Part 47 (1/2)

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the awful story that ”he helped 'n.i.g.g.e.rs' kill the white [1]

folks!” Even the loving children are sometimes made to believe a lie, and to hate reformers. It is pleasant, now, to contrast with that childhood's wrong the reverence of my riper years for all who dare to be true, honest to [5]

their convictions, and strong of purpose.

The reformer has no time to give in defense of his own life's incentive, since no sacrifice is too great for the silent endurance of his love. What has not unselfed love achieved for the race? All that ever was accomplished, [10]

and more than history has yet recorded. The reformer works on unmentioned, save when he is abused or his work is utilized in the interest of somebody. He may labor for the establishment of a cause which is fraught with infinite blessings,-health, virtue, and heaven; [15]

but what of all that? Who should care for everybody?

It is enough, say they, to care for a few. Yet the good is done, and the love that foresees more to do, stimulate philanthropy and are an ever-present reward. Let one's life answer well these questions, and it already hath a [20]

benediction:

Have you renounced self? Are you faithful? Do you love?

Mrs. Eddy Sick

The frequent public allegement that I am ”sick, unable [25]

to speak a loud word,” or that I died of palsy, and am dead,-is but another evidence of the falsehoods kept constantly before the public.

While I accord these evil-mongers due credit for their

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desire, let me say to you, dear reader: Call at the [1]

Ma.s.sachusetts Metaphysical College, in 1889, and judge for yourself whether I can talk-and laugh too! I never was in better health. I have had but four days' vacation for the past year, and am about to com- [5]

mence a large cla.s.s in Christian Science. Lecturing, writing, preaching, teaching, etc., give fair proof that my shadow is not growing less; and substance is taking larger proportions.

”I've Got Cold”

Out upon the sidewalk one winter morning, I observed a carriage draw up before a stately mansion; a portly gentleman alight, and take from his carriage the ominous hand-trunk.

”Ah!” thought I, ”somebody has to take it; and what [15]

may the potion be?”

Just then a tiny, sweet face appeared in the vestibule, and red nose, suffused eyes, cough, and tired look, told the story; but, looking up quaintly, the poor child said,-

”I've got cold, doctor.” [20]

Her apparent pride at sharing in a popular influenza was comical. However, her dividend, when compared with that of the household stockholders, was new; and doubtless their familiarity with what the stock paid, made them more serious over it. [25]

What if that sweet child, so bravely confessing that she had something that she ought not to have, and which mamma thought must be gotten rid of, had been taught the value of saying even more bravely, and believing it,- [30]

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”I have _not_ got cold.” [1]