Pockets Full of Dynamite.
One day the tree warden of a Massachusetts town sat down beneath a tree to light his pipe. The operation was performed with deliberation, but it had a swift and tragic termination. There was a terrific explosion, and the man was blown to pieces. A hole three feet deep was left in the ground where he had been sitting. The explosion was heard more than a mile away, and houses within a quarter of a mile rocked perilously.
The cause? It is not positively known, but it is supposed that the man had a stick of dynamite in his pocket, and that a spark from his match, or the half-extinguished match itself, fell upon the deadly substance.
Men in the habit of using dynamite or other explosives become dangerously familiar with the stuff, and this familiarity breeds contempt when it should breed care. These substances are risky at best, but to the thoughtless they are simply invitations to destruction.
However, tree wardens with sticks of dynamite in their pockets are not the only ones that play with explosives. Many mortals go around all their days with the pockets of their brains packed full of dynamite as deadly as any that was ever composed in a laboratory. Talk with them a few minutes, on almost any subject, and you will be liable to touch it off. It is the dynamite of pride.
Pride of one's self, perhaps; of what one has accomplished and of what one is.
Pride of one's associates and distinguished relatives and friends, and of the notable organizations to which one belongs.
Pride of opinion, leading to bigotry and arrogance and combativeness.
Pride of rank and station, pride of clothes and house, pride of money and beauty and wit.
Pride—O, pride of so many things, including even an imagined humility.
A chance expression is match enough to explode this dynamite, and—whiz-z-z! Bang! Off goes the conversation in a tremendous explosion of hate and anger and egotism, leaving only a hole behind.
If the man that carries the dynamite in his brain pockets were the one exploded, it would not be so bad; but after the fracas he always emerges smiling and self-satisfied, believing that he has put a new feather into his cap.
They are good men to keep away from, these folks with dynamite brains.
The Panama Hat.
During the summer the Panama Hat was pride itself.
"Not one of you cost so much as I," he boasted to the other hats on the hat-stand. "I am our master's favorite. He often tells people how light I am, how cool and comfortable. He declares that he couldn't get along a day without me."
"Just wait a while," growled the Derby.
"Wait a while!" almost shouted the Panama. "Do you think I'll ever be laid on the shelf, like some hats I might name? Why, our master has repeatedly said he would never part with me, and that I'd last a lifetime."
"We'll see," said the Derby.
And they did see. About the middle of September the master said one day, "Well, I suppose I must bid good-by to the Panama and go back to the Derby. No one's wearing straw hats now."
So the Panama went to the top shelf of a dark closet, while all the hats on the hat-stand chuckled in glee.
Moral: Don't be too sure.
Pocket Your Pride.
Theoretically, most folks are willing to pocket their pride. Theoretically, they agree that pride is a sin, and a very silly sin at that. Theoretically, they are meekest of the meek.
But as a matter of fact, lots of people have no pockets for their pride. Or else the pockets they have are full of something else.
Women's dresses are often (usually, eh?) made without pockets. So are the souls, of both men and women.
Sew them in, brethren, sisters!
There is the honesty pocket. Most pride is a veneer of lies. Rip it off, and you'll see cheap wood underneath. We are proud of our knowledge, and it's a mere surface smattering. Proud of our influence, and it is only arrogance and effrontery. Proud of our beauty, and it is false hair and paint. Proud of our saintliness, and we don't dare give our family among our references. Oh, if we had an honesty pocket on our soul, we'd find, ample room therein for all our pride!
And there is the love pocket. When you love someone, you want to walk alongside, close up. You don't want to keep ahead, or rise above,—just alongside. When you love someone, you are more eager for his honor than your own. Love has no use for pride. It tears it off and crushes it into a pocket.
Then, there is the common-sense pocket. It is wonderful how much a keen sense of the ridiculous will do for a man. It will keep him from strutting like a village drum-major. It will keep him from sticking feathers in his hair and putting a chip on his shoulder. It will keep him from sewing gold braid on a pair of overalls. The common-sense pocket is a big one. You can pack away a lot of nonsense in it.
Further, there is the work pocket. There's nothing better than work for pocketing pride. People that are really doing things are usually modest about them. They know how much they have left undone. They know how poorly they have done what they have done. They have a sympathy and respect for all workers, and do not want to set themselves up above that glorious fellowship.
There are many other pockets for pride, but these four are enough to hold all the pride of even the most conceited jackanapes on earth.
Fit these pockets into your soul garments, and use them every one!
An Honest False Prophet.
Lombardus Muller, a retired sea-captain of Paterson, N. J., killed himself by shooting. As the papers tell the story, he did the terrible deed because he had prophesied that the Kaiser would die on a certain date, and the Kaiser inconsiderately failed to die on that date—or on any other date, so far. "I have been a false prophet," wrote Muller in a note found after his death, "therefore I have sinned against God."
Suicide is an awful sin; it is not Muller's suicide that I am commending. But I do commend his honesty. He was frank enough to admit his fault. He had assumed to know more than he did know, to have a revelation of the future when he had no revelation; he had pretended a wisdom that God only possesses, therefore he had sinned against God.
We do not often enough recognize the sinfulness of empty pride. Thousands of false prophets are ranging up and down our land. Christ said that He Himself did not know when the end of the world would come, nor did the angels know, only the Father; but these men have the end of the world figured out to a day and an hour. With a presumptuous braggadocio that is a travesty on Christianity they pretend to be the only interpreters of Scripture and seers of the world's history. A wave of the hand, and kingdoms vanish, potentates bite the dust. Another wave, and a new order arises, formed after their fantastic formula.
How far is all this from the humility of the Nazarene! How it hinders real religion and the true knowledge of the Father and His will! How we wish these false prophets would follow the example of Lombardus Muller—not of course, by slaying their bodies, but by slaying this sin of their souls!
The Dress Suit.
The dress suit lay in a pile of old clothes, brought from a number of homes for the missionary barrel.
"Faugh!" sneered the dress suit. "What plebeian company! If here isn't a business suit, a cutaway! And yonder, worse than that, is a sack-coat! And worst of all, right on top of me is a suit that must have been at work in the garden or the cellar! All this heap of old clothes is good for nothing but the rag-bag. They'll throw it away as soon as they go over it. But when they see me! Why, I am just as good as new still, and not much out of style. I have shone at scores of balls and receptions and in dozens of theaters. Young ladies have admired me, and have gladly danced with me. What a disgrace to be heaped up here with this common trash! But when they see me, they'll soon make amends for this disrespect."
The other suits of clothes were greatly abashed, and shrank away modestly from the dress suit, each being filled with awe at the splendid raiment.
But the missionary committee arrived, and promptly overhauled the pile of clothes.
"A business suit!" exclaimed one. "Just the thing! And it's quite serviceable still."
"Here's a sack-coat, and see how good it is! Fine!" declared another member of the committee.
"Some working clothes," said another. "They'll come in capitally. Not a patch on them, or even a darn."
Just then the chairman of the committee laughed merrily, holding up the dress suit. "A swallowtail, of all things! How absurd to send us that! Of all useless articles to put into a missionary barrel! Fancy sending this ridiculous thing to a minister!"
"I know an old-clothes man who may give us something for it," suggested a lady.
"Well, sell it, do, for anything," said the chairman, "and with the money we'll buy something worthwhile."
So the dress suit was thrown ignominiously to one side, and as it lay there it heard a soft cloth-titter from all the other clothes.