I HARDLY know why we call her “little” Mary, for she is quite seven years old.
I think it must be because she is just the same sweet, simple child now as when she really was “little” Mary, and wound herself round our hearts by her winning ways and pretty artless sayings. It is certainly not because she is childish, for she can read and write very well indeed for her age; and, although the youngest in her class, she knows more of the Bible than any of the others, and had the prize for Scripture last prize-day.
She is such a merry girl, too; no one enjoys a bit of fun, or a game more than she; but when at play, you never hear her say cross words. Mary’s little schoolfellow, Ruth, happened to be ill, and Mary felt so sorry for her when she thought of her lying in bed all day, instead of playing about, that she went to her mother, and asked if she might come in and play with Ruth. The mother was very glad, and poor Ruth almost forgot her dreadful pain while Mary was with her. And when she had stayed as long as was good for the little sufferer, she got some other little girls to are with her into the beautiful meadows which lie all around our hamlet, to gather for Ruth the lovely flowers which she could not now gather for herself, and the mother put them in water on a stand near the bed, where she could see them all the time.
If you were to ask Mary’s mother whether she is a good girl at home she would tell you that her little Mary is the most obedient child one could wish to have, and she would tell you how pretty it is to see her on Sunday evenings, pouring over the big Bible, trying to find out the psalms she is taught in the Sunday school, and the stories we read from it in the day school, and so delighted when she finds them. She would tell you, too, how like a bird Mary is! In the thick wood opposite the school, just one field off, there are all kinds of singing birds, from the tiny wren, with its tiny one song, to the full-voiced nightingale of many, and I have noticed that as soon as the dawn opens their bright eyes they break out into those wonderfully sweet songs without words in which they praise their Creator; then, and not till then, they fly down from the trees and bushes and hedges where they have been sleeping all night to find the food which He has provided for them.
Well, Mary’s mother would tell you that it is the same with Mary; that as soon as her bright, but large, soft eyes open in the morning, she begins to sing over the sweet hymns she has learned at school. How pleasant it must sound in the quiet house in the early morning. And Mary’s mother is a happy woman to have a singing bird like this in her house all the year round. I was looking only today at such a funny little notebook of Mary’s own making, and I found that the first thing she had written in it was this pretty verse—
“The morning bright, with rosy light,
Has waked me from my sleep.
Father, I own, Thy love alone,
Thy little one doth keep.”
I thought to myself, “This is so like little Mary’s self.”
I will now tell you two little incidents, which will explain what makes dear little Mary so different from most of the children in our school, so that, if you really admire her sweet, happy, loving spirit, and desire to be like her, you may know the secret.
The first thing we do on assembling in school in the morning is to thank, and pray to, God; we then sing, and very often talk over, some sweet hymn together; and after that we have our Scripture lesson. One morning the hymn was “Children of Jerusalem,” one verse of which is:
“We are taught to love the Lord,
We are taught to read His word,
We are taught the way to heaven,
Praise for all to God be given.”
And, when I had read it, I said to the children, “You are going to praise God in this verse for having been taught the way to heaven. I wonder, now, how many of you know it? Suppose you were to meet a person who didn’t know it, would you be able to tell it to him?”
A few held up their hands to signify that they thought they should, and I asked them what they would say. One said, “I should tell him he must believe,” another, “that he must come to Jesus,” and another, “that he must be washed in the blood of Jesus.” Then it was little Mary’s turn, and this was her sweet and pretty, not more correct answer, “I should tell him Jesus is the way.” “And how do you know, Mary, that Jesus is the way?” I asked.
“Because He do say ‘I am the Way,’” was her ready reply.
This was one of the texts she had been taught in the Sunday school, and I was so pleased to find that she understood it well enough to put it in her own words.
It is one thing, however, to know the way, and another thing to walk in it, and I used often to wonder whether Mary had found the Way for herself. But one evening, not long ago, as she and another little girl were playing before my door, I heard Mary say, in a very low whisper, “Shall us tell governess that we do believe in Jesus?” The other little girl must, I think, have replied that she didn’t believe, for Mary then said, “I believe in Him. I believe that He died for us.”
Dear child, do you know that God has determined that the name of His Son, Jesus, shall be believed on and praised, not only by grown-up people, but also by children? Yes, even out of the mouths of babes and sucklings He will perfect praise. Will you join the number? You will never be happy really till you have believed in Jesus.
E. B-R.