



Produced by Joel Erickson, and PG Distributed Proofreaders









STORIES WORTH REREADING

1913



PREFACE


All persons like stories. Children call for them from their earliest years.
The purpose of this book is to provide children and youth with stories
worth reading; stories relating incidents of history, missionary effort,
and home and school experiences. These stories will inspire, instruct, and
entertain the readers. Nearly all of these have appeared in print before,
and are reprinted in this form through the courteous permission of their
writers and publishers.

"Stories Worth Rereading" can be obtained only as a premium with the
_Youth's Instructor_, a sixteen-page weekly, published by the Review and
Herald Publishing Association, Takoma Park, Washington, D. C.



CONTENTS

THEIR WORD OF HONOR

MURIEL'S BRIGHT IDEA

THE STRENGTH OF CLINTON

THE DOCTOR'S COW

HONEY AT THE PHONE

ONE OF FATHER'S STORIES

WHAT RUM DOES

MY MOTHER'S RING

THE BRIDAL WINE-CUP

A MOTHER'S SORROW

THE REPRIMAND

AN EXAMPLE

FIGHTING THE GOOD FIGHT

TIGHTENING THE SADDLE-GIRTH

"HERRINGS FOR NOTHING"

THE POWER OF SONG

JACK'S FIDELITY

HONOR THY FATHER AND THY MOTHER

THE SLEIGH-RIDE

SAMUEL SMILES, THE AUTHOR OF "SELF-HELP"

DAVID LIVINGSTONE

A TRUE INCIDENT OF THE SAN FRANCISCO EARTHQUAKE

LITTLE CORNERS

IN THE HOME

GIANTS AND GRASSHOPPERS

AS GOOD AS HIS BOND

PLAIN BERNICE

HOW THE BOY WITHOUT A REFERENCE FOUND ONE

AN HOUR A DAY FOR A YEAR

"PLEASE, SIR, I WOULD RATHER NOT"

THE RIGHT WORD

THE SADDEST OF INDIA'S PICTURES (1912)

ONE LITTLE WIDOW

WHY THE MITE BOXES WERE FULL

TI-TO AND THE BOXERS

HOW NYANGANDI SWAM TO CHURCH

THE LITTLE PRINTER MISSIONARY

THE MISSIONARY'S DEFENSE

LIGHT AT LAST

THE BROWN TOWEL

ONLY A BOY

THE LITTLE PROTECTOR

MOFFAT AND AFRICANER

TWO TRIFLES

A SECOND TRIAL

THE SIN OF EXTRAVAGANCE

A LITTLE CHILD'S WORK

THE HANDY BOX

THE RESULT OF DISOBEDIENCE

LIVINGSTONE'S BODY-GUARD

SPARE MOMENTS

A GOLD MEDAL

A GIRL'S RAILWAY ACQUAINTANCE

HAROLD'S FOOTMAN

ELNATHAN'S GOLD

ONLY A JACK-KNIFE

A SPELLING-BEE

JACK'S QUEER WAYS

WHAT ONE BOY DID

HOW NICK LEARNED MANNERS

WITHOUT BALLAST

INFLUENCE OF A GOOD BOOK

"STRAIGHTENING OUT THE FURROWS"

A BOY WHO WAS WANTED

WANTED: AN EMPLOYER

HOW TO STOP SWEARING

THE CAROLS OF BETHLEHEM CENTER

STANDING BEAR'S SPEECH

MABEL ASHTON'S DREAM

A SAD BUT TRUE STORY

"THE MAN THAT DIED FOR ME"

OUR GRASS RUG AND--OTHER THINGS




THEIR WORD OF HONOR


The president of the Great B. railway system laid down the letter he had
just reread three times, and turned about in his chair with an expression
of extreme annoyance.

"I wish it were possible," he said, slowly, "to find one boy or man in a
thousand who would receive instructions and carry them out to the letter
without a single variation from the course laid down. Cornelius," he looked
up sharply at his son, who sat at a desk close by, "I hope you are carrying
out my ideas with regard to your sons. I have not seen much of them lately.
The lad Cyrus seems to me a promising fellow, but I am not so sure of
Cornelius. He appears to be acquiring a sense of his own importance as
Cornelius Woodbridge, Third, which is not desirable, sir,--not desirable.
By the way, Cornelius, have you yet applied the Hezekiah Woodbridge test to
your boys?"

Cornelius Woodbridge, Junior, looked up from his work with a smile. "No, I
have not, father," he said.

"It's a family tradition; and if the proper care has been taken that the
boys should not learn of it, it will be as much a test for them as it was
for you and for me and for my father. You have not forgotten the day I gave
it to you, Cornelius?"

"That would be impossible," said his son, still smiling.

The elder man's somewhat stern features relaxed, and he sat back in his
chair with a chuckle. "Do it at once," he requested, "and make it a stiff
one. You know their characteristics; give it to them hard. I feel pretty
sure of Cyrus, but Cornelius--" He shook his head doubtfully, and returned
to his letter. Suddenly he wheeled about again.

"Do it Thursday, Cornelius," he said, in his peremptory way, "and whichever
one of them stands it shall go with us on the tour of inspection. That will
be reward enough, I fancy."

"Very well, sir," replied his son, and the two men went on with their work
without further words. They were in the habit of despatching important
business with the smallest possible waste of breath.

On Thursday morning, immediately after breakfast, Cyrus Woodbridge found
himself summoned to his father's library. He presented himself at once, a
round-cheeked, bright-eyed lad of fifteen, with an air of alertness in
every line of him.

"Cyrus," said his father, "I have a commission for you to undertake, of a
character which I cannot now explain to you. I want you to take this
envelope"--he held out a large and bulky packet--"and, without saying
anything to any one, follow its instructions to the letter. I ask of you
your word of honor that you will do so."

The two pairs of eyes looked into each other for a moment, singularly alike
in a certain intent expression, developed into great keenness in the man,
but showing as yet only an extreme wide-awakeness in the boy. Cyrus
Woodbridge had an engagement with a young friend in half an hour, but he
responded, firmly:--

"I will, sir."

"On your honor?"

"Yes, sir."

"That is all I want. Go to your room, and read your instructions. Then
start at once."

Mr. Woodbridge turned back to his desk with the nod and smile of dismissal
to which Cyrus was accustomed. The boy went to his room, opening the
envelope as soon as he had closed the door. It was filled with smaller
envelopes, numbered in regular order. Infolding these was a typewritten
paper, which read as follows:--

"Go to the reading-room of the Westchester Library. There open envelope No.
1. Remember to hold all instructions secret. C.W., Jr."

Cyrus whistled. "That's funny! It means my date with Harold is off. Well,
here goes!"

He stopped on his way out to telephone his friend of his detention, took a
Westchester Avenue car at the nearest point, and in twenty minutes was at
the library. He found an obscure corner and opened envelope No. 1.

"Go to office of W.K. Newton, room 703, tenth floor, Norfolk Building, X
Street, reaching there by 9:30 A.M. Ask for letter addressed to Cornelius
Woodbridge, Jr. On way down elevator open envelope No. 2."

Cyrus began to laugh. At the same time he felt a trifle irritated. "What's
father at?" he questioned, in perplexity. "Here I am away up-town, and he
orders me back to the Norfolk Building. I passed it on my way up. Must be
he made a mistake. Told me to obey instructions, though. He usually knows
just about why he does things."

Meanwhile Mr. Woodbridge had sent for his elder son, Cornelius. A tall
youth of seventeen, with the strong family features, varied by a droop in
the eyelids and a slight drawl in his speech, lounged to the door of the
library. Before entering he straightened his shoulders; he did not,
however, quicken his pace.

"Cornelius," said his father, promptly, "I wish to send you upon an errand
of some importance, but of possible inconvenience to you. I have not time
to give you instructions, but you will find them in this envelope. I ask
you to keep the matter and your movements strictly to yourself. May I have
from you your word of honor that I can trust you to follow the orders to
the smallest detail?"

Cornelius put on a pair of eye-glasses, and held out his hand for the
envelope. His manner was almost indifferent. Mr. Woodbridge withheld the
packet, and spoke with decision: "I cannot allow you to look at the
instructions until I have your word of honor that you will fulfil them."

"Is not that asking a good deal, sir?"

"Perhaps so," said Mr. Woodbridge, "but no more than is asked of trusted
messengers every day. I will assure you that the instructions are mine and
represent my wishes."

"How long will it take?" inquired Cornelius, stooping to flick an
imperceptible spot of dust from his trousers.

"I do not find it necessary to tell you."

Something in his father's voice sent the languid Cornelius to an erect
position, and quickened his speech.

"Of course I will go," he said, but he did not speak with enthusiasm.

"And--your word of honor?"

"Certainly, sir." The hesitation before the promise was only momentary.

"Very well. I will trust you. Go to your room before opening your
instructions."

And the second somewhat mystified boy went out of the library on that
memorable Thursday morning, to find his first order one which sent him to a
remote district of the city, with the direction to arrive there within
three quarters of an hour.

Out on an electric car Cyrus was speeding to another suburb. After getting
the letter from the tenth floor of the Norfolk Building, he had read:--

"Take cross-town car on L Street, transfer to Louisville Avenue, and go out
to Kingston Heights. Find corner West and Dwight Streets, and open envelope
No. 3."

Cyrus was growing more and more puzzled, but he was also getting
interested. At the corner specified he hurriedly tore open No. 3, but
found, to his amazement, only the singular direction:--

"Take Suburban Underground Road for Duane Street Station. From there go to
Sentinel office, and secure third edition of yesterday's paper. Open
envelope No. 4."

"Well, what under the sun, moon, and stars did he send me out to Kingston
Heights for!" cried Cyrus aloud. He caught the next train, thinking
longingly of his broken engagement with Harold Dunning, and of certain
plans for the afternoon which he was beginning to fear might be thwarted if
this seemingly endless and aimless excursion continued. He looked at the
packet of unopened envelopes.

"It would be easy to break open the whole outfit, and see what this game
is," he thought. "Never knew father to do a thing like this before. If it's
a joke,"--his fingers felt the seal of envelope No. 4,--"I might as well
find it out at once. Still, father never would joke with a fellow's promise
the way he asked it of me. 'My word of honor'--that's putting it pretty
strong. I'll see it through, of course. My, but I