When the Wagon Sticks by Harriet C. Forrest

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Nov 18, 1915

When the Wagon Sticks

By Harriet C. Forrest

WALKING along the street a few days ago, I noticed a three-year-old girl on the edge of a porch, holding despairingly to the tongue of a toy wagon which was stuck halfway up the steps. The child tugged and sobbed; she had encountered her first problem, and was unable to cope with it. I stopped and lifted the wagon a bit. “Now pull!” I said. The problem was solved, and smiles drove away tears.

As I passed on, the thought came to me: How many of us spend weary efforts and unnecessary hours like the child, making trouble for ourselves to conquer? Little, everyday annoyances are magnified until they assume overwhelming proportions; then we tug and tussle, jerk the toy wagon, and give way to grief.

I saw a woman make herself miserable when any other woman received attention. She could be delightfully vivacious until another woman drew a little attention, then she became dumb and sat apart, sullenly jerking her toy wagon, and wouldn’t try to play fair. I knew a girl who said, ‘Life is a burden,’ because three nights in one week she was minus engagements. She felt it a sure symptom of waning social popularity. Poor little girl! Life is a serious affair when your toy wagon sticks so easily.

Then I met a girl who had cheerfully bumped her wagon over every obstacle; who laughed when she told of missing a penny out of her purse when a penny meant a great deal to her. You see the girl allowed so many pennies a week for her room, so many for food and so many for stamps to write home to her dear ones. So a penny lost meant one penny short to buy her five cents’ worth of rolls. While she sat pitying herself, she saw the mischievous penny peering inquisitively at her from under her trunk. Then she laughed, and there was great rejoicing over the penny that was lost and found. The same girl showed me a cozy little office furnished with the result of her own earnings, and bearing a neat sign: “Miss Blank, Notary Public and Stenographer.”

It had taken many jerks of her wagon, and in the interval she had found time to help other women whose wagons had stuck—help them with tender sympathy, encouraging words, working at night to fix over some out-of-date garment, or making over some of her old clothes into little dresses for the children of a more unfortunate and poorer woman than herself. The charm of it was that the girl never dreamed she was a heroine, for she had jerked her toy wagon only when necessary, and considered it a very ordinary proceeding.

So you see the best way to get your own wagon over an obstacle is to help some one else tug. “Now, PULL!”—Harriet C. Forrest.