Little Corners
Georgia Willis, who helped in the kitchen, was rubbing the knives. Somebody had been careless and let one get rusty, but Georgia rubbed with all her might—rubbed, and sang softly a little song:
“In this world of darkness, we must shine,
You in your small corner, and I in mine.”*
“Why do you rub at the knives forever?” questioned Mary. Mary was the cook.
“Because they are in my corner,” Georgia said, brightly. “ ‘You in your small corner,’ you know, ‘and I in mine.’ I will do the best I can; that is all I can do.”
“I would not waste my strength,” said Mary. “I know that no one will notice.”
“Jesus will,” said Georgia, and then she sang again,
“You in your small corner, and I in mine.”
“Cooking the dinner is my corner, I suppose,” said Mary to herself. “If that child must do what she can, I suppose I must. If Jesus knows about knives, it is likely that He does about dinners.” And she took particular pains.
“Mary, the dinner was very nicely cooked today,” Miss Emma said.
“That is all due to Georgia,” said Mary, with a pleased face. Then she told about the knives.
Miss Emma was ironing ruffles; she was tired and warm. “Helen will not care whether they are fluted or not,” she said. “I will hurry them over.” But after she heard about the knives, she did her best.
“How beautifully my dress is done!” Helen said.
Emma, laughing, answered, “That is owing to Georgia.” Then she told about the knives.
“No,” said Helen to her friend who urged, “I really cannot go this evening. I’m going to prayer meeting; my ‘corner’ is there.”
“Your ‘corner’! What do you mean?”
Then Helen told about the knives.
“Well,” the friend said, “if you will not go with me, perhaps I will with you,” and they went to the prayer meeting.
“You helped us ever so much with the singing this evening,” their pastor said to them as they were going home. “I was afraid you would not be here.”
“It was owing to our Georgia,” said Helen. “She seemed to think she must do what she could, if it were only to clean the knives.” Then she told him the story.
“I believe I will go in here again,” said the minister, stopping before a poor little house. “I said yesterday there was no use; but I must do what I can.”
In the house a sick man was lying. Again and again the minister had called, but the invalid would not listen to him. Tonight the minister said, “I have come to tell you a little story.” Then he told him about Georgia Willis, about her knives, and about her “little corner,” and her “doing what she could.”
The sick man wiped the tears from his eyes, and said, “I will find my corner, too. I will try to shine for Jesus.”
And the sick man was Georgia’s father.
Jesus looking down at her that day said, “She hath done what she could,” and gave the blessing.
“I believe I will not go for a walk,” said Helen, hesitatingly. “I will finish that dress of Mother’s; I suppose I can if I think so.”
“Why, child, are you here sewing?” her mother said. “I thought you had gone for a walk.”
“No, Mother; this dress seemed to be in my ‘corner,’ so I thought I would finish it.”
“In your ‘corner’!” her mother repeated in surprise. And then Helen told about the knives. The doorbell rang, and the mother went thoughtfully to receive her pastor. “I suppose I could give more,” she said to herself, as she slowly took out the ten dollars that she had laid aside for missions. “If that poor child in the kitchen is trying to do what she can, I wonder if I am. I will make it twenty-five dollars.”
And I seem to hear Georgia’s guardian angel say to another angel, “Georgia Willis gave twenty-five dollars to our dear people in India today.”
“Twenty-five dollars!” said the other angel. “Why, I thought she was poor?”
“Oh, well, she thinks she is, but her Father in heaven is not, you know! She did what she could, and He did the rest.”
But Georgia knew nothing about all this, and the next morning she brightened her knives, and sang cheerily:
“In this world of darkness, we must shine,
You in your small corner, and I in mine.”