Little Nettie; or, Home Sunshine

"Isn't it to stop people from quarrelling?" one child asked.

"How can you do that, Jane?"

Jane seemed doubtful. "I could ask them to stop," she said.

"Well, suppose you did. Would angry people mind your asking?"

"I don't know, sir. If they were very angry, I suppose they wouldn't."

"Perhaps not. One thing is certain, Jane; you must have peace in your own heart, to give you the least chance."

"How, Mr. Folke?"

"If you want to put out a fire, you must not stick into it something that will catch."

"That would make the fire worse," said one of the girls.

"Certainly. So if you want to touch quarrelsome spirits with the least hope of softening them, you must be so full of the love of Jesus yourself that nothing but love can come out of your own spirit. You see, it means a good deal to be a peacemaker."

"I always thought that must be one of the easiest things of the whole list," said one of the class.

"You won't find it so, I think; or rather you will find they are all parts of the same character, and the blessing is one. But there are more ways of being a peacemaker. What do you do when the hinge of a door creaks?"

One said "She didn't know;" another said "Nothing." "I stop my ears," said a third. Mr. Folke laughed.

"That would not do for a peacemaker," he said. "Don't you know what makes machinery work smoothly?"

"Oil!" cried Jane.

"Oil to be sure! One little drop of oil will stop ever so much creaking and groaning and complaining, of hinges and wheels and all sorts of machines. Now, people's tempers are like wheels and hinges. But what sort of oil shall we use?"

The girls looked at each other, and then one of them said, "Kindness."

"To be sure! A gentle word, a look of love, a little bit of kindness, will smooth down a roughened temper or a wry face, and soften a hard piece of work, and make all go easily. And so of reproving sinners. The Psalmist says, 'Let the righteous smite me; it shall be a kindness: and let him reprove me; it shall be an excellent oil, which shall not break my head.' But, you see, the peacemaker must be righteous himself, or he hasn't the oil. Love is the oil—the 'love of Jesus.'"

"Mr. Folke," said Nettie, timidly, "wasn't Jesus a peacemaker?"

"The greatest that ever lived!" said Mr. Folke, his eyes lighting up with pleasure at her question. "He made all the peace there is in the world, for He bought it, when He died on the cross to reconcile man with God. All our drops of oil were bought with drops of blood."

"And," said Nettie, hesitatingly, "Mr. Folke, isn't that one way of being a peacemaker?"

"What?"

"I mean, to persuade people to be at peace with Him?"

"That is the way above all others, my child; that is truly to be the 'children of God.' Jesus came and preached peace; and that is what His servants are doing, and will do, till He comes. And 'they shall be called the children of God.' 'Beloved, if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another.'"

Mr. Folke paused, with a face so full of thought, of eagerness, and of love, that none of the children spoke, and some of them wondered. And before Mr. Folke spoke again, the superintendent's little bell rang, and they all stood up to sing. But Nettie Mathieson hardly could sing; it seemed to her so glorious a thing to be that sort of a peacemaker. Could she be one? But the Lord blessed the peacemakers; then it must be His will that all His children should be such; then He would enable her to be one! It was a great thought. Nettie's heart swelled with hope and joy and prayer. She knew whose peace she longed for first of all.

Her mother had now come to church, so Nettie enjoyed all the services, with nothing to hinder. Then they walked home together, not speaking much to each other, but every step of the way pleasant in the Sunday afternoon light, till they got to their own door. Nettie knew what her mother's sigh meant, as they mounted the stairs. Happily, nobody was at home yet but themselves.

"Now, mother," said Nettie, when she had changed her dress and come to the common room, "what's to be for supper? I'll get it. You sit still and read, if you want to, while it's quiet. What must we have?"

"There is not a great deal to do," said Mrs. Mathieson. "I boiled the pork this morning, and that was what set your father up so; that's ready; and he says there must be cakes. The potatoes are all ready to put down—I was going to boil 'em this morning, and he stopped me."

Nettie looked grave about the cakes.

"However, mother," she said, "I don't believe that little loaf of bread would last, even if you and I didn't touch it; it is not very big."

Mrs. Mathieson wearily sat down and took her Testament, as Nettie begged her; and Nettie put on the kettle and the pot of potatoes, and made the cakes ready to bake. The table was set, and the treacle and everything on it, except the hot things, when Barry burst in.

"Hallo, cakes!—hallo, treacle!" he shouted. "Pork and treacle—that's the right sort of thing. Now we're going to live something like."

"Hush, Barry, don't make such a noise," said his sister. "You know it's Sunday evening."

"Sunday! well, what about Sunday? What's Sunday good for, except to eat, I should like to know?"

"O Barry!"

"O Barry!" said he, mimicking her. "Come, shut up, and fry your cake. Father and Lumber will be here just now."

Nettie hushed, as she was bidden; and as soon as her father's step was heard below, she went to frying cakes with all her might. She just turned her head to give one look at Mr. Lumber as he came in. He appeared to her very like her father, but without the recommendation which her affection gave to Mr. Mathieson. A big, strong, burly fellow, with the same tinges of red about his face that the summer sun had never brought there. Nettie did not want to look again.

She had a good specimen this evening of what they might expect in future. Mrs. Mathieson poured out the tea, and Nettie baked the cakes; and perhaps because she was almost faint for want of something to eat, she thought no three people ever ate so many griddle cakes before at one meal. In vain plateful after plateful went upon the board, and Nettie baked them as fast as she could; they were eaten just as fast; and when finally the chairs were pushed back, and the men went downstairs, Nettie and her mother looked at each other.

"There's only one left, mother," said Nettie.

"And he has certainly eaten half the piece of pork," said Mrs. Mathieson. "Come, child, take something yourself; you're ready to drop. I'll clear away."

But it is beyond the power of any disturbance to take away the gladness of a heart where Jesus is. Nettie's bread was sweet to her, even that evening. Before she had well finished her supper, her father and his lodger came back. They sat down on either side the fire, and began to talk of politics, and of their work on which they were then engaged, with their employers and their fellow-workmen; of the state of business in the village, and profits and losses, and the success of particular men in making money. They talked loudly and eagerly; and Nettie had to go round and round them to get to the fire for hot water, and back to the table to wash up the cups and plates. Her mother was helping at the table, but to get round Mr. Lumber to the pot of hot water on the fire every now and then, fell to Nettie's share. It was not a very nice ending of her sweet Sabbath day, she thought. The dishes were done and put away, and still the talk went on as hard as ever. It was sometimes a pleasure to Nettie's father to hear her sing hymns of a Sunday evening. Nettie watched for a chance, and the first time there was a lull of the voices of the two men, she asked softly,

"Shall I sing, father?"

Mr. Mathieson hesitated, and then answered,

"No,—better not, Nettie: Mr. Lumber might not find it amusing;" and the talk began again.

Nettie waited a little longer, feeling exceedingly tired. Then she rose and lighted a candle.

"What are you doing, Nettie?" her mother said.

"I am going to bed, mother."

"You can't take a candle up there, child! the attic's all full of things, and you would certainly set us on fire."

"I'll take great care, mother."

"But you can't, child! The wind might blow the snuff of your candle right into something that would be all a-flame by the time you're asleep. You must manage without a light somehow."