CHAPTER XIV. Be Kind

BE KIND

The story is related of a king who had a boy in whom he took great delight. He gave him beautiful rooms to live in, with rich pictures and books, and servants to wait on him wherever he went. He also provided teachers who were to impart knowledge to him of things which would make him good and great; but with all this the young prince was unhappy. He wore a frown wherever he went, and was always wishing for something he did not have. At length one day a magician came to court. He saw the scowl on the boy’s face, and said to the king, “I can make your son happy and turn his frowns into smiles, but you must pay me a large sum for telling him the secret.” “All right,” said the king, “whatever you ask I will give.” The price was agreed upon and paid, and the magician took the boy into a private room. He wrote something with a white substance on a piece of paper, then gave the boy a candle, and told him to light it, hold it under the paper, and see what he could read. He then departed. The boy did as he had been told and the white letters turned into a beautiful blue. They formed these words, “Do a kindness to some one every day.” The prince was very much impressed with these words and undertook to put them into practice, and this resulted in his becoming very popular and useful in the realm.

KINDNESS AND UNKINDNESS.

Few words are greater in the English language than kindness. It is as mighty as it is gentle. Few things cost so little, yet benefit so much. But unkindness always arises from a heart inclined more or less to be cruel. Because of this the memory of Nero has been treated with contempt for ages. When a boy, he delighted in torturing flies by pulling off their legs, and then watching them struggle to get away. When he became emperor he burnt the Christians in his gardens, and wished that all the Romans had but one neck that he might cut off their heads at one blow. Thoreau, on the other hand, is revered for his gentle, loving disposition. Though an ardent naturalist he seldom if ever inflicted death for the sake of the furtherance of his scientific observations. About the year 1845 he took to the woods near Walden Pond, Massachusetts, and built a house, to the surprise of the raccoons and squirrels. But the animals soon learned that he meant them no harm. He would lie down on a fallen tree, or on the edge of a rock, and at his call they would come to him. Even the snakes would wind around his legs, and the squirrels would hide their heads in his waistcoat. The fish in the river knew him, and would allow him to lift them from the water. He could pull a woodchuck out of his hole by its tail. Rabbits and birds paid no heed whatever to him while he sat and watched them or plied his work by chopping trees and raising vegetables, and when he built his house over the nest of a woodmouse, which at first became alarmed, it soon became so tame as to pick the crumbs at his feet and nibble the cheese in his hand.

THE BRAVEST ARE THE TENDEREST.

Some years ago, General David S. Stanley was laying out the route for a great railroad across the plains. There were two thousand men, twenty-five hundred horses and mules, and a train of two hundred and fifty wagons heavily laden. One day the general was riding at the head of the broad column, when suddenly his voice rang out: “Halt!” A bird’s nest lay on the ground directly in front of him. In another moment the horses would have trampled on the nestlings. The mother bird was flying about and chirping in the greatest anxiety. But the brave general had not brought out his army to destroy a bird’s nest. He halted a moment, looked at the little birds and then gave the order: “Left oblique!” Men, horses, mules and wagons turned aside and spared the home of the helpless bird. Years after, those who crossed the plains saw a great bend in the trail, which was the bend made to avoid crushing the bird’s nest.

George Stephenson, when a boy, would never rob a bird’s nest, because, as he used to tell his companions: “It grieves the old bird.” One day when his genius was changing the face of the earth by the railway engine, he went to an upper room of his house and closed a window. It had been open a long time because of the intense summer heat, but now the weather was becoming cooler, and Mr. Stephenson thought it would be well to shut it. Two or three days later he chanced to observe a bird flying against it with all its might as if trying to break it. His curiosity was aroused. He went at once and opened the window and as he did so the bird flew straight to one particular spot in the room, where Stephenson saw a nest. The poor bird looked at it and then fluttered to the floor, broken-hearted and almost dead. The great man drew near. There sat the mother bird, and under her wings four tiny ones, all dead. Tenderly he lifted the exhausted bird from the floor and carefully tried to revive it, but it speedily died. In its beak was a worm it had long struggled to bring to its home and little ones, and as Mr. Stephenson looked, he wept.

The brave Colonel John Sobieski thought the unwanton killing of birds nothing short of murder. Speaking of one of his hunting trips he said, “Sauntering leisurely along under tall elms, I heard a bird singing, and looking up, I saw a wee bit of a bird perched upon a lofty limb, singing very sweetly. Without a moment’s thought, and without the slightest idea that I could hit so small a mark, I up and banged away. I saw some feathers fly, and the little songster came dropping down from branch to branch, and fell at my feet. I stooped down and picked it up. It was a tiny little thing, not much bigger than my thumb, of a yellowish-green color, as beautiful as it could be. Then, like a flash, the thought came to me, ‘What a contemptible deed I have done. Here was one of God’s beautiful creatures that had just as much right to existence as I, and its life, doubtless, was as sweet to it as mine was to me, and at that very moment that it was singing its beautiful songs to make the world more pleasant and glorious, I had brutally shot it to death.’ I carefully buried it among the leaves, and then promised myself that I would never again wantonly destroy life. I regard this the greatest crime I ever committed.”

DUMB ANIMALS.

Sometimes boys are unkind to dumb animals, teasing them for sport or imposing on them for gain. Few animals show more fidelity and attachment to us than the dog and horse. What warnings the former gives! How faithfully he watches by day and night! With what cheerful alacrity the “Shepherd” goes for the cattle and the “Mastiff” protects the home! How many lives have been saved from a watery grave by the “Newfoundland,” or from a snowy one by the “St. Bernard!”

Walter Scott tells of a dog which saved his master from being burned alive. The dog of Montargis vainly defended his master against the enemy, but successfully led to the discovery of the murderer. A pet spaniel saved the life of William the Silent by scratching his face, when asleep. A body of Alva’s Spanish troops surprised Dutch William’s camp, and though his guards perished, he effected his escape by mounting a horse. In the excavation of the buried city of Herculaneum, the skeleton of a dog was found stretched over that of a boy twelve years of age, which he endeavored to save from death by suffocation or fire. All that remained to tell the story of its fidelity was a collar with an inscription that told how on three occasions it had saved the life of its master, once from the sea, once from robbers, and once from wolves.

Of the horse many beautiful and pathetic stories are related. It is said they never forget a road once traveled, and are very loving in their attachment. During the Peninsular war a trumpeter of French cavalry was killed. Many days after the engagement, his body was found, guarded by his faithful charger, which had stayed by its dead master, protecting his body. When found, the poor horse was in a sad condition; so great was its grief, that even after the trumpeter had been buried it required great persuasion to be prevailed upon to eat.

Some animals can take their part, as many a boy, through lacerated fingers and severe wounds and bruises, knows. But there are many which cannot, yet every one is entitled to and appreciates kindness. “There is,” as Ruskin said, “a flash of strange light through which their life looks out and up to our great mystery of command over them, and claiming the fellowship of the creature, if not of the soul.”

“I WAS THAT BOY.”

Boys should be kind to one another. Unkind acts are lasting as indelible ink; they are like letters written in lemon-juice, which become legible when brought before the fire; they stir the heart, awaken memory, and distress the soul. A prominent lawyer who became attorney general of Missouri relates that while in Governor Steward’s office, a convict was brought in from the penitentiary to receive a pardon at the Governor’s hands. The convict was a steamboat man, with the rough manners of his class. Looking at him the Governor became greatly affected. Then he signed the document which restored the man’s liberty, but before handing it over said, “You will commit some crime, I fear, and will soon be back in prison.” The man protested that such a thing should never again happen. “You will go back to the river and be a mate again, I suppose?” asked the Governor. The man said that was his intention. “Well, I want you to pledge me your word that when you are mate again you will never take a billet of wood, and drive a poor sick boy out of his bunk to help load your boat on a stormy night.” The man promised that he never would, and in surprise asked the Governor why he desired such a pledge. “Because,” answered he, “some day that boy may become Governor, and you may want him to pardon you for some crime. One stormy black night, many years ago you stopped your boat on the Mississippi to take on a load of wood. There was a boy on board working his passage from New Orleans to St. Louis, but he became sick and was lying in his bunk. You had enough men to do the work, but you went to that sick boy, drove him to the deck with blows and curses, and kept him toiling like a slave till the load was complete. I was that boy. Here is your pardon. Never again be guilty of so brutal an act.” The prisoner took the pardon, covered his face and went out, ashamed of his conduct, and greatly affected by the charity of one who showed mercy when he could have had revenge.

“YOU CALLED ME BROTHER.”

My boy, be kind. “If a man would have friends, he must show himself friendly.” “A little thought and a little kindness,” said Ruskin, “are often worth more than a great deal of money.” Of Cornelius Vanderbilt it was said, “He was a man of the utmost kindliness, who treated all, of whatever station, with courtesy, and age with deference.” Julian Ralph writing of General Wade Hampton said, “He was a gentleman; and the qualities of mercy, kindliness and protection to the lowly were strong in his blood.” It is kindness in the heart, on the lips and at the finger-tips, which wins the affection not only of beasts and birds, but also of men, women and children.

Be kind in voice. No member has more power of good or evil. A single word may sting like an adder, or soothe like oil. It can thrill to action, drive to madness, or lead to despair. It can cut the heart like sorrow, or cheer like sunshine. Look out for your words. Take care of the tones. It is not always so much what one says as the manner in which it is said. Elihu Burritt wisely remarked, “There is no one thing that love so much needs as a sweet voice, to tell what it means and feels. One must start in youth, and be on the watch night and day, at work and play to get and keep a voice that shall speak at all times the thoughts of a kind heart.”

During the famine in Russia when thousands were reduced to the verge of starvation, Count Tolstoi passed a beggar on the street corner. Stretching out his gaunt hands, the miserable creature asked for alms. Tolstoi felt in all his pockets for a coin to bestow upon him. He turned his pockets inside out, but to no purpose. His money had already been spent in charity and he had nothing. Taking the beggar’s hand in both of his, he said: “Do not be angry with me, brother, I have nothing with me.” The gaunt face lighted up, the man lifted his bloodshot eyes, his blue lips parted in a smile. “But you called me brother; that was a great gift,” he said. Yes, kind words, gentle words, sympathetic words are cheap. They cost nothing, but profit greatly. They are like oil to machinery. They disarm anger and are a tonic to the disheartened. Therefore

“Keep a watch on your words, my boy, For words are wonderful things; They are sweet like the bees’ fresh honey, Like bees, they have terrible stings; They can bless like the warm, glad sunshine, And brighten the lonely life; They can cut in the strife of anger, Yes, cut like a two-edged knife.”

ONLY A SHILLING.

Be kind in act. Hands are deaf and dumb, but they should be the instruments of a tender heart, having a soft touch. Gladstone, with an empire on his shoulders, found time to leave Parliament and carry flowers to a little sick crossing-sweeper. A small girl selling chestnuts arrested the attention of a young man who gave her a shilling. Years after a poor man called upon a rich bank director to ask for a position as messenger. The director’s wife recognized him as he passed out. She learned his business with her husband and said with earnestness, “Give him the situation.” “Why?” he asked. The wife told the story how he had given her the shilling. The husband was pleased to favor his wife and that night the man received a note as he sat by his sick wife. Opening it, he exclaimed: “Good news, wife! We shall not starve; here is a promise of a situation.” His wife called his attention to something that fell upon the floor. It was a fifty pound note folded in a paper bearing the inscription, “In grateful remembrance of the shilling which a kind stranger bestowed on a little girl selling chestnuts twenty years ago.”

Be kind, my boy. There is a magic charm connected with it. So thought William Cowper, who said he would not trust a man who would with his foot crush a worm. So thought the private secretary of President Lincoln, when he found him in the Capitol grounds trying to put a little bird back to the nest from which it had fallen. So thought George Dana Boardman, who could not enjoy the so-called sports of hunting and fishing, because of the suffering they wrought upon the innocent and helpless. Ah, my lad, just as Androcles extracted the thorn from the lion’s paw, and was afterwards defended by that lion, kindness seldom goes unrecompensed. It gives satisfaction to the donor and comfort to the donee.

“You never can tell when you do an act Just what the result will be; But with every deed you are sowing a seed, Though its harvest you may not see. Each kindly act is an acorn dropped In God’s productive soil; Which you may not know, yet the tree shall grow And shelter the brows that toil.”