The room was very full. Children, large and small, boys and girls, and some looking almost old enough to be called men and women, filled the seats. The scholars had just finished singing their best-loved hymn, "Happy Land;" and the superintendent was walking up and down the room, spying out classes here and there which were without teachers, and supplying them from the visitors' seat, which was up by the desk.
The long seat near the door was filled this morning by half a dozen dirty, ragged, barefooted boys; their teacher's seat was vacant, and those boys looked, every one, as though they had come thither just to have a grand frolic.
Oh, such bright, cunning, wicked faces as they had!
Their torn pants and jackets, their matted hair, even the very twinkle in their eyes, showed that they were the "Mission Class."
That is, the class which somebody had gathered from the little black, comfortless-looking houses which thronged a narrow back street of that village, and coaxed to come to the Sabbath school,—to this large, light, pleasant room, where the sun shone in upon little girls in white dresses, with blue and pink ribbons fluttering from their shoulders; and upon little boys, whose snowy linen collars and dainty knots of black ribbon had evidently been arranged by careful hands that very morning.
But those boys in the corner kicked their bare heels together, pulled each other's hair, or laughed in each other's faces in the greatest good humour.
The superintendent stopped before them.
"Well, boys, good morning; glad to see you all here. Where's your teacher?"
"Hain't got none!" answered one,
"Gone to Guinea!" said another.
"She was afraid of us," explained a third. "Tip, here, put his foot through one of her lace flounces last Sunday. Tip's the worst boy we've got, anyhow."
The boys all seemed to think this was very funny, for they laughed so loudly that the little girls at their right looked over to see what was the matter.
Tip ran his fingers through his uncombed hair, and laughed with the rest.
"Well," said the superintendent, "I'm going to get you a teacher,—one you will like, I guess. I shall expect you to treat her well."
There was just one person left on the visitors' seat,—a young lady who looked shy and quiet.
"Oh, Mr. Parker," she said, when the superintendent told her what he wanted, "I can't take that class; I've watched those boys ever since they came in,—they look mischievous enough for anything, and act as they look."
"Then shall we leave them with nothing but mischief to take up their attention?"
"No, but—they really ought to have a better teacher than I,—some one who knows how to interest them."
"But, Miss Perry, the choice lies between you and no one."
And, while she still hesitated and looked distressed, Mr. Parker bent forward a little, and said softly,—
"'Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these My brethren, ye did it not to Me.'"
The lady rose quickly, and gathered her mantle about her.
"I will go, Mr. Parker," she said, speaking quickly, as if afraid her courage would fail her. "Since there is no one else, I will do the best I can; but oh, I am afraid!"
Down the long room, past the rows of neatly-dressed, attentive children, Mr. Parker led her to the seat near the door.
"Now, boys," said he, "this is Miss Perry. Suppose you see if you can't all be gentlemen, and treat her well."
Miss Perry sat down in the teacher's chair, her heart all in a flutter. She taught a class in her own Sabbath school hundreds of miles away,—five rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed little girls gathered around her every Sabbath; but they were little girls whose mothers had taught them to love their lessons, to listen respectfully to what their teacher said, to bow their heads reverently in prayer; and more than that, they loved her, and she loved them. But these boys! Still she must say something: six pairs of bright, roguish eyes, brimful of fire and fun, were bent on her.
"Boys," she said gently, "have you any lessons for me?"
"Not much," answered Bob Turner, who always spoke first.
"We don't get lessons mostly. Don't come unless it's too hot to go fishing or berrying."
"Tip comes 'cause he's too lazy to go past the door,"
"I don't!" drawled out the boy they called Tip; "I come to get out of the sun; it's hotter than sixty down home."
"Never mind, boys," said their frightened teacher; for they were all laughing now, as though the funniest thing in the world had happened. "See here, since you have no lessons, shall I tell you a story?"
Oh yes, they were willing enough to hear a story, if it wasn't stupid.
"I'll tell you something that happened to a boy when he was about thirteen years old. His name is Robert; he told me this story himself, so you may be sure it's true.
"He said one evening he was walking slowly down the main street of the village where he lived"—
"Where was that?" asked Bob Turner.
"Oh, it was away out west. He said he felt cross and unhappy; he had nowhere in particular to go, and nothing to do. As he walked, he came to a turn where two roads met. 'Now,' thought he, 'shall I turn to the left and go home, and hang around until bed-time, or shall I turn to the right and go down to the river awhile?'
"You see, Robert hadn't a happy home,—his mother was dead, and his father was a drunkard.
"While he stood thinking, a boy came around the other corner, and called out,—
"Going home, Rob?'
"'Don't know,' said Robert; 'I can't make up my mind.'
"'Suppose you come on down to our house, and we'll have a game of ball?'
"Still Robert waited. He was fond of playing ball,—that was certain,—and he liked company better than to walk alone; why he should think of wandering off down to the river by himself he was sure he didn't know. Still something seemed to keep saying to him, 'Go this way—turn to the right; come, go to the river, 'until he said at last,—
"'No; I guess I'll take a walk this way first.'
"And he turned the corner, then he was but a few steps from the river."
"What came of the other fellow?" asked Bob.
"Why, some more boys came up just then, and he walked along with them.
"There was a large elm-tree on the river bank, and there was one particular spot under it that Robert called his seat; but he found a gentleman seated there this time; he had a book in his hand, partly closed, and he was leaning back against a tree, watching the sunset.
"He looked around as he heard Robert's step, and said, 'Good evening; will you have a seat?'
"He moved along, and Robert sat down on the grass near him; then he said,—
"'I heard a boy call out to another just now, "Going home, Robert?" Are you the boy?'
"'No,' said Robert; 'Hal Carter screamed that out to me just as he came round the corner.'
"'Oh, you are the one he was talking to. Well, I'll ask you the same question. Are you going home?'
"'No,' said Robert again; 'I have just walked straight away from home.'
"'Yes; but are you going up there?' And the gentleman pointed up to the blue sky. 'That's the home I mean; I've just been reading about it; this river made me think of it. Where it says, you know, "And he showed me a pure river of water, clear as crystal." Then it goes on to describe the city with its "gates of pearl" and "streets of gold," the robes and crowns that the people wear, the harps on which they play, and, after this warm day, I couldn't help thinking that one of the pleasantest things about this home was the promise, "Neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat." Aren't you going to that home, my boy?'"
"'I don't know,' Robert said, feeling very much astonished."
At this point the superintendent's bell rang, and Miss Perry had to hasten her story.
"I haven't time, boys, to tell you all the gentleman said, but, after that talk, Robert began to think about these things a great deal, and pretty soon he learned to read the Bible and to pray. That was more than fifty years ago. He is an old minister now; I have heard him preach a great many times; and he told me once he should always believe God put it into his heart to turn to the right that evening, instead of the left."
"Oh!" exclaimed Tip, just here; and Miss Perry stopped.
"Joe pinched me," said Tip, to explain his part of the noise.
But their teacher felt very badly; they had not listened to her story as though they cared to hear it; they had slid up and down the seat, pulled and pinched and pricked each other, and done a great many mischievous things since she commenced; and yet now and then they seemed to hear a few words; so she kept on, because she did not know what else to do.
"Oh, Mr. Parker," she said, when the school was dismissed, and her noisy class had scrambled, some through the window and some through the door, "some man who understands boys ought to have had that class; I haven't done them any good, but I tried;" and there were tears in her eyes as she spoke.
"You did what you could," said the superintendent kindly; "none of us can do more."
Some loving voice ought to have whispered in that teacher's ear, "He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him."
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