“Well, girls,” said my uncle Barnabas, “and now what do you propose to do about it?”
We sat around the fire in a disconsolate semicircle, uncle Barnabas Berkelin sat with us erect, stiff, and rather grim. Uncle Barnabas was rich and we were poor. He was wise in the ways of the world and we were inexperienced. Uncle Barnabas was prosperous in all he did; while if there was a bad bargain to be made, we were pretty sure to be the ones to make it. Consequently, we looked up to him and reverenced his opinions.
“What do we propose to do about it?” Eleanor slowly repeated. “Yes, that’s exactly it,” said my mother, nervously; “because, Brother Barnabas, we don’t pretend to be business women, and it’s certain that we cannot live comfortably on our present income. Something has surely got to be done.”
And then my mother leaned back in her chair with a troubled face.183“Yes,” said uncle, “something has got to be done! But who’s to do it?”
And another dead silence succeeded.
“I suppose you girls are educated?” said uncle Barnabas. “I know I found enough old school bills when I was looking over my brother’s papers.”
“Of course,” said my mother, with evident pride, “their education has been most expensive. Music, drawing, use of the globes—”
“Yes, yes, of course,” interrupted uncle Barnabas; “but is it practical? can they teach?”
Eleanor looked dubious. I was quite sure I could not. Madame Lenoir, among all her list of accomplishments, had not included the art of practical tuition.
“Hump!” grunted uncle Barnabas. “A queer thing this modern education. Well if you can’t teach you can surely do something! What do you say, Eleanor, to a situation?”
“A situation?”
“I spoke plain enough, didn’t I?” said uncle Barnabas, dryly. “Yes, a situation!”
“What sort of a situation, uncle Barnabas?”
“Well I can hardly say. Part servant,184part companion to an elderly lady!” explained the old gentleman.
“Oh, uncle Barnabas, I couldn’t do that.”
“Not do it? And why not?”
“It’s too much—too much,” whispered Eleanor, losing her regal dignity in the pressure of the emergency, “like going out to service.”
“And that is precisely what it is!” retorted uncle Barnabas, nodding his head. “Service! Why, we’re all out at service, in one way or another, in this world!”
“Oh, yes I know,” faltered poor Eleanor, who, between her distaste for the proposed plan, and her anxiety not to offend uncle Barnabas, didn’t quite know what to say. “But I—I’ve always been educated to be a lady.”
“So you won’t take the position, eh?” said uncle Barnabas, staring up at a wishy-washy little water-color drawing of Cupid and Psyche, an “exhibition piece” of poor Eleanor’s which hung above the chimney piece.
“I couldn’t, indeed, sir.”
“Wages twenty-five dollars a month,” mechanically repeated uncle Barnabas, as if185he were saying off a lesson. “Drive out in the carriage every day with the missus, cat and canary to take care of, modern house, and all improvements. Sunday afternoons to yourself, and two weeks, spring and fall, to visit your mother.”
“No, uncle Barnabas, no,” said Eleanor, with a little shudder. “I am a true Berkelin, and I cannot stoop to menial duties.”
Uncle Barnabas gave such a prolonged sniff as to suggest the idea of a very bad cold in his head.
“Sorry,” said he. “Heaven helps those who try to help themselves, and you can’t expect me to be more liberal-minded than Heaven. Sister Rachel,” to my mother, “what do you say?”
My mother drew her pretty little figure up a trifle more erect than usual.
“I think my daughter Eleanor is quite right,” said she. “The Berkelins have always been ladies.”
I had sat quite silent, still with my chin in my hands, during all this family discussion; but now I rose up and came creeping to uncle Barnabas’ side.
“Well, little Susy,” said the old gentleman,186laying his hand kindly on my wrist, “what is it?”
“If you please, uncle, I would like to take the situation,” said I with a throbbing heart.
“Brave!” cried uncle Barnabas.
“My dear children!” exclaimed my mother.
“Susannah!” uttered Eleanor, in accents by no means laudatory.
“Yes,” said I, “twenty-five dollars a month is a great deal of money, and I was never afraid of work. I think I will go to the old lady, uncle Barnabas. I’m sure I could send home at least twenty dollars a month to mother and Eleanor, and then the two weeks, spring and fall, would be so nice! Please, Uncle Barnabas, I’ll go back with you when you go. What is the old lady’s name?”
“Her name?” said uncle Barnabas, “Didn’t I tell you? It’s Prudence—Mrs. Prudence.”
“What a nice name! I know I shall like her,” said I.
“Well, I think you will,” said uncle Barnabas, looking kindly at me. “And I think she will like you. Is it a bargain for the nine o’clock train to-morrow morning?”
“Yes,” I answered stoutly, taking care not to look in the direction of my mother and Eleanor.
“You’re the most sensible of the lot,” said uncle Barnabas, approvingly.
But after he had gone to bed in the best chamber, where the ruffled pillow-cases were, and the chintz-cushioned easy chair, the full strength of the family tongue broke on my devoted head.
“I can’t help it,” quoth I, holding valiantly to my color. “We can’t starve. Some of us must do something. And you can live very nicely, indeed, mother, darling, on twenty dollars a month.”
“That is true, sighed my mother from behind her black-bordered pocket-handkerchief. “But I never thought to see a daughter of mine going out to—service!”
“And uncle Barnabas isn’t going to do anything for us after all,” cried out Eleanor, indignantly. “Stingy old fellow; I should think he might at least adopt one of us! He’s as rich as Crœsus, and never a chick nor a child.”
“He may do as he likes about that,” I answered, independently. “I prefer to earn my own money.”
So the next morning I set out for the unknown bourne of New York life.
“Uncle Barnabas, how shall I find where Mrs. Prudence lives?” said I as the train reached the city.
“Oh, I’ll go with you,” said he.
“Are you well acquainted with her?” I ventured to ask.
“Oh, very well, indeed!” replied uncle Barnabas, nodding his head approvingly.
We took a carriage at the depot and drove through so many streets, that my head spun round and round, before we stopped at a pretty brown stone mansion—it looked like a palace to my unaccustomed eyes—and uncle Barnabas helped me out.
“Here is where Mrs. Prudence lives,” said he with a chuckle.
A neat little maid, opened the door, and I was conducted into an elegant apartment, all gilding, exotics and blue satin damask, when a plump old lady, dressed in black silk, came smilingly forward, like a sixty-year old sunbeam.
“So you’ve come back, Barnabas, have you,” said she, “and brought one of the dear girls with you. Come and kiss me, my dear.”
“Yes, Susy, kiss your aunt,” said uncle Barnabas, flinging his hat one way and his gloves another, as he sat complacently down on the sofa.
“My aunt?” I echoed.
“Why, of course,” said the plump old lady. “Don’t you know? I’m your aunt Prudence.”
“But I thought,” gasped I, in bewilderment, “that I was coming to a situation!”
“Well, so you are,” retorted uncle Barnabas. “The situation of adopted daughter in my family. Twenty-five dollars a month pocket money; the care of aunt Prudence’s cat and canary, and to make yourself generally useful.”
“Oh! uncle,” cried I, “Eleanor would have been so glad to have come if she had known it.”
“Fiddlestrings and little fishes!” illogically responded my uncle. “I’ve no patience with a girl that’s too fine to work. Eleanor had the situation offered to her and chose to decline. You decided to come, and here you stay!”
And this was the way I drifted into my luxurious home. Eleanor in the country190cottage envies me bitterly, for she has all the tastes which wealth and a metropolitan home can gratify. But uncle Barnabas will not hear to my exchanging with her. But he lets me send them liberal presents every month, and so I am happy.
IT NEVER PAYS.
It never pays to foster pride,
And squander time in show;
For friends thus won are sure to run,
In time of want and woe.
The noblest worth
Of all on earth,
Are gems of heart and brain,
And conscience clear,
A household dear,
And hands without a stain.
It never pays! A blunt refrain,
Well worthy of a song,
For age and youth must learn the truth,
That nothing pays that’s wrong.
The good and pure
Alone are sure
To bring prolonged success,
While what is right,
In heaven’s sight,
Is always sure to bless.
WHERE THE GOLD IS.
Tom Jones was a little fellow, and not so quick to learn as some boys; but nobody in the class could beat him in his lessons. He rarely missed in geography, never in spelling, and his arithmetic was always correctly done; as for his reading, no boy improved like him. The boys were fairly angry sometimes, he outdid them so. “Why, Tom, where do you learn your lessons? You don’t study in school more than the other boys.” “I rise early in the morning and study two hours before breakfast,” answered Tom. Ah, that is it! “The morning hour has gold in its mouth.”
There is a little garden near us, which is the prettiest and most plentiful little spot in all the neighborhood. The earliest radishes, peas, strawberries, and tomatoes, grow there. It supplies the family with vegetables, besides some for the market. If anybody wants flowers, that garden is sure for the sweetest roses, pinks and “all sorts,” without number. The soil, we used to think,192was poor and rocky, besides being exposed to the north wind; and the owner is a busy business man all day, yet he never hires. “How do you make so much out of your little garden?” “I give my mornings to it,” answered the owner, “and I don’t know which is the most benefited by my work, my garden or myself.” Ah, “the morning hour has gold in its mouth.”
William Down was one of our young converts. He united with the church, and appeared well; but I pitied the poor fellow when I thought of his going back to the ship-yard to work among a gang of loose associates. Will he maintain his stand? I thought. It is so easy to slip back in religion—easier to go back two steps than advance one. Ah, well, we said, we must trust William to his conscience and his Saviour. Two years passed, and instead of William’s losing ground, his piety grew brighter and stronger. Others fell away, but not he, and no boy perhaps was placed in more unfavorable circumstances. Talking with William one evening, I discovered one secret of his steadfastness. “I never, sir, on any account let a single morning pass without secret193prayer and the reading of God’s word. If I have a good deal to do, I rise an hour earlier. I think over my weak points and try to get God’s grace to fortify me just there.” Mark this. Prayer is armor for the battle of life. If you give up your morning petitions you will suffer for it; temptation is before you, and you are not fit to meet it; there is a guilty feeling in the soul, and you keep at a distance from Christ. Be sure the hour of prayer broken in upon by sleepiness can never be made up. Make it a principle, young Christian, to begin the day by watching unto prayer. “The morning hour has gold in its mouth;” aye, and something better than gold—heavenly gain.
MORNING.
But who the melodies of morn can tell?
The wild brook babbling down the mountain side,
The lowing herd—the sheepfold’s simple bell;
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried
In the lone valley; echoing far and wide
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;
The hum of bees, and linnet’s lay of love,
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
TAKING HIM IN HAND.
Two boys met in the street and the following conversation ensued:—
“Isaac,” said George, “why don’t you take that fellow in hand? he has insulted you almost every day for a week.”
“I mean to take him in hand,” said Isaac.
“I would make him stop, if I had to take his ears off.”
“I mean to make him stop.”
“Go and flog him now. I should like to see you do it. You can do it easily enough with one hand.”
“I rather think I could; but I sha’n’t try it to-day.”
At this point in the conversation the school-boys parted, as they were on their way home, and their roads led them in different directions.195Isaac heard names every time he saw him pass; and as he did not do anything by way of retaliation, he went farther and threw stones at him.
The boy alluded to was the son of an intemperate man, who was angry with Isaac’s father, in consequence of some effort to prevent his obtaining rum. The drunkard’s son took up the cause of his father, and called
Isaac was at first provoked at the boy’s conduct. He thought he ought to be thankful that his father was checked in any measure in procuring rum, the source of so much misery to himself and family. But when he thought of the way in which he had been brought up, his ignorance and wretchedness, he pitied him, and ceased to wonder, or be offended with his conduct. He resolved, indeed, to “take him in hand,” and to “stop him,” but not in the sense in which his school-fellow understood those terms.
The boy’s name was James, but he was never called anything but Jim. Indeed, if you were to call him by his true name, he would think you meant somebody else.
The first opportunity Isaac had of taking him in hand was on election day. On that day as Isaac was on his way home, he saw a group of boys a little off the road, and heard some shouting and laughing. Curiosity led him to the spot. He found that the group were gathered around Jim, and another boy,196a good deal larger than he was. This boy was making fun of Jim’s clothes, which were indeed very ragged and dirty, and telling how he must act to become as distinguished a man as his father. Jim was very angry, but when he attempted to strike his persecutor, he would take hold of Jim’s hands, and he was so much stronger that he could easily hold them. Jim then tried kicking, but as he was barefoot, he could not do much execution in that line; besides, while he was using one foot in this way, his tormentor would tread on the other with his heavy boot. When Isaac came up and saw what was going on, he remonstrated with the boys for countenancing such proceedings; and such was his influence, and the force of truth, that most of them agreed that it was “too bad;” though he was such an “ugly boy,” they said, “that he was hardly worth pitying.”
The principal actor, however, did not like Isaac’s interference; but he soon saw that Isaac was not afraid of him, and that he was too popular with the boys to be made the object of abuse. As he turned to go away, he said to Jim: “I’ll keep my eyes upon you, and when you go home, I’ll go with you. It197is on my way, and I’ll keep off the crows; they shan’t hurt you; so don’t cry any more.”
“Come Jim, go home with me; I’m going now,” said Isaac.
Jim did not look up or make any answer. He did not know what to make of Isaac’s behavior toward him. It could not be because he was afraid of him, and wished to gain his good will, for he was not afraid of one much stronger than he. He had never heard of the rule, “Love your enemies; do good to those who hate you;” for he had never been to Sabbath-school, and could not read the Bible.
He followed silently and sullenly, pretty near to Isaac, till he had reached home, if that sacred name can with propriety be applied to such a wretched abode of sin and misery.
He parted with Isaac without thanking him for his good offices in his behalf. This Isaac did not wonder at, considering the influences under which he had grown up. That he parted with him without abusing him, Isaac considered as something gained.
The next morning George and Isaac met198on their way to school, As they passed the drunkard’s dwelling, Jim was at the door but he did not look up or say anything as they passed. He looked very much as though he had been whipped. George did not know what had taken place the day before.
“What keeps Jim so still?” said he.
“Oh, I’ve had him in hand.”
“Have you! I’m glad of it. When was it?”
“Yesterday.”
“At election?”
“Yes.”
“Anybody see you do it?
“Yes; some of the boys.”
“Found it easy enough, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you give him enough to stop him?”
“I guess so; he is pretty still this morning, you see.”
Upon the strength of this conversation, George circulated a report that Isaac had flogged Jim. This created a good deal of surprise, as it was not in keeping with Isaac’s character. The report at length reached the ears of the teacher. He inquired about the matter, of Isaac, and learned that George199had been deceived, or rather had deceived himself. He warmly commended Isaac for his new mode of taking his enemies in hand, and advised him to continue to practice it.
A few days afterward, as Isaac was on his way to school, he met Jim driving some cattle to a distant field. The cattle were very unruly, Jim made very little headway with them. First one would run back, and then another, till he began to despair of being able to drive them to pasture. He burst out crying, and said, “Oh dear, I can’t make them go, and father will kill me if I don’t.”
Isaac pitied his distress, and volunteered to assist him. It cost him a good deal of running, and kept him from school nearly all the morning. When the cattle were safe in the pasture, Jim said, “I shan’t stone you any more.”
When Isaac reached the school-house, he showed signs of the violent exercise he had been taking. “What has Isaac been about?” was the whispered question which went round. When put to him he replied, “I have been chasing cattle to pasture.” He was understood to mean his father’s cattle.
After school, he waited till all the pupils had left the school-room, before he went up to the teacher to give his excuse for being late at school.
“What made you so late?” said the teacher.
“I was taking Jim in hand again, sir;” and he gave him an account of his proceeding, adding at the close, “I thought you would excuse me, sir.”
“Very well, you are excused.”
Reader, if you have enemies who annoy you, take them in hand in the same way that Isaac did, and you will be certain, if you persevere to conquer them.
SPEAK not harshly—learn to feel
Another’s woes, another’s weal;
Of malice, hate, and guile, instead,
By friendship’s holy bonds be led;
For sorrow is man’s heritage
From early youth to hoary age.
SUCCESS IS THE REWARD OF PERSEVERANCE.
If a person has ambition to engage in any enterprise, he desires to succeed in his undertaking. It is generally right that he should prosper in all that is truly good or great; and the fact that success is attainable by continued effort, we have all verified so many times in our pursuit for different objects, that we feel sure we can accomplish almost any purpose if we with patient perseverance bend all our energies in the right direction. If there is much to be gained, we may make apparently slow progress; but if we apply ourselves closely, and do not let little things discourage us we shall eventually succeed. There are always plenty of little things in the way of the accomplishment of any good or great thing. These must be gotten out of the way; and if, in our first attempt, we fail to win the prize, we must make another effort, varying the manner of our labor as circumstances shall suggest.
It takes only a little at a time to accomplish a great deal if we work long enough. Perhaps most of you have read of the little girl whose mother was presented with a ton of coal by a charitable neighbor. She took her little fire-shovel, and began to take up the coal, a shovelful at a time, and carry it into the cellar. A friend, who was passing by, said to the child, “Do you expect to get all that coal in with that little shovel?” “Yes sir,” said the little girl, dipping her shovel again into the heap, “I’ll do it if I work long enough.” She possessed the right spirit.
The true spirit of success is not to look at obstacles, but to keep the eye on the many ways in which to surmount them. This may be illustrated by the incident of the little factory girl who had one of her fingers so badly mangled in the machinery that she was obliged to have it cut off. Looking at the wounded hand she said, “That is my thimble finger; but I must learn to sew with my left hand.” She did not think of her loss, but of what she still possessed with which to work.
We may prosper in the several schemes in203which it is lawful for Christians to take part, but, if we fail to win in the strife for eternal life, we shall have lived in vain. To make life a success, the glory of God must be the ruling motive to actuate us in all the walks of life. If we do really glorify him in our lives, success will surely crown our efforts—everlasting life will be our reward.
Another instance of perseverance, against apparently insurmountable difficulties, is given in an anecdote, not generally known out of Russia, connected with a church spire of St. Petersburg; which place is remarkable for its spires. The loftiest is the church of St. Peter and St. Paul.
The spire, which is properly represented in an engraving as fading away almost into a point in the sky, is in reality terminated by a globe of considerable dimensions, on which an angel stands supporting a large cross. This angel fell into disrepair; and some suspicions were entertained that he designed visiting, uninvoked, the surface of the earth. The affair caused some uneasiness, and the government at length became greatly perplexed. To raise a scaffolding to such a height would cost more money than all the204angels of this description were worth; and in meditating fruitlessly on these circumstances, without being able to resolve how to act, a considerable time was suffered to elapse.
Among the crowd of gazers below, who daily turned their eyes and their thoughts toward the angel, was a mujik called Telouchkine. This man was a roofer of houses (a slater, as he would be called in countries where slates are used), and his speculations by degrees assumed a more practical character than the idle wonders and conjectures of the rest of the crowd. The spire was entirely covered with sheets of gilded copper, and presented to the eye a surface as smooth as if it had been one mass of burnished gold. But Telouchkine knew that the sheets of copper were not even uniformly closed upon each other; and, above all, that there were large nails used to fasten them, which projected from the side of the spire.
Having meditated upon these circumstances till his mind was made up, the mujik went to the government and offered to repair the angel without scaffolding, and without assistance, on condition of being reasonably paid for the time expended in the labor.205The offer was accepted; for it was made in Russia, and by a Russian.
On the day fixed for the adventure, Telouchkine, provided with nothing more than a coil of ropes, ascended the spire in the interior to the last window. Here he looked down at the concourse of people below, and up at the glittering “needle,” as it is called, tapering far above his head. But his heart did not fail him, and stepping gravely out upon the window, he set about his task.
He cut a portion of the cord in the form of two large stirrups, with a loop at each end. The upper loops he fastened upon two of the projecting nails above his head, and placed his feet in the others. Then digging the fingers of one hand into the interstices of the sheets of copper, he raised up one of the stirrups with the other hand, so as to make it catch a nail higher up. The same operation he performed on behalf of the other leg, and so on alternately. And thus he climbed, nail by nail, step by step, and stirrup by stirrup, till his starting-point was undistinguished from the golden surface, and the spire had dwindled in his embrace till he could clasp it all around.
But Telouchkine was not dismayed. He was prepared for the difficulty, and the means by which he essayed to surmount it exhibited the same astonishing simplicity as the rest of the feat.
Suspending himself in his stirrups, he girded the needle with a cord, the ends of which he fastened around his waist; and, so supported, he leaned gradually back, till the soles of his feet were planted against the spire. In this position, he threw, by a strong effort, a coil of cord over the ball; and so coolly and accurately was the aim taken, that at the first trial it fell in the required direction, and he saw the end hang down on the opposite side.
To draw himself into his original position, to fasten the cord firmly around the globe, and with the assistance of his auxiliary to climb to the summit, were now easy portions of his task; and in a few moments more Telouchkine stood by the side of the angel, and listened to the shout that burst like sudden thunder from the concourse below, yet came to his ear only like a faint and hollow murmur.
The cord, which he had an opportunity of fastening properly, enabled him to descend207with comparative facility; and the next day he carried up with him a ladder of ropes, by means of which he found it easy to effect the necessary repairs.
This person must have put forth all the energies of his being to accomplish what he did. If we will strive as hard for the society of good angels as he did to reach the artificial one, we shall be sure of their society and a place in the new earth.
“ONWARD AND UPWARD.”
ONWARD—ever ’mid the strife,
Nobly act thy part in life;
Upward—Onward—ever right,
Be thou foremost in the fight;
Do not languish with despair,
Bravely do and boldly dare;
The strong in heart shall never fail
Thou wilt o’er life’s ills prevail.
Fear not though the waves be dark
That shall gather round thy bark;
Steadfast as the ocean-rock,
Stem the tide, receive the shock;
Strength will conquer, never fear,
Let no doubts disturb thee here;
Onward be thy great desire,
Soaring upward—higher—higher.
As the eagle upward flies
Where the sun in gladness lies,
Far above the clouds of day
That have dimmed the earthly ray,
So mayest thou, with purpose true,
And a worthy end in view,
Rise above the shades of earth
That would check all lofty birth.
Onward, then! Though dark and drear
Be the sky above thee here;
Thou shalt reach the goal at last,
Every toil and danger past;
Pause not, then, to mourn or weep,
Onward up the rugged steep;
Every step will bear thee nigher,
Every day still upward higher.
Onward, then, and upward stray,
Minding not the thorny way,
Heeding not the wayside snares,
Pausing not at worldly cares;
Gaining courage day by day,
Walking in the better way;
With a purpose firm and true,
Thou shalt gain the end in view.