doctor. You all have seen it.—Where the good man is sitting by the side of the sick child, studying the case, the lamplight shining on the face, and the father and mother in tears and anxiety in the background.

Some Scotch craftsmen who knew me framed it in bird's-eye maple, inlaid with basswood, and the frame has the story on it—The Iris plant on the sides, a symbol of immortality, the Egyptian symbol of eternity above, and the sand-glass below; all meant to illustrate the battle between life and death in the picture itself.

Now, the frame is not very big, but it is very beautiful, because the Scotch handicraft men have as their ideal to make every piece of work as perfect in quality as possible.

Solid, steady, sure work tells, not always brilliant.

Lots of brilliant people in school never amount to anything afterward, because they lack the quality of always sticking at it and doing each thing the best way possible.

If you ever watch men bowling on the green, or curling on the ice, you know that a shot that is too swift, that has too much quantity in it, goes through the house; the telling shot is the quiet, steady one with the right quality of delivery in it.

(b) Service.

That grocery store said, "We want to help you." It was thinking of others and living for others.

The motto of the Prince of Wales is "Ich dien," which means, "I serve."

In long past years the big man was the fellow who bossed the job.—He was called the ruler, the magistrate.

To-day, especially since Jesus, the big man is the minister.—I do not mean the preacher in your church, but the man who gets down beside the people and serves them. You know "minister" is a Latin word that means "servant." Every one who tries to serve other people is a minister. He is the biggest man everywhere. The biggest word to-day is "Service."

There were four letters in the war that were very touching to me, C.A.S.C.—The Canadian Army Service Corps.

They worked for everybody. They were supply centres. The army never could have done its work without them. They were worth all the honour could be given them, because they were the army helpers.

Oh, if everybody would only help, what a happy world this would be!

Most of our troubles are because we want to be helped. It makes us selfish and jealous and mean and grabby.

The war came from it—nations seeking to get.

School is made unhappy by it. It spoils play and games and dinner tables and Sunday Schools and churches and lives.

God serves and nature serves. Parents and teachers serve.

Why don't you? What do you want to be always getting for?

A small boy once put a note by his mother's plate, and when she came to breakfast, she found a bill.

The dear mother never said a word, but left the bill on the table. Next morning a note was at the boy's plate.

The second day a shame-faced boy tore up that first bill and later on laid his head in his mother's lap and cried.—I guess you know why!

Before a train starts, the wipers go all over her to wipe and examine the engine; the fireman comes and builds and starts the fire; the engineer comes and goes carefully all over the machinery; the mechanic comes and tests all the wheels; and then she is linked on the train, the lever is pulled, and puff! puff!—away she goes, drawing her long line of passengers and freight!

You are going through the process now of getting ready. By-and-by you will be hitched on to some life job.

See you get ready properly, and get coupled to the right train; and then pull for all your might, and help serve humanity by bringing in your load to the final station where some day we all must land.

XXXI

BETSY

Henry W. Longfellow, the poet, tells us that

"Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And departing, leave behind us,

Footprints in the sands of time.

"Footprints that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, may take heart again."

 

That is all beautifully true. It is also true that many a humble, obscure life can teach us lessons of trust and loyalty, and devotion to good things.

The story I am going to tell you is about a humble Indian girl, whose forefathers had been all savages, but whose home was a Christian one among the simple native children of the North.

Over fifty years before the time of our story, an unchristianized band of Indians fished in the inland waters, trapped in the forest for mink and otter, muskrat, bear or silver fox; and paddled the lake in birch barks; sometimes supplementing their paddle strokes by a sail contrived of a blanket fastened to a pole cut from a neighbouring bluff.

From far over the Atlantic came a brave man, with a heart full of peace, and anxious to acquaint the native with the brightness of his own life.

It meant much to settle in such a district in early days, long before the iron horse had made a path across the prairie; days when the trail wound its wandering way over rock and soil, skirting the bluffs, penetrating forest, mounting granite hills or hiding itself in rocky ravines.

And even after the perils of the trail were passed, there still remained the privations of the lonely Mission, cut off from companionship, with the keen biting winds of winter, the ice-locked lake, the powdery-dry snow falling and falling until one wondered if the air had turned to snow, and when morning came little was left of the buildings except the chimney tops; the whole Mission was buried in white as though shut up in the garments of the tomb.

Twice a year the mail carrier braved first the heat of summer and then the rigour of winter, and when the contents of the mail-bag were emptied on the parlour floor what delight in once more touching the outside world. It was like reading history after it was past to scan the doings of the year. It was like a breath from the dear old home to see the familiar postage stamps and to read the welcome words of dear ones from letters, enclosing home flowers and fragrant love messages.

In all this life no one made greater sacrifice than the missionary's wife, who saw no women save her dusky pagan sisters with the dark brown eyes with a yearning look in them.

Many years ago Keewatin, the "North Wind" with his little daughter Akwinanoh were sitting by their wigwam door looking down the long stretch of the Northern Lake, when suddenly a strange apparition some miles away startled them into attention. Their cry gathered almost the whole camp, which watched with wonder and amaze a changing object moving toward them, but unexplainable by even their keen Indian sight.

Whatever it was it gleamed and glistened in the setting sun until finally Keewatin, with a glimmer of inspiration in his eyes, said, "I know what it is. It is an island of light." He was nearer the truth than he knew, for it was the tin canoe of the English missionary, the tin reflecting, in scintillating rays, the sunlight, and the canoe bearing the messenger of a light that so far had never yet shone for them. Every stranger excites the curiosity of the savage man, but Akwinanoh had a new object of interest from that day, for with the white man came a tiny white baby that soon grew into the pet of the reserve!

The little daughter of the North Wind adopted the white man's child as her special charge, and while the missionary worked and prayed to bring the Gospel of the Christ-child into the hearts of the Saulteaux, another little child slowly but surely worked its way into the life of the brown maiden, transforming her, and through its gentle pressure Akwinanoh soon yielded to the influence of the Gospel of Bethlehem's babe.

Later she became the Christian mother of her who was known as Betsy. Betsy grew into a girlhood that was beautiful, even from the white man's point of vision.

She was gentle as the breath of the south wind, with a sweet grace of manner and a consistency of life that made her a strong support to the man who came to them in his canoe.

To be a follower of Christ seemed natural to her, for she had His spirit, and was full of unselfish thoughtfulness.

One day as she was walking along the river edge she saw a child slip and fall. Without a moment's hesitation she plunged into the deep, brown stream, six fathoms at the rock, and brought the child safe to its parents' tepee. It was early in the spring and the waters were cold, and before night a raging fever laid her low.

For weeks she suffered, waited upon by the heathen medicine man, uncomplainingly swallowing the hideous compounds from his mix-all bottles, and slowly sinking under the fatal grip of pneumonia.

The young husband refused at first to allow the approach of the white doctor, and the missionary could only pray and hope.

Finally, when one day the light burned low, the obstinate young Indian bowed before the compelling force of necessity, and proper medical attendance began. Then the doctor took hold, nursing her as though she were his own child; watching symptoms and succeeding in bringing back hopeful conditions into the wasted frame.

It was a gay day when the report circulated through the camp that Betsy, the beloved, was recovering under the magic spell woven around her by the English medicine man, for no one could fail to notice the sweet spirit and to wish for victory in the stern battle brought on through her unselfish act.

One day in the evening, the missionary found her, oh so quiet and worn, but gentle as ever. She could speak a little English and seemed glad to think that she was cared for.

"Well, Betsy," said the missionary, "you have been very ill."

"Yes," she answered sweetly, "very ill, but the good light the white man brought has been shining in my heart and all is well."

"We are glad, Betsy," said the missionary, "that God is going to spare you. We could ill do without you. Your life has been a benediction to the whole reserve."

"Oh, Missionary," said Betsy, weeping, "do not say that. When I think of the story of His love it makes me ashamed. But I do wish my people could feel and know as I do. I would like to stay among them for a little while, for I love them. But sometimes I have a feeling in my heart that perhaps it is not to be. I had a dream last night, Missionary. Would you like to hear it?"

"Yes, Betsy," he replied, "but are you strong enough to talk so long?"

"Oh, yes; I feel quite strong this evening, thanks to the white doctor.

"I dreamed I was going along the trail when suddenly away before me I saw a wonderful light. It was coming my way and as it got nearer it took on the form of a person. Soon it stood beside me and I saw that it was the face of Christ, but oh, it was too beautiful to describe! And I said, 'Have you come for me?' 'No,' said a voice, 'not yet.' And I thought I was so disappointed, and I said, 'Well, will you be long?' And the answer was, 'No, not very long.' And as it spoke it disappeared, and I awakened."

He listened, hushed and awestruck at the story of the dream of this dusky sister of the plain.

"Well, Betsy," said he, after a moment of silence, "it is all well. That dream may not come literally true, but the spirit of it is yours, and some day He will come to your people, and when the right moment arrives He will come for you too. Shall we pray, Betsy?"

"Oh, yes sir, pray," she said, "pray for me, but do not forget my people, and my man."

The night shadows were growing darker as reverently he knelt beside the prostrate form of that northern saint, Indian in race, but akin to God the Father of us all. A daughter of the King, if ever there was one.

Then reaching out her hand, she took from a corner of the tent near her couch a birch-bark basket, made by her own hands, and sewn with sweet grass. Giving it to the missionary, she said, "Keep that as a remembrance for your kindness in coming to see a poor sick Indian child."

That night the northwest wind began to moan. Soon it bore down with the terrific force of a gale, in howling wrath. Drenching rain fell; wild gusts of storm dashed against the Mission buildings.

The wildness of the storm howling in mercilessness in the deep night stillness struck chill to the heart of every one. It was one of those sudden storms that sometimes sweep in gales over the north country, gone in a few minutes, but ofttimes leaving a wake of destruction.

When morning dawned, some of the boats were driven fifty yards into the forest; trees around the camp were stripped of limbs, and great rents ran down the bark and fibre of more than one.

But the worst deed done by it was when it lifted the tent off Betsy's sleeping form, and left her to the wild elements whose work was soon finished in her death through shock and wet.

It was not long until the news spread throughout the settlement, and the Indian wailing could be heard in that lonely, long-drawn lamentation that is theirs.

Two days later crowds of Indians thronged the little Mission Chapel. They came dressed in their prints of all colours and fantastic variety of costume; some with yellow handkerchiefs on their heads. Purple, blue, white, red were seen everywhere, but mourning was on every face, and sorrow sat on every bowed form.

A touching service in Cree, with plaintive music set to the words of Christian hymns, and then, one by one, men, women and children came to the front and printed a kiss upon the cold brow of the dead woman, while some whispered messages to her to be taken to the land of blessed spirits.

It was a sad procession that wound its way through the Mission fields, over the hills, across the bridge and up the opposite side of the ravine. There, amid the wooden monuments that marked the resting-place of relatives and friends, was laid the sacred dust of Betsy.

As the coffin was lowered, the conquering wind whistled its triumph through the limbs of the trees in the near-by forest, but it was a hollow triumph, for beyond the forest were the hills of light and faith could see there the real conqueror, whose face once shone in beauty in Betsy's dream, and who had come now for her in the guise of the storm on which He rode, but who gave His weak one conquest through the storm.

Reverently they lowered her body, the worn-out jewel-case of Betsy, simple-hearted, large-souled, unselfish Betsy; heaped the clods upon her coffin; waved farewells across her grave and went back to the old life where storms still raged and duties dared and dangers sought to breed fears within. But many were made stronger now because of her.

Brave Betsy, dark of skin, but white of soul; true-hearted Betsy, beloved of all, foe of none; she got her death through giving another life, and for many a day her story will be told, and children will be carried to the little Indian burying-ground and shown the simple wooden cross, simple as herself, on which they will see in simple letters—

"BETSY"

XXXII

A LIFE DEGREE

The other day the papers announced that when the Prince of Wales returns from his recent tour, he is to be given the Order of the Garter, the highest honour in the Empire in civil life, just as the V.C. is the highest in military service.

And it is a great honour to do some deed or fulfill some duty, so that a college or a nation gives you some distinguished degree which allows you to put letters after your name.

But it is all right to be proud of honours, if a fellow really earns them by hard work or genuine service. The only kind to be shunned are the kind you buy with money or get through some second-hand institution without any standard of toil.

Yet, after all is said and done, the great majority of you will perhaps never have a college degree, and will never be called over to meet the king and kneel before him, dressed up in gorgeous court clothes, while he strikes your shoulder with a sword and says, "Rise up, Sir Knight." You may never be a big lawyer and write K.C. after your signature, to show you can plead in the king's name; or K.C.M.G., to show you are one of the select knights of the royal castle; but I want to suggest you can still wear a title, and use the letters that stand for things worth while.

"Say, Billy, would you not feel big if the day came when your friends called you Sir William?" Who knows but what they may! The big men were schoolboys with some one else, and you may be one of the coming big men.

You remember when Tom Brown went to Oxford, he used to walk around and read the names of men like Raleigh and Wycliffe, and feel two inches taller. He said, "Perhaps I may be going to make dear friends with some fellow who will change the history of England. Why shall not I? There must have been some freshmen once who were chums of Wycliffe and Raleigh!"

Now, my point is that even if you do not, you need not fail.

Some day when you read, or now when you are reading Tennyson, you will find a poem called "Idylls of the King," where he speaks of knights who are "wearing the white flower of a blameless life," and who "live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the king——"

If you are that, then I have the power to confer on you titles, and although you may not put the letters after your name, you can if you care to—William Blank, K.C.

"K" stands for kindness, and you know,

"There's nothing so kingly as kindness;

And nothing so royal as truth;"

and you know,

"So may we in bonds of love,

Each living creature bind,

And make them gentle as a dove,

If we are only kind."

 

There is something very attractive about a kind man; and we should be that, for we live in lands where Jesus has been heard of, and He has filled the earth with kindness.

A street-car line was held up once in Brooklyn, the city with its roar and busy bustle, all because a kitten had got on the rails. In China, they would not have bothered, but we have learned to be kind, to be friends even to animals.

"C" means courtesy, the behaviour of a lady and gentleman in heart and home and street.

I met an Indian in the North land, which I have told you about in my talks in "Boucher" and "Betsy," whose name was John Everett.

He had been a pagan Cree, but his tribe were now Christian. His clothes were not the best and he was a poor fisherman, living in an Indian hut, but I could have put him into Buckingham Palace; and while a lot of things would have been new to him, he would not have disgraced himself, for he was a perfect gentleman.

Courtesy means being courtly; that is, fit to stand in a court and not be ashamed of your actions. Here is a definition I read of a gentleman, and which I pass on to you: