The King’s Army
In the chill December air, Bob and Daisy were again wending their way home from church. The sweet voices of the village choir came floating on the wind, “Am I a soldier of the cross,” and in Bob and Daisy’s hearts were still ringing the words of the text, “I have fought a good fight… I have kept the faith: Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness.” (2 Timothy 4:7-8)
“Daisy,” said Bob, suddenly, “I don’t think I fight enough.”
“What can you mean, Bob?”
“Oh! I think I take things too easy. When John provokes me (and Aunt Skinner always takes his part), I think it’s enough if I don’t say a word, or don’t strike him, when I’m just longing to do it. Oh, Daisy, if you only knew how angry I feel all the time. Sometimes I have to run out to the woodshed, and saw wood just as fast as I can, and sometimes I get the hammer and nails, and pound on the new chicken-yard just as if it was John’s head, and I just let all sorts of wicked thoughts run on, and don’t try to stop them. Now, if I’m in the King’s army, that the good old minister told about, I ought not to run away so like a coward. I ought to stand firm, and fight down all these wicked feelings—come out like a man into the front ranks, and stand the fire.”
“Dear me!” sighed Daisy, “what do you think of me? I don’t know how to fight. Oh, Bob, must all the children of the kingdom be in the King’s army?”
“I suppose they must,” said Bob, half laughing; “but then you, dear Daisy, don’t you remember what the minister said, that some had more fighting to do than others? Each one must do something, but there must always be someone to look after the baggage—‘bear one another’s burdens,’ you know—and then someone must carry the banners. Now I think you’d make a capital flag-bearer.”
“How do you mean, Bob? Could anyone see my flag?”
“Why, yes; you must be so gentle, and forgiving, and patient, and loving, that when anyone looks at you, they will read something as plain as print on a banner.”
“Well,” said Daisy, with sparkling eyes, “what banner shall I carry?”
“I’ll tell you what I read,” said Bob, looking at her affectionately: “ ‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.’ ”
Daisy colored painfully. “Oh Bob, don’t make fun of me; I’m so bad, no one would ever think of that.”
“I’m not so sure,” cried Bob, kissing her round, dimpled cheeks.
They opened the garden gate, and, walking up to the stoop, paused a moment to look over the broad fields of snow, rosy in the light of the setting sun. Bob’s heart was full of gentle and brave resolutions.
“I’ll tell you what, Daisy—you shall carry the banners, and make the music, and I’ll try to be a real faithful soldier, and—
His remarks were cut short by a very unexpected shower of icy water from the windows above.
“This is a little too much,” cried Bob, angrily, “over our Sunday clothes, and your best bonnet; Daisy, I’ll—
Take care, whispered a voice in Bob’s ear. Is this the way you “stand fire”?
“Dear me!” cried John’s voice above, in an affected tone of surprise and concern. “Who would have thought of your being down there? Dear pilgrims, with your new clothes just fresh from Vanity Fair! And that beautiful pink bonnet! How well it is that Sister Saybrook never took any pride in it!”
Daisy bit her lip, for she remembered looking in the glass that very morning, and feeling quite pleased with the pretty pink reflection on her cheeks. She also remembered feeling very uncomfortable at hearing John singing in the hall, in his disagreeable nasal tone,
“Why should our garments, made to hide
Our sin and shame, provoke our pride?”
“I hope you’ll be able to forgive me,” whined John.
“Oh, certainly,” replied Bob, who had quite recovered himself.
Now this was not at all what John wanted. He was greatly disappointed in not seeing Bob fly in a passion. So he called again, “Oh, you precious hypocrite, to tell the truth, I did it on purpose.”
“Never mind,” cried Daisy’s cheery voice, as they hurried in to repair damages. “We forgive you just the same.”
This was too much for John, and he did not show himself again till tea time.
The next morning, as Bob came out of his room, he found chalked in huge letters on his door, “Saint’s Rest,” but he, smiling, wiped it off, and took no further notice of the intended taunt.
So the winter passed on with daily conflicts, but also some grand victories. To be sure, the young soldiers would often be very weary, and greatly discouraged, but they were never entirely conquered, and, sure of receiving fresh strength from above, they were always ready to come bravely back to the battle. And Daisy carried some very beautiful banners.
Towards spring there was to be a grand examination in the village school, and some rich gentleman had offered two very handsome prizes—one for the best scholar in mathematics, and one for the best composition. Now John, who was very ambitious, and a boy of good talents, was determined to have them both. In mathematics, Bob, Fred Gray, and he, had already distanced all other competitors, and it was hard to say which would be the victor. But one day John failed utterly in the demonstration of a difficult problem, which was successfully worked out by Bob. This was more than John’s spirit could bear, and for several days he went around with such an air of sullen gloom, that no one dared to sympathize with him. At last he suddenly betook himself with such energy to his composition, in which there was good prospect of success, that Bob believed his mortification was forgotten.
Every thing went on smoothly till the day before examination, when Bob came hurrying in after school, saying, “Oh, I’ve so much to study. Don’t call me to tea, please, Aunt Skinner; I couldn’t eat a morsel;” and he sat himself down in a western window, to improve the last ray of light. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation of dismay.
“What’s the matter?” cried Daisy.
“Why, someone has torn the leaves out of my Algebra, right in the hardest part.”
“Why do you lay it to someone else?” said Aunt Skinner, sharply. “You’ve probably been careless yourself.”
“I kept it just like a new book,” said Bob, mournfully. “Oh, John, won’t you let me take yours?”
“By and by,” said John; but, though Bob begged and pleaded, he would not stir to find it till after tea. Then he came down stairs, saying, with a yawn, “Oh, I’m sorry, Bob, but I just remember I lent mine to one of the boys yesterday.”
Bob looked intensely disappointed, and, seizing his cap, rushed to the door.
“Where are you going?” asked Uncle Skinner, coming in with his coat dripping, and using all his force to shut the door against the driving wind. “It’s a terrible storm.”
“I don’t mind it,” said Bob. “I must try and find an Algebra.”
“Are you crazy, child?” cried Aunt Skinner. “You shan’t stir a step. Do you think I can have you on my hands with fever and argue, all through the spring?”
Bob came back in the room very quietly, and leaning his head on his hand, spoke not a word for more than an hour. Neither did little Daisy, who knelt beside him with her head on his knee. At last he turned to her with a very pale face, but a sweet, wan smile.
“It’s all over now, Daisy. It has been a great fight, and I’m very tired, but I’m not angry with anyone, now. I’m pretty sure I shall lose the prize, but perhaps I should have been too proud.”
Daisy only sobbed softly to herself.
John broke in fretfully, “Mr. Brooks said my composition would stand a good chance, if it were only a little fuller upon this one head. He said I’d find a great deal to help me in a book he told me about, but I can’t get it at this bookstore, and I suppose the roads will be perfectly impassable over to Snowdon tomorrow. What shall I do? I could alter this one sheet at the last minute, if I only had the book.”
No one answered, and he, grumbling, again applied himself to his task.
Poor Bob was up the next morning with the first streak of light. He secured an Algebra, and never before did a brain travel at such express speed over the difficult problems and equations. But the class was called so soon, he was not more than half ready. Poor Bob! He passed a fine examination, and had many compliments, but he missed once in that very hard place, and the beautiful prize went to Fred Gray.
As the boys walked silently home from school, Bob turned off at the little bridge over the creek. “I don’t feel quite well, John,” said he, “and I believe a walk would do me good. Please tell Aunt Skinner that I don’t care for any dinner.”
“Your pride’s hurt, that’s all,” cried John. “You don’t want to show yourself, after being so badly beaten. Well, it must go down rather hard after all your superior airs.”
“I forgive you, John,” cried Bob, throwing back a bright look, as he dashed into the wood.
“Forgive me? What for?” screamed John, stamping his foot. “Do you think I tore your book?” But Bob had sprung out of hearing. “Well, it would be a pity to let such lovely Christian charity die for want of exercise,” muttered John, and he loosened one of the boards of the little bridge, so that when Bob came bounding back it would tilt up and give him a heavy fall.
But John’s conscience troubled him all the afternoon, and he could not even think of the composition which was to come off with such glory on the next day. As soon as the late school was dismissed, he almost flew down to the little bridge. Ah! His fears were too true! There, at full length, in the dim, gray light lay the motionless form of his cousin Bob. He had struck his head in falling, and was quite unconscious.
“I’ve done it at last,” groaned John, in conscience-stricken despair. “I’ve killed him now.”
He lifted him tenderly, for Bob’s slight figure was a light burden, and carried him home.
“Bob has fallen and killed himself!” he screamed, as Aunt Skinner came to the door.
Then all was hurry and confusion. The doctor came, and old nurse Comfort, and poor little Daisy never ceased to sob and kiss Bob’s pale hands. John, too, could not keep away, and as he hovered near, he saw a little medal on a long black cord fall from his bosom. He took it up. On one side was scratched, in Bob’s plain hand, “Robert Saybrook, entered the King’s army Dec. 10th, 18—,” and on the other, “My Father’s promise: ‘Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.’ (Revelation 2:10) ”
John shuddered, and for the first time in his life he prayed earnestly, “Not yet, O God! Keep it for him a little longer. Spare him this time.”
But John’s cup of remorse was not yet full for, carrying Bob’s coat in the hall, a heavy book fell out. John picked it up. It was the very one he had been wishing for, and in it was written, “John Skinner, with the love of his cousin Bob.”
“That is where he went then,” groaned John. “Poor, tired, disappointed Bob went way over to Snowdon for me. Oh, he’ll die; I know he’ll die! I’ve killed him!”
He went to his room, and threw himself on his bed in agony. The long hours passed on, and at last someone knocked at his door. “Is it all over?” said John, in a low, fearful whisper. “Is he dead?”
“Oh, no,” answered the pleasant voice of nurse Comfort. “Your cousin will live, and I thought you would like to know.”
No words can describe the happiness that thrilled poor John Skinner’s grateful heart. Neither can it be told with what tenderness he waited on Bob through all his weary confinement. And at last, when the boy was able to bear it, he made a long confession of all his wicked and malicious deeds, and humbly asked for forgiveness. “For you see,” said John, in a faltering voice, “you have been such a good soldier, you have not only conquered yourself, but even me, your greatest enemy, and now I want you and Daisy to tell me how to join the King’s army, for I, too, am determined to fight the good fight. Oh, Bob, if you could only know how I thank you!”
“Don’t thank me,” faltered Bob; but could say no more for the happy tears. But as Daisy looked at his radiant face, she whispered, “I know what banner you are carrying today.”
“What?” asked Bob.
Daisy clasped her fair hands reverently: “ ‘But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.’ (1 Corinthians 15:57) ”