A STRIKE AGAINST POVERTY.
IN a Prussian roadside inn one hot summer's day several men were smoking and drinking. The room was dirty and uncared for, and the men, who looked quite in keeping with it, were railing at the anomalies of the world, and contrasting the luxury and idleness of the rich with the misery and hardships of the poor. During the conversation a stranger, a young man, came in to eat his bread and cheese while his team rested in the shade before the inn. For a time he listened silently to the talk, and then joined in, saying, "You must strike!" "Strike against what?" asked the peasants. "Against poverty?" answered the young man, "and the weapon with which to strike is work." "Well said! Sensibly spoken!" laughed the peasants. "It would have been well for me had I always been as sensible," continued the stranger, "but I used to be an idle rogue. I was strong and healthy, but I wouldn't work, and if now and then I was obliged to do anything, I was off at once to the alehouse, and like lightning the money was out and the brandy was in. I went from place to place—that means, that everywhere I was turned away, for no master wants a loafer about. I soon had enough of farm service, and then I went about to fairs and public houses as a fiddler. Wherever any one would hear me, I scraped my violin, but with all my scraping I was never able to get a whole shirt to my back. "Soon I grew tired of music, and then tried begging. I went up and down the country, but most doors were shut in my face. People said a healthy young fellow, like I was, ought to work. That enraged me. I grumbled that God had not made me a rich man, and I was envious of all who were better off than myself. I would have liked to turn the world upside down that I might have been able to lord it over the rich. One day I went into an inn, sat down in a corner, and began muttering my begging speeches. At a table not far from me sat a gentleman (he is, as I afterward heard, a writer of books): he kept glancing at me and I kept glancing at him, for I thought he would be sure to give me a good alms, and so he did. I'm spending it still." "What was it?" asked the men, who had listened attentively. "He came up to me and asked me about my early life. I told him I had been a farm-servant, and sent from place to place—in short, I told him everything. He listened quietly, shook his head, and at last said, 'Show me your hands!' Astonished I held out my hands; he examined them all over, pushed my shirt sleeves, and again shook his head. " 'What powerful hands! What strength there must be in those arms!' he said. 'My lad, you must join in the war.'" " 'In what war?' I asked. " 'In a war against your misery!' he exclaimed in a loud voice. 'You fool, you imagine you are poor—poor with such hands! What a mad idea! He only is poor who is sick in body or in mind. You are healthy in body and in mind. With such hands poor! Set your wits to work and reflect upon the treasure God has given you in your strong healthy limbs. Recover your senses and march forward in the war.'" "Bravo! That was very good," laughed the peasants. "And so I joined in the war," continued the young man. "I looked for a place, and now I am a farm-servant as before—nothing better and no richer; but I am content and industrious, and I have served the same master these five years and shall stay with him until one of us dies."