116 Sermon Illustrations on Compassion for Others

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William H. Edwards, a ‘longshoreman, twenty-five years old, who forgot race prejudice in his anxiety to be of service to his fellow men, was awarded a silver medal by the Carnegie Hero Fund Commission and also $1,000 to be applied to the purchase of a home.

While the _Arcadia_, a freight steamer, plying between Hamburg and Philadelphia, was being unloaded in June, 1908, an explosion in the cargo occurred. Most of the stevedores working below decks were knocked down and bruised, some being burned. Many of the workers deserted the ship. Smoke and flames came from the hatches. Cries of the injured below decks came to the party of men waiting on deck.

Edwards volunteered to attempt the rescue of the imprisoned men. Tying a rope to a lighter, he slid into the burning hold, but could find nothing. Hearing groans he deserted his guide-rope and bending low searched in the direction of the cries of pain. After a long search he located Lucius Hubbard, a negro. Bearing the unconscious and injured workman to the open hatch, he had him hoisted to the deck and safety, following himself when assured there was no other person in the burning vessel.

Several passengers on a hot day in June entered the train on the Columbia and Augusta Railroad. Among them were several young college boys who were on the way home from their summer vacation. They were stylish, well-drest lads, and were gay and happy, as boys usually are who have put books aside.

A party of merry girls already occupied the car, and in a little time the train seemed flooded with youth and sunshine. A very lean woman, with an ample lunch-basket, divided her time between eating chicken and boiled eggs and fanning vigorously with a turkey-tail fan, while a stout man in the corner mopped his face with a red bandanna, and remarked, by way of emphasis, “Hot, very hot!”

The girls and boys took in every incident, laughing and tittering all the while. Just across the aisle, opposite the boy, sat a woman holding a baby. A pale, tired, despairing look was on her face, and her eyes were full of suffering. The little one was fretful and cried piteously, but the young mother was too exhausted to try to quiet the baby.

“Oh, just listen to that young one. I think crying babies ought to be put out of the cars,” one of the girls said pertly.

“Yes, my head begins to ache,” said another, while the boys laughed; and the louder the child cried, the more merriment it caused among the young people; while the lean woman and the fat man scowled and complained.

“I do not see any cause for ridicule,” said Fred Weston, as he arose; and to the amazement of all the passengers, he crossed to where the woman sat, and with a courteous bow, extended his arms. “Please let me hold your baby a while,” he said; “I have a little sister just her age and she loves me dearly. You look so tired, ma’am.”

The child opened wide her big brown eyes and gazed into the handsome, bright face of the boy, as without hesitation she sprang forward into the outstretched arms. She ceased crying, and her lips puckered into a plaintive sob.

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In my journal of Friday evening, July 3, 1863, I made the following note, “At eight o’clock this morning hundreds of rebels were seen standing on their fortifications. Both armies laid down their arms. About noon I went with part of my company (H. 33d Wis.) near the enemy’s fort, which was hardly more than 200 yards from our line, and there the blue and the gray chatted pleasantly for a full hour. The meeting was so unrestrained and amicable as to make the scene exceedingly interesting and touching as well. My boys gave the contents of their haversacks to the rebels whom they had been fighting for nearly forty days and nights, and the defenders of the city deeply appreciated the kindness.”--NICHOLAS SMITH, “Grant, the Man of Mystery.”

In Mrs. Pickett’s memoirs of her husband, General George E. Pickett, of the Confederate Army, she relates this incident:

As my Soldier was riding toward Sailor’s Creek, a woman ran out of a house and handed him something to eat. He carried it in his hand as he rode on. Presently he came upon a soldier lying behind a log, and spoke to him. The man looked up, revealing a boyish face, scarcely more than a child’s--thin and pale.

“What’s the matter?” asked my Soldier.

“I’m starving, General,” the boy replied. “I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t keep up, so I just lay down here to die.”

“Take this,” handing the boy his luncheon; “and when you have eaten it and rested, go on back home. It would only waste another life for you to go on.”

The boy took the food eagerly, but replied: “No, Marse George. If I get strength enough to go at all, I’ll follow you to the last.”

He did, for he was killed a few days later at Sailor’s Creek.

In the woods near Walden Pond, Henry D. Thoreau built a house. It was a surprize to the raccoons and squirrels in the woods, But after a while the news went round that there was among them a man who would not do them any harm, and gradually they came closer and closer, and there grew to be a beautiful sympathy between him and the birds and animals. They would come at his call. On taking a squirrel from the tree, the little creature would refuse to leave him, and would hide in his pocket. A woodmouse, whose hole was under his house, would first run over his shoes, and at last became so tame that it would run up his sleeve, and round the table when he was at dinner. Such communion between man and beast has hardly been equaled.--JAMES T. WHITE, “Character Lessons.”

Louis Albert Banks tells of a man who killed a she bear and brought her young cubs home to train up as pets:

When they got to camp the motherless pets were put in a box and given something to eat; but eat they would not and yelp they would, making a distressing noise. He took a switch and whipt them, but they only cried the louder. At first every one was sorry for them; but by and by, as the crying was continued, everybody began to scold on account of the noise. He thought that on account of the noise they made he would have to kill them. At length, however, he brought the mother-bearskin, and covering this over something, he put it in a corner of the box. The men stept back so that they could see without being seen, and pretty soon each little cub had smelled the motherskin and had nestled up close to it as contented as could be, and soon they were sound asleep. (Text.)

See RESOLUTENESS.

PERSISTENCE IN DOING GOOD

Some of the Christians in Uganda are very faithful in pleading with others to give up their sins. One man, named Matayo, was giving way to drink. His Christian friends reminded him of his wound in the war. “You have a big wound in your soul, caused by drunkenness. Give up drink, or assuredly the wound will get worse and kill you eternally.” Matayo replied: “Why can’t you leave me alone?” Mika Sematimba answered, “When you were shot, did we not pick you up and carry you home? Did you then think we hated you? You are shot now, and we want to carry you home. Do you remember, when we were carrying you, how you said, ‘Let me walk; your carrying makes the wound hurt me?’ We didn’t let you walk. We knew you could not walk, but that you would faint on the road; and now we know you can not keep sober, and we want to help you. You say, ‘Leave me alone,’ but we won’t leave you alone. We know you will get worse if we do.”

The dialog below indicates a good way of practising the Pauline injunction in Phil. 2:4:

“Here, boy, let me have a paper.” “Can’t.” “Why not? I heard you crying them loud enough to be heard at the city hall.” “Yes, but that was down t’other block, ye know, where I hollered.” “What does that matter? Come, now, no fooling; I’m in a hurry.” “Couldn’t sell you a paper on this here block, mister, ’cause it b’longs to Limpy. He’s just up at the furdest end now. You’ll meet him.” “And who is Limpy? And why does he have this block?” “Cos us other kids agreed to let him have it. Ye see, it’s a good run, ’count of the offices all along, and the poor chap is that lame he can’t git around lively like the rest of us, so we agreed that the first one caught sellin’ on his beat should be thrashed. See?” “Yes, I see. You have a sort of brotherhood among yourselves?” “Well, we’re goin’ to look out for a little cove what’s lame, anyhow.” “There comes Limpy now. He’s a fortunate boy to have such friends.” The gentleman bought two papers of him, and went on his way down town, wondering how many men in business would refuse to sell their wares in order to give a weak, halting brother a chance in the field. (Text.)