Children’s Stories

                                              rev-ernest-anderson

                                  Rev. E. Anderson

THE BEAUTIFUL HYPOCRITES

All lovers of sea life are thrilled by the superlative wonders of the Great Barrier Reef, Australia. The indescribable loveliness of the cliffs of coral, the multi-coloured fish, and the fascinating habits of tie sea birds delight those who are privileged to visit eat part of tie world. At a special time during the year the huge turtles crawl up the beaches and dig holes in the sand. First the left flipper or paw lifts out a quantity of sand, and then the right ones does likewise, and alternately these two excavate a large hole, in which the turtle eggs are deposited.

When the laying operation has been completed, the turtle methodically drags sand over the huge clutch of eggs, and returns to the sea. When the eggs hatch, that hole in the sand comes a seething mass of activity as all the baby turtles struggle desirably to escape.

Yet the sea anemone is the strangest of all the bewildering sights to be seen in that part of Australia. This underwater plant and its decoy fish are the sea’s most beautiful hypocrites. When a friend explained to me the habits of these ‘companions in crimes’ I was filled with interest and amazement. The sea anemone is like a small bush. and but for the fact that its branches are moved by the motion of the water, one could believe it to be a bush of coral. Along its soft and spongy branches are many deadly spikes, capable of paralyzing a fish. These are fatal to all excepting a decoy fish. I was thrilled when I saw the decoy rolling and playing like a little child in the midst of the terrifying anemone. Its playful antics moved the branches; little wriggles attracted other fish, and for a while I wondered what was taking place.

The sea anemone lives on fish. At every opportunity the sinister spikes are thrust into inquisitive victims, which are immediately paralyzed. The plant then proceeds to absorb them. Yet such fish must  first be attracted, and for this purpose the decoy is in league with the plant. It is immune from the poison, and feeds on the remains of the absorbed fish. The decoy plays and rolls and frolics, and appears to be having a most delightful time. Other fish are attracted by its movements, and finally are trapped.

The anemone strikes, and the two accomplices prepare for their meal. They are bewitchingly beautiful, and one would never realise that together they represent a terrifying menace. When I watched the unfolding of this dramas I heard a voice whispering, “My son. when sinners entice thee, consent you not” .

I have seen other attractions as charmingly insidious as the anemone. I have watched men and women who seemed to be immune from the disastrous poison of sin. They exist in tie embrace of worldliness, and appear to be enjoying a most wonderful time. I have known young people, Sunday-school scholars and church members, to be attracted by decoy souls. The innocent youngsters have become fascinated by the habits of worldlings, and have yielded to temptation. Another peal of laughter, another night of merriment, and the young souls have been enticed into the waiting clutches of evil. The deadly poison of destruction has been injected into their veins, and only when it was too late to retreat did they realise the gravity of their error. Many fish died because they drew too near to the deceiver anemone, and in like manner many fine people have perished because they failed to recognise the hypocrisy of the attractions of sin.

When Solomon spoke on the evil people of his day, he might even have thought of the anemone! for he said, “My son, attend unto my wisdom and bow thine ear to my understanding . . . for the lips of a strange woman drop as an honeycomb, and her mouth is sweeter than oil: but her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword. Her feet go down to death: a steps take hold on hell ” – Proverbs 5 : 1-5.

No man can ever be too far from temptation.

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Children’s’ Stories

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                                  Rev. E. Anderson

SPECIAL SALE PRICE

One afternoon three children, two boys and a girl entered a flower shop.

They were about nine or ten years old, raggedly dressed, but at this moment well-scrubbed. One of the boys took off his cap and gazed around the store somewhat doubtfully, then came up to the person, who owned the store and said, “Sir, we’d like something in yellow flowers”.

There was something in their tense nervous manner that made the man think that this was a very special occasion. He showed them some inexpensive yellow spring flowers. The boy who was the spokesman for the group shook his head. “I think we’d like something better than that”.

The man asked, “Do they have to be yellow?” Thc boy answered, “Yes, sir. You see, Mickey would like ’em better if they were yellow. He had a yellow sweater. 1 guess he’d like yellow better than any other colour”.

The man asked, “Are they for his funeral?”

The boy nodded, suddenly choking up. The little girl was desperately struggling to keep back the tears. “She’s his sister,” the boy said. “He was a swell kid. A truck hit him while he was playing in the street”.  His lips were trembling now. The other boy entered the conversation. “Us kids in his block took up a collection. We got eighteen cents. Would roses cost an awful lot, sir – yellow roses, I mean?”

The man smiled. “It just happens that I have some nice yellow roses here that I’m offering special today for eighteen cents a dozen”. The man pointed to the flower case.

“Gee, those would be swell! Yes, Mickey’d sure like those”.

The man said, “I’ll make up a nice spray with ferns and ribbons. Where do you want me to send them?”

One of the boys responded, “Would it be all right, mister, if we took them with us? We’d kind of like to – you know – give ’em to Mickey ourselves. He’d like it better that way.

The florist fixed the spray of flowers and accepted the eighteen cents gravely and watched the youngsters trudge out of the store. And he felt within his heart the warm glow of the presence of God, for he had remembered anew the meaning of the words of Jesus: “Even as you have done it unto one of these little ones, you have done it unto Me”.

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Children’s Stories

                                     earnest-nig

                                 Rev. E. Anderson

THE OGRE IN THE PIT

 

Once upon a time there was a White Knight looking for adventure. He came to a village where legend told of a terrible ogre in a pit. Bravely the White Knight took up the challenge. He would do battle with the terrible ogre in the pit. The people remembered several courageous men had climbed down into the pit, but no one could remember even one of those champions returning.

The White Knight stood looking at the deep, dark hole. The opening was so narrow he stripped himself of armor and unnecessary clothing. He took only a long dagger, which he tied around his neck with a leather strap. After securing a rope at the opening and testing its strength, he gripped it firmly and began lowering himself, hand under hand, letting the rope slip between his feet. Soon he felt the cool, smooth floor of the chamber. It took several minutes for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but soon he focused on a large mound. Then he realised it was the bones of his predecessors, along with their assorted weapons. A little way off he spotted another mound, but he it wasn’t sure what it was.

Suddenly he was surprised by the inhabitant of the pit – surprised because he didn’t anticipate that the ogre would be only as tall as a rabbit. The ogre waved his arms and screeched with its squeaky voice, trying to appear as fierce as possible. The White Knight picked up a sword from the floor and prepared to do battle, but quick as a rat, the ogre ran into a hole near the second mound.

The White Knight followed, and as the second mound became clearer and again he was surprised. Before his eyes there glittered balls of gold as big as grapefruits and diamonds as big as plums. With only a small part of that treasure, any commoner would be a prince for life. The little ogre lost its importance in view of this great treasure.

But the White Knight had a problem. How would he carry it out of the hole? He had no pockets. Who would believe him if he didn’t bring back at least one piece? He suddenly had an idea. He would take one of the diamonds in his mouth and carry it that way until he had climbed out of the hole. He could always come back later for the rest. Hurriedly he chose one of the larger diamonds. It fit comfortably into his mouth, and he began the arduous climb out of the pit, hand over hand, gripping the rope with his feet. His tongue held the diamond tightly against the roof of his mouth. Higher and higher he climbed until the heavy exertion began to render him breathless. He would have to breathe through his mouth in order to get enough air. As he took in a large gulp of air the diamond slipped and stuck in his throat. The White Knight choked on his treasure, lost consciousness, and fell to his death on the mound of bones below.

You see, the terrible ogre in the pit was not the little troll. The ogre in the pit was greed – greed in the hearts of men who saw easy treasure and the hope of unearned gain. The glitter of this world had choked him to death.

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Childrens’ Page

                                 earnest-nig

                                 Rev. E. Anderson

CINDERELLA

Max Luœdo

I received a call from a friend named Kenny. He and his family had just returned from Disney World. “I saw a sight I’ll never forget he said. “I want you to know about it.”

He and his family were inside Cinderella’s castle. It was packed with kids and parents. Suddenly all the children rushed to one side. Had it been a boat, the castle would have tipped over. Cinderella had entered.

Cinderella. The pristine princess. Kenny said she was perfectly typecast. A gorgeous young girl with each hair in place, flawless skin, and a beaming smile. She stood waist-deep in a garden of kids, each wanting to touch and be touched.

For some reason Kenny turned and looked toward the other side of the castle. It was now vacant except for a boy maybe seven or eight years old. His age was hard to determine because of the disfigurement of his body. Dwarfed in height, face deformed, he stood watching quietly and wistfully, holding the hand of an older brother.

Don’t you know what he wanted? He wanted to be with the children. He longed to be in the middle of the kids reaching for Cinderella, calling her name. But can’t you feel his fear; fear of yet another rejection? Fear of being taunted again, mocked again?

Don’t you wish Cinderella would go to him? Guess what? She did!

She noticed the little boy. She immediately began walking in his direction. Politely but firmly inching through the crowd of children, she really broke free. She walked quickly across the poor, knelt at eye level with the stunned little boy, and placed a kiss on his face.

I thought you would appreciate the story’s Kenny told me. I did. It reminded me of another one. The names are different, but isn’t the story almost the same? Rather than a princess of Disney, it’s the Prince of Peace. Rather than a boy in a castle, it’s a thief on a cross. In both cases a gift was given. In both cases love was shared. In both cases the lovely one performed a gesture beyond words.

But Jesus did more than Cinderella. Oh, so much more.

Cinderella gave only a kiss. When she stood to leave, she took her beauty with her. The boy was still deformed. What if Cinderella had done what Jesus did? What if she assumed his state? What if she had somehow given him her beauty and taken on his disfigurement?

That’s what Jesus did.

“He took our suffering on him and felt our pain for us . . . .

He was wounded for the wrong we did; He was crushed for the evil we did. The punishment, which made us well, was given to him, and we are healed because of his wounds”.

Make no mistake:

Jesus gave more than a kiss – He gave his beauty.

He paid more than a visit – He paid for our mistakes.

He took more than a minute – He took away our sin.

                                          park scar 2

Childrens’Stories

                                         earnest-nig

                                     Rev. E. Anderson

CREATING SOMETHINGN NEW OUT OF ASHES 

Some years ago Alexander Woolcott described a scene in a New York hospital where a grief-stricken mother sat in the hospital lounge in stunned silence, tears streaming down her cheeks. She had just lost her only child and she was gazing blindly into space while the head nurse talked to her, simply because it was the duty of the head nurse to talk in such circumstances.

“Did Mrs. Norris notice the shabby little boy sitting in the hall just next to her daughter’s room?”

No, Mrs. Norris had not noticed him.

“There,” continued the head nurse, “there is a case. That little boy’s mother is a young French woman who was brought in a week ago by ambulance from their shabby one-room apartment to which they had gravitated when they came to this country scarcely three months ago. They had lost all their people in the old country and knew nobody here. The two only had only each other. Every day that lad has come and sat there from sunup to sundown in the vain hope that she would awaken and speak to him. Now, he has no home at all!”

Mrs. Norris was listening now. So the nurse went on, “Fifteen minutes ago that little mother died, dropped off like a pebble in the boundless ocean, and now it is my duty to go out and tell that little fellow that, at the age of seven, he is all alone in the world”.

The head nurse paused, then turned plaintively to Mrs. Norris, “I don’t suppose” she said hesitantly, “I don’t suppose that you would go out and tell him for me”.

What happened in the next few moments is something that you remember forever. Mrs. Norris stood up, dried her tears, went out and put her arms around the lad and led that homeless child off to her childless home, and in the darkness they both knew they had become lights to each other!

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Children’s Page

                                            rev-ernest-anderson

                                      Rev. E. Anderson

THE ONE WHO INTERCEDES

 

There was a soldier in the Union army, a young man brother and his father in the war. He went to Washington, D.C., to see President Lincoln to ask for an exemption from military service so he could go back and help his sister and mother with the spring planting on the farm. 

When he arrived in Washington, after having received a furlough from the military to go and plead his case, he went to the White House, approached the doors, and asked to see the president. However, he was told, “You can’t see the president! Don’t you know there’s a war on? The president’s a very busy man. Now go away, son! Get back out there and fight the Rebs like you’re supposed to”.

So he left, very disheartened, and was sitting on a little park bench not far from the White House when a little boy came up to him. The lad said, soldier, you look unhappy. What’s wrong?” The soldier looked at this young boy and began to spill his heart out to this young lad about his situation, about his father and his brother having died in the war, and how he was the only male left in the family and was needed desperately back at the farm for the spring planting.

The little boy took the soldier by the hand and led him around to the back of the White House. They went through the back door, past the guards, past all the generals and the high ranking government officials until they got to the president’s office itself. The little boy didn’t even knock on the door but just opened it and walked in. There was President Lincoln with his secretary of state, looking over battle plans on the desk.

President Lincoln looked up and said, what can I do for you, Todd?”

And Todd said, “Daddy, this soldier needs to talk to you”. And right then and there the soldier had a chance to plead his case to President Lincoln, and he was exempted from military service due to the hardship  he was under.
Suci is the case with our ascended Lord. We have access to the father through the Son. It is the Son who brings us to the Father’s throne and says, “Daddy, here is someone who wants to talk with You”.

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Childrens’ Page

                                       earnest-nig

                                    Rev. E. Anderson

THE BLACKBOY’S SOLO

It happened in Glasgow, in a Missions to Seamen’s hut an the quayside of King George V dockyard. A concert and social had been arranged for the Merchant Navy and my old friend Donald Stuart, then the superintendent of the Seamen’s Bethel had asked me to share, with two other ministers, the privilege of interspersing the various musical items with short, pointed addresses. The hut was comfortably filled with Merchant Navy personnel, and we were about to begin when crowds of soldiers invaded the place. The 8th Army troopships had reached the quay, and thousands of hungry men raided our stores. I gasped; but the resourceful superintendent, smiling broadly, spread wide his hands, and in his rich Scottish brogue said, “Tuck in, boys; we’ll share what we have”. I never saw food disappear as quickly as it did that night. However, everyone joined in the fun; and afterward., the artistes performed before a capacity audience.

One of my colleagues was a minister from Hull. He sat beside the Rev. Robert Telfer, and seemed to be very quiet. I had previously spoken to him and felt that he was one who had suffered. Twenty years previously he had been a missionary in North Africa – I wondered if ill health had interfered with his career; but I had no time to continue the conversation, for the programme had begun. With the exception of three Africans, whose faces were as black as coal, the audience was composed of white people. The overseas friends seemed conscious of their colour, and sat at the back of the hut. My interest increased when 1 saw the amiable superintendent pushing his way toward them and I watched as he leaned across to ask a question. As he returned his face was radiant, and when he announced that one of the Africans had consented to sing an impromptu solo, the hut rang with applause.

The young man sang unaccompanied. His tenor voice was exceptionally sweet, and his charming manner was irresistible. We were enthralled as he sang, “ Nearer, my God, to Thee,” and apart from the rich cadence of his tones, the silence was unbroken until the last note died away; then thunderous applause filled the building. I was clapping furiously, when the rather sombre minister at my side whispered, “I wonder to what part of Africa he belongs. I think I will go and talk to him”. “Good idea, brother,” and my friend stepped from the platform to make his way toward the back of the hut. I saw how he squeezed between the chairs and the tables and how he eventually reached the black singer, who had returned to his seat. At first they seemed to be exchanging greetings but within a matter of seconds I detected that the attitude of the minister had become more intense.

Deep interest registered upon his face, and when after some ten or fifteen minutes he came back to the platform, I saw that he was overjoyed. When he leaned across to whisper the news, he had my complete attention.

“Brother,” he said, “what do you think? I asked that fellow where he lived in Africa and he answered, ‘The west coast’. Then I asked, ‘Where on the west coast?’ and he surprised me by mentioning the very place where twenty years ago I was a missionary. I wondered if he had been there in my time – if he had known me, and I mentioned my name. He smiled and said. ‘Yes, I went to his Sunday – school and sang in his church’. Twenty years had made a great difference in both of us, and that is why we did not recognise each other. He had been a small boy in those days, but – isn’t it wonderful, he was one of my boys and he sang “Nearer, my God, to Thee’.”  I looked into my brother’s eyes, and read his thoughts.” He sang ‘ Nearer, my God to Thee,’ when h could have sung anything. And he was one of my boys”.

I saw the former missionary’s eyes fill with tears. He had been obliged to leave his beloved Africa, but his work had continued. He had cast bread upon the waters, and was seeing it after many days. His work had not been in vain. He had told a black boy about Christ, and when that boy grew to manhood and came to visit Britain, Christ still held the pre-eminent place in his affections. My brother’s eyes were like twinkling stars, shining through fleecy clouds of moisture. I patted his back. I understood.

                                            night-sky-uganda

Children’s Page

                                      earnest-nig

                                       Rev. E. Anderson

CREATING SOMETHINGN NEW OUT OF ASHES

Some years ago Alexander Woolcott described a scene in a New York hospital where a grief-stricken mother sat in the hospital lounge in stunned silence, tears streaming down her cheeks. She had just lost her only child and she was gazing blindly into space while the head nurse talked to her, simply because it was the duty of the head nurse to talk in such circumstances.

“Did Mrs. Norris notice the shabby little boy sitting in the hall just next to her daughter’s room?”

No, Mrs. Norris had not noticed him.

“There,” continued the head nurse, “there is a case. That little boy’s mother is a young French woman who was brought in a week ago by ambulance from their shabby one-room apartment to which they had gravitated when they came to this country scarcely three months ago. They had lost all their people in the old country and knew nobody here. The two only had only each other. Every day that lad has come and sat there from sunup to sundown in the vain hope that she would awaken and speak to him. Now, he has no home at all!”

Mrs. Norris was listening now. So the nurse went on, “Fifteen minutes ago that little mother died, dropped off like a pebble in the boundless ocean, and now it is my duty to go out and tell that little fellow that, at the age of seven, he is all alone in the world”.

The head nurse paused, then turned plaintively to Mrs. Norris, “I don’t suppose” she said hesitantly, “I don’t suppose that you would go out and tell him for me”.

What happened in the next few moments is something that you remember forever. Mrs. Norris stood up, dried her tears, went out and put her arms around the lad and led that homeless child off to her childless home, and in the darkness they both knew they had become lights to each other!

                                               sea-view1

Childrens’ Page

                                    earnest-nig

                                  Rev. E. Anderson

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS

It has been said that when Frederick, Prince of Prussia, visited King Louis of France, the French monarch decided upon a novel way of honouring his distinguished guest. Frederick should be taken to the grimmest of all the prisons, and after examining the convicts would be permitted to give a special pardon to one of the imprisoned men. Even the Prince was intrigued by the idea; the coming task offered diversion from the customary programme.

The prison was dark and sombre; it represented a place where hope died, where men were cut off from the rest of mankind. Its stone walls almost hid the sunlight; within them, guilty men languished and longed to die. Yet, a miracle had temporarily changed the place, for the prisoners had been told of the purpose of Frederick’s visit. An atmosphere of expectancy filled the gaol. Each man hoped for freedom; each man made his plans, and at last the great day dawned. The Prince of Prussia was welcomed by the Governor, and eventually escorted through the great gates toward the cells.

A cell door was opened, to reveal an eager young fellow obviously ready for questioning. What was his name, and why was he in prison? “Ah, sir it was all a ghastly mistake – a terrible case of mistaken identity. I did my best to persuade the authorities, but the evidence brought by the police was overwhelming. Yet I can assure you. sir, that I was many miles from the scene of the crime. It was very unfortunate for me that I was alone at the time, and could not produce evidence to substantiate my story. It was just a case of my word against the word of the police; and. well, what chance had I? I was convicted by the judge and I had no money to finance an appeal. I knew I hadn’t a chance in a thousand, and yet I was completely innocent.” Frederick nodded his sympathy. This was a great shame. He was exceedingly sorry. He would see what he could do.

The second suppliant was older. His face bore the marks of hard living. His eyes were furtive; his mouth suggested cruelty. Why was he m prison? What had in his crime? The prisoner swallowed-hard, and as he tried to express righteous wrath, he exclaimed, “It is a positive disgrace that I was ever charged. The judge and the jury which convicted me should themselves be sent to prison. ‘Once a criminal, always a criminal ‘ – so they say, and so they act. Admittedly, I did make a mistake once, but that was long ago. Since that initial disgrace, l have lived a good life; but policemen have excellent memories. They arrested me to hide their own inability to find te real criminal. When they mentioned my former conviction, I saw the face of the judge darken. It is disgraceful and abominable that decent people cannot be allowed to live their lives in peace.” He paused; his outburst had exhausted both his breath and his vocabulary. The Prince was most sympathetic. What a shame it was that the best of the people of France were forced to spend time in prison! He moved away.

Te third, and the fourth, and all the remaining prisoners had similar stories to tell. Finally the Prince approached the last cell, and saw cowering in the shadows an old man whose face reflected grief. Frederick said. “I expect you also were persecuted by policemen and judges. Tell me, old man, why did they imprison you? The convict seemed surprised. and stammered, “I was no victim I was a fool, and should have known better.” A new light shone in Frederick’s eyes! “You were a fool’! Old man, what do you mean?”   “Well, sir, I was not always a criminal. I was brought up to believe in God and to seek higher things; but I preferred to go my own way. I sinned against God and my consciences and in the end I was caught. I deserved to be!” ” The old man bowed his head in shame.

Then the onlookers were truly astonished, for Frederick said, “Now I know that the judges are fools. It is criminal to place such a vagabond in the midst of these other fine gentlemen! Your corrupting influence will make them as bad as you are. You must be set free.” The old man wondered if he were dreaming when kindly hands led him from his cell. Happy is that man who knows how to pray, “God merciful to me, a sinner.”

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Childrens Page

                                   earnest-nig

                                  Rev. E. Anderson

THE LITTLE SWEETHEARTS

The Rev. Robert Telfer, one-time Congregational minister at Springburn, Glasgow a genial. kindly man whose whimsical Scottish humour and balanced judgment marked him as one of the most reliable of men, related the following story to me during my stay in his hospitable home. He knew the little sweethearts, and could vouch for the truthfulness of the account.

One of the aggressive Scottish churches felt an urge to evangelize its locality, and with great deliberation planned q Gospel crusade. A well-known speaker accepted their invitation to lead the effort, and excitement ran high in the district as the special meetings drew nearer. Press advertisements and street posters announced to all and sundry that the campaign was to be held, and everyone was invited to hear the preacher. The church was well filled for the initial meetings, and Christians prayed earnestly that through the medium of the evangelist a surge of new life would reach the city. Nightly the minister expounded the fundamentals of the faith, and at the conclusion of every service souls were urged to trust the Saviour.

Yet typical Scottish reticence predominated and while none full deny the charm of the evangelist, the fact remained that no visible result followed his preaching. The people attended the meetings, but persistently refused to confess publicly their faith in Chist.

When the first half of the crusade had been completed without one indication of conversion, the church officers were most disappointed; they feared lest the meetings should be a complete failure. Yet the more ardent workers expected a break during the closing services, led consoled themselves by saying that all missions were difficult at the beginning. The preacher also realised the necessity of overcoming the conservativeness of the stolid listeners, and to the best of his ability preached and prayed for the desired results. When the last service arrived, not one soul had responded to the challenge of Christ, and it feared that the entire effort had been fruitless. At the conclusion of the final meeting the desperate missioner made his appeal and urged anxious souls to go to the vestry, where the way of salvation would be fully explained. Once again there was no response until a small boy came from his seat and with hesitant steps slowly walked up the aisle. Then a small girl followed her hero and made her way in the same direction. One of the older folk spoke to them, but apart from these youthful responses, no other person professed faith in the Saviour. The campaign closed, and everyone went away disappointed. The hard work, the lavish advertising, and a great deal of money had been wasted! Not a convert had been gained-except two insignificant children, who did not realize the meaning of their actions!

What a shame it was that the organizers of those social services were unable to read the future! Had they possessed the ability of Old Testament seers, their despondency would have in turned to joy.  The childlike surrenders on that final night of the crusade were deliberate and sincere. and were destined to have repercussions in many lives. The boy and girl went to school together, they studied together, and in post-school days their comradeship was maintained. They grew up together, worshipped and prayed and played together, and ultimately, as was fully expected, they married.

I remember the serenity which shone in my friend’s eyes as he said, “It is not so very long since they were back in Scotland thrilling the hearts of great audiences with the account of how they had been the first white missionaries to reach certain unevangelized tribes of Red Indians in the forests of Amazonia. They volunteered for service on the mission field, and their united efforts brought the story of redeeming love to thousands of primitive people”.

“Little is much when God is in it”. This striking story should enable every reader to understand why the Lord Jesus said, “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not for of such is be Kingdom of heaven”.

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