Here was a girl who because of the cultivation in the home turned simply and naturally to God to supply her need. She is today a pure, healthy, natural young woman who has seemingly triumphed over her propensity to "get mad." Another girl says:

"I have prayed ever since I remember. We always had family prayers at home and in church our pastor always prayed for us children. I used to pray when I was afraid, which I often was at night when the wind blew, and I felt comforted. My little sister was not strong and for years I prayed every night that God would let us keep her. Sometimes when I had been scolded in school for whispering, in which I was a great offender, I prayed in shame and remorse for forgiveness. As I grew older I still prayed when afraid and repentant and often on a beautiful day, or in the canoe at sunset when I could not say all I felt. When I was about eighteen I began to pray for the missionaries and people who were poor and sick. I do not remember any definite instruction about prayer. It seemed natural to me. I often felt doubts when the answer didn't come but had a very definite feeling that the trouble must be with me."

This girl by environment and unconscious training has also found speaking with God a natural thing. There are so many papers which express through different personalities the same general facts which cannot fail to impress one who reads, with the power of the cultivation of prayer.

But in the papers and from the interviews of girls in the early twenties whose only definite relation with the church is the Sunday-school class, who come from non-Christian homes, whose parents almost never enter a church a different note sounds.

One says:

"I am trying to be a Christian. I have not joined the church. I cannot say that I pray very regularly but I have tried to. It does not seem to help me much. The minister prayed for me the day my brother died and it helped. Sometimes I read in a book of prayers."

And another writes:

"I do not believe I ever was taught to say my prayers when a child. I do not remember ever praying except the Lord's Prayer. I am interested in our class, the teacher makes the lessons interesting. I like to hear them discuss things. I always bow my head during prayer anywhere. Sometimes I have thought I would pray for myself but I never have."

One of the most interesting papers is written by a young woman engaged in rescue work for girls, or has talked personally with a great many girls about prayer. She says:

"There was another girl with whom I talked one afternoon whose face I can see clearly now. She was suffering from great remorse because of her sin, for up to the time of her misfortune she had been 'a good girl.' One of the workers suggested that she pray for strength and forgiveness. 'Pray,' she said bitterly. 'They told me that when I was a little girl and went to Sunday-school. Pray. How can I talk to God? What would he do for me? I tried last night when I couldn't sleep but don't know what to say!'"

There was no natural turning to a strong sympathetic Friend and Father on the part of these girls, or the twenty or more whose testimony I have been looking over. Those who were trying to be Christians made it a matter of duty to try to pray but it was irregular and forced; there was no natural spontaneity about it. It wasn't real to them, it played no vital part in life. In looking over the papers one is convinced of the tremendous asset the girl has who from childhood has been trained to turn to the Source of Strength when in fear or trouble or need and when filled with the joy of living. A girl's life must be raised to a higher plane by daily contact with the Highest. If she sincerely speaks but for a moment to God, realizing his love, mercy, justice and righteousness, it will not be as easy for her to be jealous, unkind, untrue or a gossip. One covets for all girls this natural, spontaneous turning to God which has seemed to come to so many through the Christian home and its unconscious influence and instruction. Nothing can take the place of the earnest daily prayer of a manly father, and the instruction of a sweet, Christian mother. But the task which so many homes lays down the community must take up. The public school cannot cultivate the spirit of prayer, and if the home does not, the church remains the only possible agent through which it may be done. The Sunday-school teacher is the church's most potent instrument, therefore a large share of the task is hers.

The teachers in the Beginners' departments realize the need of the cultivation of prayer and pray simply and often during the session, baby lips repeating the words. Through cards and memory verses prayers go into homes where none are ever made. In Primary departments the instruction is continued and children are led to express themselves in simple words of worship. In the Junior departments there is the superintendent's prayer—the appeal it makes depending upon the leader's sympathy, and knowledge of childhood. Often both are lacking. These Junior girls know the street, the moving picture show, the unsupervised playground, the temptations of school life; they are beginning to show the moral effect of poverty on the one hand and social ambitions and false standards on the other. How many prayers for girls from ten to twelve does one hear? How many can he find though he search ever so diligently.

When we come to the girl in her teens we find often in large numbers of classes that the only instruction in prayer is the indirect teaching from the prayer at the desk. How many girls listen reverently to it?

They come from stores and shops, from high schools, offices, homes of plenty and homes of want. They know temptation, they meet it in more dangerous forms than ever before. How does the prayer affect life as they know it? Very little I am bound to believe unless the great experience has come to them and they have said in simple girlish fashion, "O Christ, I choose thee King of my life—I follow thee wherever the way shall lead," unless that transferring of will from vague and indefinite desire to a definite purpose has come, the prayer which is a part of the average opening service will have little influence. Even if the great decision has been made, the prayer of one far away at the desk, often out of touch with young life, does not bring the uplift.

What a teacher may do the following testimony of a young girl may help us to see:

"I never had any special instruction in prayer at home. I think I must have said my prayers when a very little child. My parents are just fine but they do not go to church. They almost always spend Sundays with grandmother on the farm. I do not remember any instruction about prayer, though of course it was mentioned and I knew good people prayed, until I was seventeen when the finest teacher I ever had talked to us about it for four Sundays. Then I saw how much the people who had helped the world had prayed and how much it did for them. She made Christ seem so beautiful and sympathetic that though I can't explain it I wanted to pray myself. That afternoon out in the hammock I did. I shall never forget how wonderful the world seemed.... In a few weeks three of us joined the church and we prayed for the other girls. That year eight of us joined."

The testimony speaks for itself. She taught them what prayer had done for others; she made them want to pray. I do not know that teacher but I feel sure she knew by experience what she taught.

I know another teacher who is very successful in cultivating the spiritual life of every class of girls as it comes to her. I find that each new class has been asked to join with her at night in using wisely selected prayers written by Stevenson, Rauschenbusch, Phillips Brooks, and others taken from religious journals and from calendars. Each prayer is used daily for two weeks. After about six months the teacher asks that a committee be appointed to write a prayer for the class, this committee being changed every two weeks.

Some of the prayers were very helpful and all had a crude, simple sincerity that was fine. I saw a letter written to this teacher by a seventeen-year-old girl away from home and out on a strike. It was a pathetic letter but one sentence cheered the teacher's heart—"The prayer that Midge and Kate wrote keeps coming to my mind and it helps me to keep a level head when we all git kinder wild."

When girls see that prayer is not beseeching an unwilling God for things the desire for which may be born of pure selfishness, but is the way by which help to keep steady and strong, power to love one's fellows and to live courageously and well comes to many, it will make a difference in what they think about prayer and the way they pray. But most girls do not know these things intuitively. They must be helped to know them. The spirit within them must be cultivated. Prayer and seeking the Bible for courage and help are largely matters of cultivation. The great Teacher prayed Himself in such a wonderful way that the disciples listening cried—"Lord, teach us how to pray." And he answered their request, giving them the words to say until they should find words for themselves. He made them want to pray.

If the girl herself chances to read this chapter let her be assured that there is no lesson in all the world which she can learn which can give to her anything like the courage, strength, comfort and help to go right on in the face of hard things, that can come to her through learning how to truly pray, not empty words, not words for others to hear, but words that say all she feels of disappointment and longing, of hope and gladness. The Great God hears all one can say and knows what she cannot say. Only God can do that. Even the best friends tire of our struggles and failures. God never does and when I speak to Him I may know He cares. Though I am one speck of humanity in a great mass of men and women, though the girl who is reading this is just one ordinary girl, one among millions the world around, she may speak to God, her Creator without fear, may touch His greatness and her heart be warmed by His answering touch.

"Speak to Him then, for He heareth, and spirit with spirit may meet. Closer is He than breathing, And nearer than hands and feet."



XVI

A PLEA AND A PROMISE

The Plea is for a purer, more invigorating atmosphere for our girls to breathe—the Promise, that when it is given to them they will respond, their religious, as well as physical and mental life will be normal and the vitality in it will express itself in action.

Inspiration is a part of a girl's religion and inspiration means "inhaling—taking into the life that which creates high and lofty emotions."

Memory takes me back to school days when with windows wide open, shoulders squared and heads erect, the teacher's command bade us inhale and we filled our lungs to the full with fresh, life-giving air. Then came the command to exhale, and we emptied our lungs, that there might be room for more of the clear invigorating air. In life's larger school our girls of today are inhaling what? Is it the fresh, untainted, life-giving air?

The other day on the street I overheard a girl uttering words that made me turn in dismay to look at her. I saw, not what I expected to see, a coarse, ill-clad, ignorant girl, but a pretty, fashionably dressed girl with high school books under her arm. Where had she breathed in the sentiments regarding honor which in slangy phrases she breathed out with no hesitation or shame? There was nothing high or lofty in the emotion enkindled by what she breathed into her soul from her environment, and what she had breathed out into her companion's ears could not fail to weaken and injure.

I found myself wondering what her environment could be and later when I described her, a girl companion told me her name. I remembered her then, one of the girls who had grown up quickly, the daughter of a skilled mechanic who made good wages and owned a comfortable home. She was an only child and her mother was socially ambitious for her. The mother had done nothing to interest her daughter in the church, only now and then did she attend Sunday-school; friends were entertained Sunday evening, so she had no connection with the young peoples' societies of the church. She is a type of a vast number of girls whose religious sense lies dormant.

Knowing now her environment, I asked myself, "Where can she 'breathe in that which will stir her soul to high and lofty emotion,' and enable her to help and bless her world?" At home? Can she there breathe in that which will enkindle noble ambition to love and serve in a world which so needs love and service?

Once there were numberless homes and, thank God, there are still many where a girl can breathe in deep draughts of the fresh, sweet, wholesome atmosphere in which the family lives. But knowing something of that mother, I knew she discussed with her daughter, dress and parties, her future at college, her music, her marks, and laid wisely and well her plans for the forming of friendships which she considered "an advantage." In her presence she criticized friends and neighbors and related bits of gossip. Occasionally she scolded her for faults that happened at the moment to annoy. Her father talked boastfully of his successes and ambitions, criticized the men for whom he did business, found fault with those whom he employed, occasionally talked of politics in a vain attempt to interest his wife and daughter. There were few books in the home. The newspapers and one or more popular magazines represented the only reading of the family. The daughter played a little, sang a little, sewed a very little and studied as much as she must to insure the certificate for entrance to college. But she attended matinees, dancing parties in large numbers, and belonged to a whist club. A whist club, poor girl, at sixteen! Her parents were blind and deaf to the fact that in their daughter's life there was nothing, save now and then a desperate attempt on the part of an earnest high school teacher, or a word from a teacher who occasionally found her in the Sunday-school class, which might inspire her soul with high ideals, pure, noble thoughts expressed in action which makes life sweeter. Of nature's beauties, of her countless miracles, of the dramatic acts of current history, of the lives and needs of other girls she knew almost nothing. In her pitiful little world she lived, her best self dying for want of pure air with the oxygen of power in it.

Can she find in the social life and amusements of the day the inspiration needed to fill her soul with life that it may develop as her normal healthy body develops? No, the girls of our country do not find our social life a help to the higher expression of self. Only here and there do wise parents make social life simple, free from show and sham, from false standards and appeals to the senses. But few know how to center the social life in the home, in the out-of-doors, in clean sports, instead of letting it center about exotic conditions, unreasonable hours, and deadly refreshments. Only now and then does the present social life demand any exercise of mental power.

It is wonderfully encouraging to find, here and there, groups of girls of sixteen and their boy friends having their simple good times in each other's homes, enjoying the picnic and the skating party; or the girls by themselves enjoying camp life, the tramp in the woods, the gymnasium class; or with their parents or chaperones enjoying the moving pictures of high standard, without vaudeville. These girls are such a contrast to the usual groups of sophisticated, bored, blase girls who at eighteen have tired of the ordinary means of recreation and amusement. Our social life suffers from too rapid growth. It does not offer the tonic for healthy social nature. It needs pruning. Some of it needs to be torn up by the roots.

And what of the schools? Can she find there the atmosphere that will stir her soul to noble, unselfish joyous living? Yes, in some schools. Many are engaged in merely continuing the "system," following a curriculum strangely deficient in those things which touch life directly, to inspire it and kindle it with ambition.

Recently, four names, the names of women, were presented to classes of girls in the last year of the grammar grades and the four years of the high school. The girls were asked, "Did you ever hear of Frances Willard? What do you know about her?" Then followed the names of Mary Lyon, Clara Barton, Alice Freeman Palmer. The show of hands and the written replies were pitiful. Some had a vague idea that they had heard the name somewhere, a few gave one or two facts. Clara Barton seemed the one most familiar but knowledge concerning her was very limited.

Then Jane Addams' name was tried, the same meager replies resulting. Finally the name of the wife of a noted and notorious insane criminal was given and scarcely a hand was down in answer to the first question, and pencils flew over the paper in answer to the second. What does it mean? It does not condemn the school, nor does it hold the school responsible but it does suggest that there might be some substitute characters for the mythical ones of ancient history, or that possibly the lives of great and noble women might be studied with greater profit by the girls of today than certain abstract problems in physics. In many of the classes where the questions were asked that fresh, clear, vitalizing atmosphere charged with reality, seemed lacking.

When we can calmly look at our schools, recognize the tremendous difficulties under which they work, realize their limitations, and with profound belief in what they have done, gratitude for what they are doing and confidence in what they are going to do, get at our task of setting teachers free and vitalizing courses of study, we shall be able to generate in them all the atmosphere in which the girl will find inspiration for noble living.

Where can the girl turn for the life giving atmosphere? To the church? Yes, if the church were awake to the facts and equipped to meet her needs. But what a small part of our country's girlhood comes into direct contact with the church, and how few churches have adequate leadership provided for those whom it does touch. The whole problem of adolescence is a problem of leadership. A wise leader has almost unlimited power in charging the atmosphere with the spirit of uplift. The church must furnish leadership. It must guide or lose its youth. It must advise with practical, possible advice.

Perhaps the day will come when groups of churches will unite in forming social centers and the business men of those churches shall seriously consider the problem of where girls shall meet their young men friends and how they shall spend their evenings together. Perhaps some day the men of the church will select in their community a good, clean moving picture house, and there are some, where they can advise their young people to go, helping them thus to escape the snare of those who cater to evil.

Those most deeply interested in a girl's religion, have come to see its relation to every other phase of her life, and to know that one may not snatch amusements from the lives of young people, giving nothing in return.

Just what is wisest to give in return is our great problem. The church must meet it and it needs help.

The time is ripe and more than ripe for the direct appeal to the home. It should be made through every avenue and in every language. It should be made through every newspaper and printed in every tongue—"Responsibility belongs to the home." All sorts of homes must help in making the atmosphere in which a young girl must live, safe, free from poisons that mean suffering and in the long run death to the best things.

I happened one day in a smoke laden city upon a group of women in one of the residential districts who were meeting together to see if all the families for a certain number of blocks east and west would promise to use only hard coal in their homes. One of the women, the mother of three young children, pictured vividly the difference it would make in the atmosphere their children must breathe and closed her appeal by saying, "But women, it means that we must all burn it. The help one or two of us can give amounts to almost nothing. Into each of our cellars the hard coal must go and each of us must insist upon using nothing else. Then we shall have clean, pure air for our babies to breathe throughout all this section."

She had stated the answer to the whole problem of bringing inspiration to our girls. It will need every home and every church to keep the atmosphere clean and invigorating.

It may be that the girl herself is reading and thinking over this Plea and Promise. If she is she will realize how earnestly we covet for her all the best things and how we long for wisdom to help her get them. Perhaps she will think that she can do a great deal toward getting them for herself, and she can. Let me recall to her mind one of the girls whom we find in almost every gymnasium class, whose pale face and stooping shoulders attract at once the instructor's attention. Let me remind her of the special exercises given that girl for chest development, the advice about food and the command, "Live with your windows open. Let the air into your lungs." Again and again you will remember the instructor gave the command to the class, "Breathe. Use your lungs! Half of you use only two-thirds of your lung capacity!" And then by way of emphasis she contrasted her own chest expansion and yours, adding, "If you want health, take deep breaths."

The Plea which I make to the girl herself is that she use, to the full capacity, her power to inhale those things that shall give inspiration for pure, helpful living. Every girl has that power. Some use only two-thirds of it, some one third, some have forgotten its existence. If a girl wants to really live she must "breathe deep," with her soul's windows open wide to the atmosphere that will give her strength. If she is obliged to live with those who do not think of these things, whose own spirits are starved, she can seek friends who will help, she can go to the places where her mind and soul are stirred as well as her senses, she can find in good books great uplift and courage. She will, if she truly wants inspiration and help to live nobly, attend regularly some church where the service makes her long to be her best. She will, if possible, join some class where she can study the life and teachings of Jesus Christ, who now even as when He was here, lifts those who listen to Him out of failure and discouragement into hope, in whose presence every girl may breathe in the atmosphere filled with life giving power.

If a girl responds to this Plea to open her soul to the great Giver of life, I can Promise that she will find true happiness and joy.



XVII

A PERSON NOT A FACT

Every thoughtful person craves facts. They are cold, hard, sometimes disconcerting but they carry weight. "It is a fact, it has been proven," hushes many a query and silences many an argument. And yet it is not in the array of facts which can be given at any moment that young people find their incentives and inspirations. They may have all the facts at their tongue's end but lack the fire which shall transfuse those facts into power to act in accordance with their teachings. Julius Caesar is a fact. A girl may have no doubt of his existence, she may not question the great events of his life, but he does not stir her to action. The fact of George Washington does not awaken the patriotism of a girl and in schools where merely the facts regarding his life are given his influence is practically negative. But whenever the facts have been breathed upon by a sympathetic spirit and the fact George Washington transformed into the personality that lives in the girl's presence then his influence begins to count.

It is not the facts about Abraham Lincoln that engender heroism. The facts may be presented in such a way as to hold but passing interest. I have heard the life and times of Abraham Lincoln taught that way. But I have seen Abraham Lincoln presented to a class of foreign girls by one to whom he had become a friend as real and genuine as if he stood by her side. As I listened I saw Abraham Lincoln. I felt the kindness and patience of his great soul, the honest purpose and the fine courage of his life. The facts were there in that lesson but more than the facts were there. He was there. At the close of the lesson that teacher looking into the faces of the girls who represented nearly every land across the sea said to them, "What do you think of him?" One girl responded eagerly "I think he was grand!" and a dark-haired intense girl, her black eyes glowing, rose and said with an earnestness and fervor I can never forget, "I love him!" "You shall hear more tomorrow," said the teacher, and they looked as if it were hard to wait.

A careful observation of the ways of presenting great men of history and great characters in literature to young people will convince one beyond doubt that the girl may store the facts in the memory for a time, but if the living personality is presented it will remain to mold and guide and influence the life. The teacher's greatest power is never in what she teaches but in what is revealed to the individual through her teaching. The mind hungers for facts, searches for facts and wearies of facts. It follows personality.

When Richard Watson Gilder tried to voice the plea of the young doubter, puzzled, perplexed and suffering from the great array of apparently conflicting facts and most of all from his own failure to win out over the temptations that swept over him he said:

"Thou Christ, my soul is hurt and bruised! With words the scholars wear me out; My brain o'erwearied and confused, Thee, myself and all, I doubt. And must I back to darkness go Because I cannot say a creed? I know not what I think! I know Only that Thou art what I need."

The fact is not enough. John Kendrick Bangs says it forcibly—

"A mere acceptance of the fact of love of God above, Of all the vast omnipotence of Him our Maker and Defence Is not believing."

Slowly we are getting back to the recognition of the proper place of fact, of its power as the background and basis against which and upon which Personality must stand. Our eyes are opening to see that if the girl is to gain a religion which shall mean life, she must gain it through a person who reveals a Person.

Here is Mary D——, a girl of fifteen, a worker in a mill employing a very cheap grade of help. Her face was hard, there was no light of anticipation in her eyes—she had nothing to anticipate. She toiled through the long hours, for there was no limit to her day in the state where she lives. Her home was not a home but a place where she could stay nights—when her father was not so quarrelsome through cheap drink that he drove her out. One day a woman at a noon service in the factory shocked at a profane remark of Mary's said reprovingly, "Don't you believe there is a God?" "Sure I do," said Mary, "but I don't see's it makes no difference to me." Further questions followed and Mary declared her belief, adding, "I don't bother much about them things." Mary had some facts and declared some sort of belief in them, but they made no difference.



The next summer, Mary, overcome by the work of the year and an attack of the grippe, was sent by a woman in one of the churches, to a girl's camp. She lived in decent fashion, she saw a lake, great mountains, sunsets and stars! She found flowers and sat quite still watching birds that seemed so marvelous to her.

Slowly she grew strong. One night she went to the sloping bank by the lake under the great pine trees to attend the twilight service. The sky was crimson with the sunset and there was a wonderful path of light across the lake. The songs and the beauty moved Mary's soul. She wanted something with all her heart that she had never wanted before. She did not know what it (the great change) was at first, but before she slept she turned to another girl in the tent and expressed it as best she could—"I want to be good," she said.

Through the weeks that followed she saw in the faces, in the kindness and courtesy, in the good times she had never known, in the women who planned them and in the songs and talks at sunset a Person. She heard His name often. He represented all of the happiness and comfort she had ever known and one day with all the eagerness of an awakened soul she said, "I love Him." They told her what changes must come in the life of a girl who said those words and meant them, for they had seen the faults in her and they were many. She was undaunted by all they said she must do, and answered in her uncouth fashion, "I'd die doin' them fur Him."

They wanted her to leave the mill but she said no, one of the girls was leaving and she was to have her place with lighter work. She wanted to go back and tell the girls some things, she said.

Not three years have passed but Mary D—— is a new girl. She is attractive; one can scarcely believe unless he has seen it. She is clean; she is happy. Her friends secured a position for her father out-of-doors where he had loved to work as a boy. Mary took him to the Mission and there he promised to begin the fight against his enemy. The men in the Mission helped. Regular pay made a decent home possible. They have begun to live.

Overcome by the effects of ignorance and sin, failures as citizens, as individuals, as human souls, they met a Person and life was transformed. If it were possible to replace in every factory for Mary D—— who assented to the facts but passed them by as having nothing to do with her, Mary D—— who met a Person and loved Him what a world of new moral forces we could create!

He was revealed to Mary D—— not in the abstract which could not impress her but in the concrete which she understood. O if only we could grasp the significance of that!

Ruth M—— was a college junior with ancestry and wealth, brilliant, sarcastic, selfish. She knew all the facts and accepted them. She was a member of a church with which she had united at fourteen as had her mother and grandmother before her. She did not think much about the facts, they had not greatly impressed her. If questioned, she promptly stated that she believed this and that, she thought such and such things were probable though no one could prove them, and dismissed the subject to talk of her own plans and interests.

Then her great sorrow came. In a moment she lost everything dear to her. They called it an accident. She held God accountable and in bitterness and anger turned her back upon all the facts. The months passed and her health breaking she was obliged to leave college. At the beautiful health resort to which she went she met a girl she had known well when a little child. They renewed the friendship. Then the girl's sorrow came. It was not death, it was far worse, scandal and disgrace in her family, which had been unstained before. Out of a clear sky it came.

In amazement Ruth watched her friend. She saw her suffer but she saw no conquering bitterness, heard no words of wild rebellion. She looked into a sweet calm face and saw a girl less than twenty, with life's conditions changed in a moment, adjust herself to the new conditions and go on. Seeking a solution she questioned her friend and met a Person. Day after day as she saw Him revealed in that heroic life, as she beheld the girl overcoming in His strength natural resentment against the injustice and unkindness of those who would make her suffer for the sins of her parents, the facts were swallowed up in the Person and she loved Him.

Together, the past summer, in a rest camp for mothers and babies they worked out the commands of the Person who had made it possible for them to take up life after bitter loss and find it sweet.

If one could summon to a central place the girls who have met the Person what an inspiration they would be! Of every sort and condition, of every color and nation, speaking languages new and old and dialects that have never been written, all uniting in the testimony that He has made life great for them.

The facts are in chaotic state. Parts of truth and segments of universal fact are waiting for man to unite them. Only the perfect whole can speak with certainty and we must wait for that. The creeds are countless. They do not matter much. The Person said little about them. They are just our poor attempts to put in words—God and His will. It is

"Not the Christ of our subtile creeds But the Lord of our hearts, of our homes, Of our hopes, our prayers, our needs; The brother of want and blame, The lover of woman and men, With a love that puts to shame All passions of mortal ken."

The only way to meet a fact is to face it, follow it and see where it will lead. It is prejudice that blinds one's eyes to facts. It is only man's limited vision, that makes a part seem as a whole, that accepts as fact the thing he would like to be a fact, that one need fear. Facts that are facts need never cause one to doubt. For fact is truth and truth leads to God. The business of every church and every teacher of religion is to discover the facts, and present the Person.

If the girl herself is reading these words let her be assured that more than any array of facts that she can gather, more than any proofs man can summon, she needs the Person. The handicapped girl finds in Him strength to triumph in spite of it, the privileged girl finds in Him the inspiration for her work of extending her privileges, the girl who is easily led to find in Him one who never leads astray, the girl who is misunderstood can find in Him one who understands perfectly, the indifferent girl who "means to" will find in Him a friend to encourage, steady and compel, the girl who worships the twin idols can find in Him a rescuer who shall set her free, the girl of high ideals will see in Him the highest Ideal, the source of all the others, and the average girl of the every day with her good points and bad, her successes and failures, will find in Him a Friend who will make life seem wonderfully worth while.

Don't let the multitude of things in which you are interested, the maze of contradiction, the abstract facts, the trials and hardships of life, the pleasures you love, or any other thing make you pass Him by. If you gain everything else in life and miss Him you will fail to know what life means. If you find Him you will find Love and that is the best thing life can give.



XVIII

THE GLORY OF THE CLIMAX

So many miss it. It is more than duty but the path that leads to the glory of it often begins with the plain, insistent, ought of duty. It is more than obedience, though without obedience none ever find it. How many girls there are who are disappointed, dissatisfied, suffering perhaps in body and soul because they never learned to obey! It is a great thing to be able to hear "you ought" and then at whatever cost to obey it. But the climax is not found in these things great as they are.

Faithful servants of a religion whose law is duty one finds among girls and honors them. Good and faithful servants of a religion whose law is obedience there are among girls. But neither of these have found the glory of the climax. The climax is Love. The supreme command of the Founder of true religion is—Thou shalt Love.

The religion of love is a girl's religion and she can never be satisfied with any other. If those who have tried to teach her religion have failed to show her this, then they have succeeded in giving her only a set of laws to be obeyed or a list of things she should not do. Love gives to Thou Shalt and Thou Shalt Not power without which they can accomplish little.

Love transforms hard, disagreeable, empty service and makes it glorious. No one knows this better than a girl. She has done things when necessity compelled her to do them, and she has done them when love compelled her to do them. She knows the difference. Jesus founded His Kingdom on the knowledge He had of Love. He knew the kingdom would stand. On his lonely island of banishment dreaming in the twilight, with all the struggle and attainment behind him Napoleon realized it as he said, "Caesar, Charlemagne, I, have founded empires. They were founded on force and have perished. Jesus Christ has founded a kingdom on Love, and to this day there are millions who would die for Him."

When I say that the religion of girlhood is the religion of Love I mean real love. Warm, sweet, tender, quick to understand, quick to discern need, tireless in service. I mean the love that does not wait to be asked to serve, the love that gives because it must give. When a girl's religion is filled with this love and rests upon it the girl does not say, "Well, I suppose if I am a Christian I can't do that." The thought in her heart if it were put into words would be, "I wonder if He would want me to do that?" Simple, natural, sincere desire not to do the thing displeasing to One who loves and is loved.

One day I was looking at a deep well, sunk away down in the rocks. Machinery dragged the water from the earth and machinery turned it into service. Some days later I saw a mountain spring. It poured and poured out over the rocks, down the precipice into the brook, on into the river. It ran as if it were glad to run and would never stop! Green things grew on every side of it, mosses clung to the rocks it touched, rich grass filled the meadow through which it flowed, birds followed it. Life and beauty seemed to spring from every place it touched.

When I remembered the well of water deep down in rock, dragged up by machinery it seemed to me like religion, the religion of service through duty, and I knew that it would keep right on serving as long as the machinery worked and would do its part dutifully.

Then I looked again at the spring. It seemed to me like religion, the religion of love that blessed because it is its nature to bless and poured itself out in service because it must.

It is the religion of love which holds one to the side of the road where need is great, work must be done, perhaps sacrifice made. That Samaritan who stopped, dismounted, tenderly cared for an injured brother of hated race, lifted him to his own beast, slowly walked beside him to a place where rest and shelter could be provided, knew the love-inspired religion. The Priest and the Levite were followers of the law, the letter of the law, but they looked upon the man in his need, crossed to the other side and passed by.

The Jericho road is still with us, and the needy who call for help and for justice are upon it, injured in body or soul. The religion of the letter of the law looks, crosses to the other side, passes by. On one side of the road Need, on the other side Greed, and Love always where Need is.

The religion of Love follows the road the Founder took, the road that leads to the place of service. That road may lead to China, it may lead to the islands of the sea. It took Livingstone to Africa, Dan Crawford to the Bantus for twenty-two years and now is taking him back for the rest of his days. It took Carey to India, it left Grenfell in Labrador, it led last year's college girls to every quarter of the globe. It leads this one down among the dirty, helpless, little children trying to play in wretched scorching city streets, it leads that one to the lonely countryside where girls starved for life are waiting. And, oh, so often it leads one to the door of her own church, to her own street, to her own class-room, to the girl beside her in the office. Sometimes it leads to one's own kitchen, or it stops beside the chair where one's own mother sits. One can never tell where the road of the religion of love may lead, but one cannot fail to see that those who follow it have shining faces and they love to live.

One day at sunset I waited at the little wharf to walk through the pines with Elizabeth. She was paddling in her canoe over the lake that had turned to crimson and gold, from the fresh air camp on the other side to which she went every afternoon in summer to play games and tell stories. "I had a great day," she called in her clear, cheering voice as she neared the wharf, and added as she stepped from the boat, "Little Billy loves me and Katie Kane whispered softly and blushed when she said it, that she told me a lie yesterday and was never going to tell a lie no more as long as she lived! Poor Katie," she laughed.

When we reached the knoll where the three pines were we stopped and looked back. Words could never describe what we saw. Elizabeth stood silently watching it, her sweet face, her dark hair and her middy blouse tinged with the glow of it. As the sun slowly slipped into the lake she waved her hand playfully at it. "Good night, old man," she said. "Give us a cooler day tomorrow. Fifty new children come to camp." After a moment while we waited for darkness to come stealing over the lake, forgetful of me, she said with her whole soul in her voice, "Oh, I love it, I love it all—the world, and those poor blessed children," then very softly "and God."

She had found the girls' religion, the religion Jesus Christ said, when they asked Him, meant two things—"Thou shalt love the Lord Thy God—and Thy Neighbor."

This is the girl's religion, for in loving she shall find Love—the glory of the climax.

THE END