Anything to Start Business.
It was on the Courtland-street ferry that I noticed him. We were both standing close by the gate and had nearly reached the landing. He was a pleasant looking gentleman about forty-five years old, with a calm, placid face and a sedately-trimmed beard. His voice was gentle and pleasant, and he looked like a Sabbath-school superintendent, or a Sabbath-school teacher, at the very least. He held affectionately by the hand a little boy, four years old, whom I had not noticed at first, so still was he. The child felt subdued by the crowd, and would have been frightened if he had not felt his father's hand. “The news, to-day, is warlike,” said a gentleman beside him. “It really looks as if Russia means war.” “I hope so,” replied he in his mildest tone. “It would be a great blessing to us. I have been saying these six months that there would be a war in Europe. We need it very much. Anything to start business. Anything! I don’t care what it is!” We had just reached the wharf, and my neighbor looked down and noticed that his little boy had put his hand on the iron gate which holds the passengers back until the boat is fastened. “Take your hand off the gate, my son,” said he, “or you will get your fingers jammed.” “Anything,” he repeated to his companion—“anything to start business. I don’t care what it is.” Meanwhile he tenderly removed his boy’s hand from the gate, and, as he caught my eye, I fancied that he thought I was staring at him rather rudely. But I don’t believe that he had the least idea of what I was thinking. Perhaps I would have told him if the bars of the gate had not at that moment drawn together and let out the crowd to hurry to the cars. Dear little fingers, they must not get crushed. It would hurt the darling boy, and he would cry, and mother would be sorry, and so would brothers and sisters, and so would father; for he loves his little boy and would not have him hurt for the world. Father, what would you take for that little boy’s fingers? Ten dollars? A hundred dollars? What will you take for the life of that dear girl of yours, who will run to the door to meet you with all her sweet maiden grace, and welcome you home with a kiss? A thousand dollars? Ten thousand dollars? All the “business” you could do in a year, or in five years of flush times, such as war in Europe would make? Have you forgotten so soon what war does? Did you stay at home all through the war? In war they kill fathers with bullets and mothers with tears and hunger. They are bloody, cruel men, those Turks and Russians. Those Bashibazouks drive women and children into churches, and there they chop them in pieces with swords, and leave their bodies to rot unburied. Little boys like yours would have their fingers cut off, and their heads too. Sweet girls, like yours at home, are barbarously tortured till mercifully killed. The Cossacks are savage, too. Oh, how horrible such a war! It would be a war without quarter or mercy, a war of extermination between Turks and Christians, a desperate Moslem war. But it would “start business” in these United States; and that would be “such a blessing.” Little Johnny would have such lots of holiday gifts when the day comes round which celebrates “peace on earth, good will to men;” and Grace should have a gold watch with a beautiful chatelaine; and mother would have her new grand piano; and father would buy the carpet which they have wanted so long for the parlor; and there would be such a beautiful Christmas-tree at the Sabbath-school, and they would sing their happy carols to the Prince of Peace. “Anything to start business.”—Christian Statesman.