Speak Kindly
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Of those who have wandered far from the hearth-stone of home; who dwell beneath the stranger's roof, or in a strange land — speak kindly. You are sitting by your own fireside; brightly shines the firelight; kind and cheerful are the faces gathered about you — old, familiar faces they are — the wind moaning through the trees, shaking the casement, or rumbling down the chimney; brings to your heart no lonely homesick feeling. You have heard it in those very places since you were a child, and the sound has something pleasant about it. But as you recall the faces and forms of those far away — speak kindly.
They may be sweltering beneath the burning rays of a tropical sun; swarthy faces are perchance the only ones they look on, not one they have ever known or loved, and their hearts may be turning to far distant ones, and fainting under their weary load. Then, oh, speak kindly.
Speak kindly, for another wanderer may be in the far away north, where the bitter winds are howling and shrieking over the wide and desolate waste, snow-clad and cold. God grant that the streams of kindness and affection in the heart are not chilled or frozen by contact with a selfish, uncaring world.
Speak kindly of your sailor friend on the tempestuous ocean, tossed hither and there by the restless wave. And even if he did deserts his father's fireside for the rough deck and crude hammock, the green fields of his native land — for the blue ocean, you perchance do not know of all that passed in that home before he left it; you do not know of all the troubled thoughts that went surging through that restless, unsatisfied heart. Judge not, I beg you.
Perchance in some crude home on the far off prairies of the West, sits by the hearth-stone, one you loved long ago. Cold words may have been spoken before she left you, and even at the parting there may have been no clasp of hands, no farewell kiss or kind word; but dwell not on that, think and speak alone of the hours when you loved each other. Breathe her name kindly now.
Speak kindly of the erring. They have been sorely tempted, else they would have never wandered so far from the path of rectitude. Don't you think that their conscience is enough to punish them for their misdeeds, without adding bitter unfeeling words? Oh! remember these few short words, "forgive, as you would be forgiven." Try to forget all that is not pleasant of others. Forget their faults — for you are not without your share.
Speak kindly of the absent — they may be tossing on a sick-bed, longing for some kind hand to smooth their pillow, or hold the cup to their fevered lips.
Death's angel may have summoned them, and hands of strangers laid their cold forms in the grave beneath a foreign sky. It matters little where our bones are laid, for our death-slumber will be a dreamless one. But when we are gone, I would have you speak kindly. And not alone kindly of all, but kindly to all.
To the parents who watched and guarded your helpless infancy with tender care; in whose dark locks, time has wreathed the snow flakes, and whose smooth brows are furrowed by care and sorrow; pain not their loving hearts by one unkind word, for it will sink deeply and rankle long.
Speak kindly to the brothers and sisters about you; they will not be with you always, but when they go out in the wide world, let them carry with them the memory of gentle, loving words from your lips.
To the one you have chosen to bear you company to the end of your life journey — speak kindly always. Let not frowns come to darken the sanctuary of your home; no unkind words with their endless echo be spoken there.
Speak kindly to the stranger, far from home and kindred. A kindly word falls on his ear, as sweetly as the music heard in dreams. But unlike the dream sounds, it will live on in years to come, and sound as plainly in that heart as when it first fell from your lips.
And the old beggar that crosses your threshold, and with quivering voice asks for a crust of bread, or a shelter from the storm — oh! I beseech you, speak kindly to him. "Weary, friendless, and forsaken," he wanders on, but like you he was once young, and perchance happy. The old man has snowy hair like your own father, and you would weep at the thought of his being thus desolate and alone. You speak gently to him, so speak to the old beggar. It is but a little time, the brief years we are to remain here, and life has enough to teach us which is sad and sorrowful — without harsh words from those around us. A few more years, and the sods we now walk so self-confidently over, will be piled above our pulseless hearts!
I ask no other memorial when I am gone, than to have those who knew me when living, say that I always used kind words. They are easily spoken, and the heart soon grows to feel what the lips let fall.
Speak kindly always; and the echo of those words will come to your own soul, waking into life a beautiful melody there.
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