18S1 



GLEANINGS IN BEE CULTURE. 



617 



with wonderful distinctness. When I was 

 eighteen I wanted just a little more money 

 to buy an outfit of electrical apparatus, that 

 I might go out lecturing. Money was not 

 very plenty then with him, and I debated 

 quite a while as to whether he would think 

 it best to give nie the am.ount. Although it 

 took about all he had, he took it out of his 

 pocket and handed it me almost as soon as I 

 explained what it was wanted for. 



llecently he had been growing old 

 and feeble. 1 have sometimes wondered of 

 late 10 see him ''uptown" so often. The 

 farm is 2* miles from us. Well, Sunday 

 afternoon I was feeling a great longing to 

 see him, although he had not been dead 

 quite 24 hours. Eliza, who keeps the 

 " counter store," had dropped in to see us. 

 When I spoke of the longing I felt, and re- 

 gretted I had not improved the time more in 

 going down to the farm to see them oftener, 

 she remaiked that he used, almost always, 

 to ask, as he came into the store, — 



" Do you know where Amos is at work to- 

 day V" 



When told, he would add,— 



"Do you know whether he is very busy 

 or not?" 



I knew he often came up where I write, 

 and after a word or two went back again. 

 Sometimes I would go down with him, and 

 we would w'alk over the grounds looking at 

 the honey-plants, etc. Sometimes I showed 

 him our new^ machinery, ihe new goods in 

 the counter store, but I did not think he 

 cared so much for these little attentions ; 

 neither did I think it would ever come up 

 before me as it does now. What would 1 

 give — oh what would I give ! if I had those 

 days to live over again V Is it possible I 

 shall awake and liud that he is down on the 

 farm still, where his eyes may be gladdened 

 by the sight of his grown-up boy ? Dear 

 reader, it is no dream. The time is passed, 

 and he is now in his grave ; but listen, and 

 I will tell you of the message God has given 

 mo to take to you. Your father, perhaps, is 

 still living. Mine can not be recalled ; but 

 yours may still be cheered and. made liappy. 

 Go to him now, even though it be night, and 

 after dark; carry to him this chapter in Our 

 Homes, and ask him if it be not a message 

 sent from God. God, in his love and mercy, 

 has given me this experience, that I may 

 speak a w^ord for these friends of ours in 

 their second childhood. You little know 

 how they lean on you, and you little know 

 how they feel even a little thoughtlessness 

 on your part. Do you know there is only 

 one among the ten commandments that has 

 a promise with it V — 



Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days 

 may be long in tho land which the Lord thy God 

 giveth thee.— Ex. 30:l:i. 



My wife lost her father only a few^ years 

 ago. Said she to me one day, — 



"Amos, while your parents live, do not 

 neglect them. Let your Abbeyville school 

 go ; let your work in the infirmary go, if 

 somethiiig must be neglected; but do not 

 neglect your parents in their old age. If 

 you do, you will sometime repent it most 

 keenly." 



1 took her advice, and you can hardly 



think how I thank God now for that advice. 

 I have been with them almost every Sunday 

 afternoon, for an hour or two, for years 

 back ; and yet how I do wish I had "gone 

 down oftener on week days, and been out 

 - around the farm more with father about his 

 work. About the last work he did was to 

 dig his potatoes, and he got very tired doing 

 it. Why did I not leave my work here and. 

 go and help him just a little while V 'i'he 

 recollection of having done even that would 

 be worth more to me now Uvau all that the 

 wealth of this world could pile u)). It was 

 not help he needed, for a boy could have 

 been hired for a very small sum, but it was 

 companionship and sympathy. Through 

 sorrow and aflliction has God pointed out 

 this lesson. 



Now, the lesson does not end here. Fa- 

 ther is dead, but mother still lives ; my wife 

 lives; my children, my shopmates. You, 

 my friends, still live, and it is in my powei- 

 to give you some of that companionship and 

 sympathy of which God has been showing 

 me. I started up street yesterday. A little 

 ahead of me was a child with two pretty big 

 bundles. I can hasten up and carry one, and 

 if she dies before I do, I shall be made hap- 

 py by thinking of the little act. To my sur- 

 prise, I found it was my own little girl. Blue 

 Eyes. I took both of her bundles, and. I be- 

 lieve, her little soft hand also in mine. May 

 God be praised for the lesson lie is now 

 teaching me, and one which I probably need- 

 ed so much ! You know that friend Cook, at 

 the college, talked to me of the danger busy 

 men are in. of neglecting their own family 

 circles. Nothing would make me feel this 

 as does the afHictiou of which I have just 

 told you. Do you understand the text, — 



Whom he loveth he chastenoth, and scourgeth 

 every son whom he rcceivcth? 



Would it do any hurt, dear friends, if all 

 through life we should think, " Suppose that 

 friend should die before I can ever speak to 

 him again"? One after another of you is 

 going, "^'^ery often I ponder on the hand- 

 writing of some of j'ou after God has cilled 

 you away. Suppose we form a habit of ask- 

 ing ourselves, "Is this just what I would 

 say or write that man, if I thought it likely 

 he would die before I ever have the oppor- 

 tunity of saying more V " Could you look on 

 his face in his coffin, and feel no regret that 

 it had not been left unsaid V Well, this feel- 

 ing has brought a new joy and a new happi- 

 ness. In it I have felt more of God's love, 

 and a purer love to all my friends and rela- 

 tives, y es, I know it is a "belter and a purer 

 love to all humanity. If I hold on to it, it 

 will help me greatly to live in peace with all 

 men. 



N'eiirer, my God. to thee, nearer to thee: 

 E'en thouf^h it be a cross that raisetli mo. 



As we were about parting for the night, a 

 neighbor, a most kind old man who had 

 known my father and mother since the time 

 when they first sought their home in the 

 woods of Medina Comity, took her hand at 

 parting and spoke the words of my opening 

 text to-day— "It is the Lord; let him do 

 what seemeth him good." I at once began 

 wondering where in the Bible I had seen it, 

 and soon remembered it was the words of 



