JONES JONES; OR, IF ALL WERE RICH, WHO WOULD SERVE?
FANNIE stood gazing out of the window, apparently deep in thought, for she seemed entirely unconscious of her brother's entrance into the library, and only turned when Jack, the irrepressible, called out to her,— “A penny for your thoughts; Fan.” “They’re not worth it; I was only thinking how nice it would be to be rich,” she answered with a sigh. “Well here’s for a beginning,” and Jack tossed her the offered penny. “That’s too suggestive of our poverty; what I want is dollars.” “It would be kind of nice, that’s a fact, if a fellow didn’t have to keep on the trot six days during the week just for the sake of getting four dollars on Saturday night,” chimed in their younger brother Bert. “I don’t care about the working, but I’d like to dress as some people do. Lizzie Stevens just passed the window with such a lovely dress on, and a long blue plume in her hat that must have cost more than my whole suit,” and Fanny gave another and deeper sigh, at the remembrance of the richly attired young girl whose passing had created such a longing to be rich. “What would you like to be rich for, Bertie?” asked Uncle Jack looking up from the paper he was reading. Bertie seemed to know what reply was expected of him, and answered, quite unabashed, “Well, I wouldn’t object to having turkey every day for dinner.” “Well said for our family ostrich,” put in Jack. Bertie was never known to be satisfied in the eating line, and his unappeasable appetite had become a standing joke. “Wouldn’t it be splendid, now, if every one had just as much money as he wanted, and need work only when he felt like it?” continued Jack. He was not a lazy boy, but a fun-loving fellow, who very often would have preferred a good game of ball or marbles rather than be obliged to run on errands all day, which was his usual employment. “I guess you have never heard the story of ‘Jones Jones,’ have you?” asked Uncle Jack. “No; tell it to us,” answered all the children in a chorus; and of course Uncle Jack had to lay aside the evening paper from which he had been diverted, and relate to them the sad results which followed when the world became rich in a hurry. “Jones Jones was a Welshman, as you would easily guess from his name, even if I omitted to tell you that he had a great love of money, which trait is characteristic of the whole Welsh nation. Put a Welshman in the most out-of-the-way place and under the most disadvantageous circumstances, and although he may seem poor and live meagerly, ten to one you will find, after his death, that he has laid up quite a snug little fortune somewhere. But unlike many people, a Welshman is willing to work for it, and, if need be, stint for it; so Jones Jones was a hard-working Welshman, and managed to lay by something from his earnings every year, but it was a very slow process and he grew impatient to become rich. One day as he was counting over his savings, he wished, oh, how he wished, that he had more to count, and he included the whole world in his wish, just as Jack did. “Before a week had passed, Jones Jones saw that his money was accumulating, and seemed to come to him without trouble. “I shall have to keep a bank account,’ said he, and the next morning he made his way to a prominent bank with a large amount of money to deposit, and the next week he did the same; but the next time Jones Jones went, the banker refused to take his gold. “‘But I’ll pay you well for taking care of it,’ said the Welshman. “‘Don’t want it,’ answered the banker, ‘and it is safe enough on your front door-step, now that all the towns-people are getting so rich.’ “And Jones Jones found it so. Soon he had collected such wealth that he began to think of retiring from business. “‘Now,’ said he to his family, ‘I can live comfortably without an anxious thought or care for your future.’ And as he stretched himself out in his luxurious easy-chair, he remarked with a look of satisfaction, ‘This is something like living!’ “An idle life, however, was not what Jones Jones had been accustomed to, and time soon began to hang heavily on his hands. He tried to bethink him what other rich men did, and at last decided to while away the time in improving his house and grounds. Indeed, when he came to think about it, his house particularly needed it. Externally it was very stiff and plain, and internally it was very contracted for a man of means. Yes, certainly a wing was needed on the south side, and a bay-window on the front, and a mansard roof would make the house more imposing. “So, after settling in his own mind what alterations would be needed, he stepped over to William Williams, the architect. Williams thought it would be a great improvement, but when Jones patronizingly requested him to draw the plans, Williams informed him with the air of a millionaire that he didn't do anything of that sort himself; and one would never suppose from his manner that he had given his profession only the week before. “Jones Jones was disappointed, but decided to try a builder by the name of Griffiths next, who was also a very good hand at designing. Griffiths consented to undertake the job ‘merely as a matter of friendship,’ if Jones Jones could furnish the masons and carpenters. But not a carpenter could he find who was willing to work for him. They had all given up their shops, some of them not being able to sell their business even. Finally, he came across a mason living very humbly, but upon inquiry he was told that the reason he was found in such poor quarters was that he could find no one to help him build a house for himself, and so was forced to live in the same old cottage, though the money lay in heaps on the floor. “After fruitless efforts in every direction, Jones Jones was forced to content himself with his abode as it was. “‘It’s one comfort, anyway,’ he said to his wife, ‘that we have enough to eat and to wear.’ “‘It is all well enough if you have some one to cook the food and make the clothes.’ she answered, ‘but the cook told me to-day that she was going to be married, and no one will engage to take her place; and, worse than that, the dress-maker said that she would not take in any more work after this, as she had enough money to last her the rest of her life.’ “The next day the gardener informed Jones Jones that he might look about for another hand, and smiled serenely when he was threatened the loss of a month’s wages if he left, as though money was of no account whatever. “‘It’s a blessing that we have our health and can do for ourselves,’ said Jones to his family, as he went out to milk the cow and attend to the garden, while his wife went to get breakfast. “‘Why dont you bring on the meat?’ asked Jones of his wife after they were seated at the table. “‘I couldn’t get any,’ she answered, pathetically; ‘there isn’t a meat market in the place open.’ “‘Why didn’t you go to the slaughter-house then?’ “Jones Jones asked this a little savagely, for he was rather hot and tired. He was a plasterer by trade, unaccustomed to out-of-door-work, and was a little soured by the hot sun, as also was the milk which he had forgotten to carry to the house. “‘That was closed, too, and the old butcher asked me if I supposed he would keep on at such beastly business as that when he didn't have to.’ “‘Well, well, here was trouble! The cooking could be done, the dress-making and the garden could be got through with, though the latter was distasteful, but no one would kill his cattle, no one would make his butter, no one would weave his cloth, no one would even mend his garden tools. He concluded that the world was composed of a miserable, lazy, selfish, disobliging race of beings, and yet, when he came to consider the matter, he saw that everybody that he knew was obliged to work harder than when he was poor. He himself longed to get back to his trade, which seemed mere play to him in comparison with the menial work he now performed. “Of course he was as selfish and disobliging and proud as any of them, for had he not persistently refused repeated requests to plaster this one’s and that one’s walls? Things could not go on in this way long. No man could be his own butcher and barber, gardener and miller, weaver and man-of-all-work, even though he were as rich as Crœsus. “The first plan he could think of was to go to the butcher who had pleaded with him to do his plastering, and offer to do it in exchange for the killing of his cattle, which the butcher promised to do if the miller would grind his wheat, which the miller promised to do, if the weaver would make him some cloth, which the weaver promised to do if the builder would build him a house, which the builder promised to do if the carpenters would finish his. The carpenters said they would. So “‘The mouse began to gnaw the rope,
The rope began to hang the butcher,
The butcher began to kill the ox,’ etc. “And so the old woman got home to get her old man’s supper,” continued Jack, who had been an attentive and appreciative hearer of Jones Jones' perplexities. “I smelt the beefsteak some time ago,” said Bertie, true to himself, “and I think we had better look after our supper.” “Yes,” said Uncle Jack, “there goes the supper bell, and I have not told you the moral of my story, but I think you can guess it yourselves, so I will let you try.”