How It Began
TWO little girls sat on the top of a wall, swinging their legs and reading a book. Behind them was a garden, leading to a big house, and in front of them was a wood. There was a path running through the wood to a little green door in the wall; the other end of the path led down the hill to the village.
One of the little girls was small and dark. Her name was Wendy Morris, and she lived in the big house. Her friend was a bit bigger, and had blue eyes and fair hair. Her name was Joan Butler, and she lived in a little cottage in the village. She was nine years old, and Wendy was eight.
They always played together, these two, when they were not at school. Sometimes they played in the garden, and sometimes they played in the wood. Sometimes Wendy would persuade her mother to let them have sandwiches and something to drink, and they would disappear into the woods for a whole day. They usually came back from these expeditions looking very grubby, but they had enjoyed themselves.
Wendy had a lot of books, and sometimes when they were tired of playing they would choose one, and then go back into the garden to read it together. Their favorite place for reading was on top of the wall. No one disturbed them there, and they could read all afternoon if they wanted to, without being told that they were in anyone’s way.
On this particular day, they were reading a history book. They did not always find history interesting, but Joan had told Wendy about a tremendously interesting lesson they had had in school, and they had brought out the history book to see if they could find out more about it. So Wendy was now reading all about the Children’s Crusade.
“Wait a minute,” cried Joan, as Wendy was going to turn over the page: “I haven’t got there yet!”
“Sorry,” said Wendy; “but I do want to know what happened.”
“There’s a picture on the next page,” said Joan, “of the man preaching to the children, and all of them holding up their hands because they wanted to go to the Crusade. All right — I’ve reached the bottom of the page now.”
They turned over and studied the picture. There was the monk, standing preaching to hundreds of children, just as Joan had said; and it looked as if most of them were ready to do as he said they must.
“Oh!” cried Wendy in dismay, as they turned over and found several pages missing. “Oh, it’s all torn! That must be Roy — he’s always tearing books.”
“What a shame!” said Joan, turning over more pages in the hope of finding the end of the story. “No, it’s all gone.”
“Well, you tell me what happened,” said Wendy. “It was like this,” said Joan, screwing up her eyes and trying to remember. “The Holy Land — that was what they called the land where Jesus lived, you know — well, it had been captured by wicked men. Turks, I think they were. And every now and then a Christian king would take an army and try to drive the Turks out. They called it going to the Crusades.”
“What fun!” sighed Wendy. “Kings do have a lot of fun, don’t they?”
“I suppose they do. But it wasn’t much fun going to drive the Turks out, and being driven out yourself! That’s what happened. So then the man in this picture had an idea. He said that the reason the armies didn’t win was because they weren’t good enough; so he said he’d take an army of children, because children hadn’t had time to grow wicked.”
“He must have been bats!” said Wendy. “Most of the children I know are wickeder than grown ups. The boys are, anyway. And all the grown ups think so, I’m sure.”
“Well, that’s what he said,” said Joan. “So he preached to the children, and they left their homes and followed him.”
“What happened?” asked Wendy. “I don’t suppose they got far.”
“I forget most of what happened, but it didn’t do any good,” said Joan. “Something went wrong somewhere.”
Wendy sat silent, and they both looked at the picture for a few minutes. Then Joan sighed.
“I’d like to go on a crusade!” she said.
Wendy looked startled.
“What for? The wicked men aren’t still in the Holy Land, are they?”
“Oh, no! And I didn’t mean as far as that, either. I’d like to go on a crusade, though.”
“And fight?” asked Wendy, her eyes sparkling.
“No. Not that sort of a crusade. Look here — why did the children follow that man?”
“Because they thought it was helping God,” said Wendy.
“Yes, that’s it. Our Sunday-school teacher’s always telling us we ought to do our best to help God. She says every nice and kind thought that comes into our heads comes straight from God, whispered to us by one of His holy angels. And the naughty, unkind thoughts — well, you know where they come from, don’t you?”
“Satan,” said Wendy.
“Yes. She says the thoughts that suddenly come into our heads always come from somewhere — we don’t invent them ourselves. They either come from God, or from Satan. And she says we ought to be awfully careful about them. You see, if God wants a job done, and asks you or me to do it, and we don’t listen, what’s going to happen about it? He might have to look an awfully long way for someone else to do it.”
“And have you had one of those thoughts about a crusade?” asked Wendy anxiously.
“Yes, but not a fighting crusade. Let’s think a bit, and see what we could do.”
There was a sharp bark from the bottom of the wall, and there was Wendy’s big dog, Pluto, wagging his tail and trying to persuade them to go out into the woods with him.
“Not now, Pluto,” said Wendy. “Go and lie down, there’s a good dog. We’re thinking of some very important business.”
Pluto gave another bark, but he could see that they didn’t mean to come; so he sat down at the foot of the wall, and laid his nose between his paws, and waited.
“It would be fun to go about like the old monks and friars and people, and stand on the village greens and preach,” said Joan.
“We couldn’t do that!” cried Wendy. “No one would listen.”
“I don’t suppose they would,” said Joan. “And I don’t blame them, really: we wouldn’t want to listen to anyone younger than ourselves, would we? Can you see yourself listening to Roy preaching at you?”
“Certainly not!” cried Wendy. “Besides, Roy’s a very naughty little boy.”
“Well, even if he grew good I don’t suppose you would. So that knocks out preaching. What a pity! I do so want to do something!” sighed Joan.
“What would you preach about, if you did go preaching?” asked Wendy curiously.
“I don’t know,” admitted Joan. “I wonder how the Vicar knows what to preach about? Perhaps an angel tells him.”
“Well, he always starts off by saying something out of the Bible,” said Wendy thoughtfully. “I wonder if he looks in his Bible till he finds something?”
“That’s a good idea,” said Joan joyfully. “Where’s your Bible?”
“By my bed, with my Bible Fellowship card in it. Shall I get it?”
“Yes, do. I’m sure we’d find something there.”
Wendy jumped down from the wall and went racing across the garden, followed closely by Pluto, who evidently thought he was going to have a game now. He chased her up the stairs, nearly upsetting her several times, and jumped round her while she got the Bible from the table by her bed. She slid down the banisters, partly because it was the quickest way to get down, and partly because Pluto couldn’t upset her if she went that way; so he barked at her all the way.
He sat down, wagging his tail, as she clambered up on to the wall again. He was disappointed to see her go back to her perch, but it had been a nice run while it lasted. He dropped his nose on to his paws again, and watched the two girls once more.
“I’ve got it,” panted Wendy, as she settled herself comfortably. “Where do you want to look?”
“We’re reading in St. John now,” said Joan, wanting Wendy to know that she belonged to the Bible Fellowship, too, and read her portion every night.
“I know. Shall we look in to-day’s bit?”
“We might as well,” said Joan.
Wendy opened the Bible at the place where the card was sticking out, and began to read: “Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us―” She stopped and looked up.
“That’s nice!”
“So’s the next verse,” said Joan: “If God so loved us, we ought also to love one another.”
“I wonder if people have forgotten that?” said Wendy. “There doesn’t seem to be much loving about, does there?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Joan. “My Mum loves me all right, and so does Dad.”
“Well, of course the family does, but what about outsiders? What about the postman and the policeman, and all sorts of people like that?” asked Wendy.
“Do we have to love everybody?” Joan asked doubtfully.
“It doesn’t only say the family, does it?” Wendy pointed out.
“Perhaps that’s what we’ve got to tell people, then. Golly, it’s going to be difficult!” cried Joan.
“We said we couldn’t preach, because they wouldn’t listen, as we’re not old enough,” said Wendy firmly. She did not like the idea of preaching at all.
“So we did,” said Joan; “but I’ll tell you what we can do. If you love people, you do things for them, don’t you? I mean, I like helping Mum, and all that sort of thing. I don’t like helping other people much, except you — but you’re my friend. Still, if we went on a crusade of helping people, we should be doing something, shouldn’t we?”
“Lots of people help other people. Scouts do,” objected Wendy.
“That’s no reason why we shouldn’t do it, too, is it?” asked Joan. “And if they ask us why we’re doing it, we can tell them about this text. I expect there are lots more, really.”
“Let’s see if we can find any more,” said Wendy. “And write them down,” Joan suggested. “Have you got a pencil and paper?”
“I’ll get one from Mummy,” said Wendy, and once more she scrambled down from the wall and ran into the house, followed by the barking Pluto.
“What on earth’s all this noise about?” asked her mother, as she came running in.
“Mummy, can I have a pencil and paper for a most important thing?” panted Wendy. “Joan and I are doing the most important thing, but it’s a secret— at least, I think it is. I must ask Joan before I tell you, but please have you got a pencil and paper, please?”
Mrs. Morris laughed.
“Yes, of course I’ve got a pencil and paper. Let me have the pencil back when you’ve done with it.” She went over to her desk and found a pencil, which she handed to Wendy.
“Thank you so much, Mummy. And please may I have some sandwiches for to-morrow? We want to go out for the whole day.”
“You and Joan?” asked Mrs. Morris.
“Yes, plummy.”
“All right, then. What time are you going?”
“Oh, as soon as it’s light!” said Wendy, with a little skip of excitement.
“As early as that?” laughed her mother. “Well, don’t be too late home. Try to get in before dark this time.”
“Yes, Mummy,” said Wendy, and she ran out with the pencil and paper to Joan.
They spent some time copying out suitable texts from Wendy’s Bible, and then it was tea-time, and Joan had to go home. They had made all their plans, and Wendy’s mother said the sandwiches would be ready on the kitchen table in the-morning.
Wendy really found it difficult to get to sleep that night, she was so excited about the crusade!