Earlier text: MRS. HART’S ECONOMY.The boys were talking about the kind of business they would choose, when Uncle Asa came into the room. As Uncle Asa had tried several kinds, and had been prosperous in all, they appealed to him for advice. “What I want to know is this,” said Charley, in the course of the discussion which followed; “you have bought and sold a good many things, but what has turned out to be the most profitable?” Uncle Asa considered a moment, while a curious smile passed over his pleasant face. “Well, if I were to name any one thing which I have handled, and which has in the long run proved most to my advantage,” said the old gentleman, nodding decidedly, “I think I must say, a load of wood.” “A load of wood?” exclaimed the boys. They had expected he would say wool, or wheat, or hardware, or indigo; and they could not believe that his reply was quite serious. “But it is!” said Uncle Asa. “A load of wood, and not a large load, either; not nearly so large as it looked. It was really the beginning of my fortunes, and I am sure I owe more to it than to anything else I ever dealt in. “Tell you about it? Of course I will, if you wish it; and perhaps it will help to start you in the right direction.” “It was when I was a boy—I think I was sixteen that fall. The summer work was well over; the winter school had not yet begun; and my cousin Medad and I were considering how we should earn a little pocket-money. My father heard us talking over some boyish schemes, and said to us,— “I can give you an idea better than that. There’s the oak that blew over last spring, in the mill-pasture. You may cut it up, and have all you can make out of it.” “But there’s work in that,” I said. “Yes; so there is in almost any honest job people are willing to pay money for. But it isn’t so hard as you think,” said my father. “One stroke at a time; so many strokes an hour; so many hours a day. That’s the way great things are accomplished.125It isn’t much of a tree; you’ll wish there was more of it before you get through.” “Well,” Uncle Asa continued, “we undertook the job, and we did wish there was more of it. With a cross-cut saw and beetle and wedges, then with a hand-saw and an ax, we reduced that tree to stove-wood in a very short time; and had fun out of it too. Boys have only to be interested in their work, you know, to find it pleasant.” “We saw profit in every stick, and had as much talk about the way we would dispose of the wood, and what we would do with the money, as if we had been young millionaires discussing some great project. ‘There’s a good deal in the way you pile wood, to sell it,’ Medad said. ‘There’s Jake Meeker,—he says he can take nine cords of wood and pile it over and make ten of it, easy as nothing.’ “Yes,” I replied; ‘and my father says he can throw his hat through some of Jake’s wood-piles—such great holes! He don’t really make ten cords of it that way.’ “Yes, he does,” Medad insisted. “There’s holes through every wood-pile; and you126measure so much for a cord, whether they’re big or little. I know how to do it.” “He showed me in a day or two. We had an old one-horse wagon; we harnessed Dolly to it, and backed it up to our wood-pile. Then we began to lay the sticks loosely in the box, so as to make them take up as much room as possible. “But they did not fill up so fast as we had expected; for we knew that if we piled them too loosely, they would be apt to shake down together on the way to the village, and so cause our load to shrink before we sold it. “Medad looked at the wood in the box when it was half-filled, and then at that which remained on the ground, and shook his head dubiously. ‘It won’t do!’ he said. ‘We ought to make three loads of it; but at this rate we sha’n’t make two. Let us throw it all out again, and I’ll show you how to pile it.’ “I didn’t like that notion; but he insisted, and the wood was all unloaded except a few sticks in the bottom of the wagon-box. With these he began to ‘build’ the load, as he aptly termed it. Instead of laying the sticks together all one way, he placed a few127on the bottom far apart, and others crosswise on those, also very far apart, cob-house fashion. Then he called upon me for more wood. “But, Mede,” I objected, “this is cheating, isn’t it?” “It’s no more cheating than the way Jake Meeker piles his wood is cheating! Other people do the same thing. Only we are making our pile a little more hollow than common.” “Still I hesitated. A man might perhaps be excused for cheating a little; but we were preparing to cheat a good deal. “The principle is really the same,” Medad said, when I mentioned my scruples. “It an’t cheating exactly, but even if it is, it’s what everybody does, in the way of business. You can’t get along without it; may be you can in the next world, but you can’t in this. Who tells the bad points in anything he wants to sell? Don’t everybody cover them up, and show the good points, and make the most of ’em? Of course they do. Hand me more sticks!” “I wasn’t convinced in my heart and conscience by this plausible speech. But my128cousin, who was a year older than I, had a great influence over me, and I must confess that I was a little too anxious to get rich out of that wood. So I merely said, ‘Do n’t make the hollows too large, Mede,’ and handed him more sticks. ‘I’ll look out for that,’ he said. ‘Now you’ll see.’ “After about half the load had been built hollow, he put our crookedest and meanest sticks over it, and then covered the whole with nice wood closely packed, filling the wagon, so that, to all appearance, we had on a fine compact load. “My father came out and looked at it as we drove out through the yard, and praised us for our industry. ‘Well, well, boys,’ said he, ‘you’ve got a handsome load of wood, I must say. I’d buy it of you, but I suppose it will be just as well for you to take it to town and see what you can get for it.’ “I think it will be better,’ said Mede, with a sly wink at me. ‘What is such a load as that worth?’ “Stove-wood like that—white oak—solid load right through,” said my father, running his eye over the wagon-box, “ought to bring at least two dollars.” “We’re going to get three for it,” said my cousin. “That’s too much,” said my father. “Never, boys, try to get more for a thing than it is really worth.” “I knew that he always acted upon this principle himself; and I felt some pangs of conscience as I thought of the empty spaces hidden in that load. ‘I’ll tell you what you may do,’ he said. ‘Drive to Deacon Finch’s store, and get him to look at your load. He knows better than I do what wood like that is worth in the village, and if he says three dollars is about right for it, why,’ my father added with a shrewd twinkle, ‘get it if you can!’ “He knew very well that Deacon Finch wouldn’t say any such thing. And as we drove out into the road, my cousin laughingly said that the deacon was the last man he would ask to examine that load.” “But as we were driving into the village, we met Deacon Finch in his chaise; and the temptation to play a sharp game on him was too much for my cousin. For my own part, I was feeling sick of the idea of selling the load in its present shape to anybody; and I130strongly objected to the proposed attempt on so sagacious a man as the deacon. “‘It happens just right; don’t you see?’ Medad insisted. ‘He won’t get out of his chaise; and it’s a splendid-looking load, as you look down on it. If he buys it, he will tell us to drive it to his house; and of course he won’t go to see us unload it.’ “So he drove up on the roadside, and stopped the deacon as he was passing. ‘Mr. Finch,’ he said, ‘wouldn’t you like to buy a load of first-rate white oak wood? Just look at it, if you please.’ “I’ve wood enough,” said the deacon. “But it’s a nice-looking load; and I think you won’t have the least trouble in disposing of it.” “What is such a load as that worth, delivered in town?” asked Medad. “We cut it ourselves.” “I don’t know; haven’t measured it; just call it a load,” said Medad. “Good as that all the way through?” queried the deacon. “‘About the same,’ said Medad. “‘Well, from a dollar-seventy-five to two131-and-a-quarter; somewhere along there,’ replied the deacon. “Will you give us two-and-a-quarter for it?” Medad was quick to inquire. “I told you I had wood enough. But I like to encourage boys; I’ll look at your load.” And to the terror of one of us, very surely, Deacon Finch slowly and deliberately got out of his chaise. “I don’t suppose anything in our looks caused him to suspect our honesty; for my cousin did the talking, and I must say I could not but envy the cool and candid manner with which he carried on his part of the interview. “Good wood; well-split; pretty smart boys!” said the deacon, tumbling over a few sticks on top. “Guess I’ll take it.” “Shall we deliver it at your house?” Medad asked, almost too eagerly. “‘Wait a minute! What’s here?’ cried the deacon, thrusting down his hand and pulling up one of the hidden crooks. ‘Is there much like that?’ And he began to dig down straight into one of our choice hollows. “See here, if you please!” said Medad,132alarmed, “you need n’t take the wood if you do n’t like it, but do n’t spoil our load!” “Spoil your load!” echoed the deacon, thrusting in his arm up to his shoulder. “You wouldn’t be afraid of my spoiling an honest load; but what sort of a load is this? It’s a perfect cheat, and you are a couple of rascals!” “You needn’t take it if you don’t want it!” Medad repeated, more angry than ashamed, I am sorry to say. ‘We just put it that way to make a handsome load of it; but we don’t expect anybody to pay for it till they’ve seen it thrown off.’ “The deacon did not, evidently, put much faith in this falsehood; for he reprimanded us again sharply as he climbed back into his chaise.” “He was about right, Mede,’ I said, as we watched him drive away. ‘We are a couple of rascals!’ “Pshaw! who cares? It’s what everybody does,” said Mede, blusteringly. He laughed scornfully when I begged him to drive home and re-load the wood in honest fashion. But he was shy of making the sale where the deacon would be likely to hear of it. “We’ll go over to the East Village,” he said. “It’ll be dusk when we get there; nobody will know us; and by that time nobody can look into our load.” “This plan was carried out, in spite of my too feeble objections. I drove the horse, while Medad went from door to door in the East Village, offering the wood ‘dog-cheap,’ he said, because it was so near night and we wanted ‘to sell out and go home.’ “His idea of ‘dog-cheap’ was two dollars, although he tried hard to get three. At last we found a woman who confessed that she was out of wood, and must get some soon, but said she was too poor to buy cordwood, and then hire a man to cut it. “Medad convinced her that it would be much better for her to buy ours already cut. “But I haven’t three dollars in the world!” she said. “I’m really poor, very poor! If you’ll throw off half your load into my shed, I’ll give you a dollar and a half.” “‘Can’t do that,’ said Mede; ‘for nobody then will want to buy the other half.’ ‘I should think not!’ he said to me aside, with a comical grimace. “Will you trust me for the other dollar and a half?” she asked. “I am Mrs. Ober,— Widow Ober; everybody knows me.” ‘Give me two-and-a-quarter now,’ he said, ‘and you shall have the load; it’s too little, but we’ve got to go home.’ “Two dollars and twenty cents was all she had; and Mede consented to take that. The poor woman paid down the money with a heavy sigh; and we threw the wood into her shed. “She offered to hold a lantern for us; but we were glad enough to dispense with that luxury. I don’t know when she discovered what a small pile the wood made, which looked so large in our wagon; surely not until after we were gone, for she came to the door as we backed around, said she was very much obliged to us, and bade us good-night. “‘That’s the way to do it!’ said my cousin, on the way home. ‘We’ll sell the other two loads just at dusk.’ “I didn’t say much. And when he gave me my share of the ‘plunder,’ as he called it,—and plunder indeed it was,—it was with a strange sense of loathing that I put it into my pocket. After all my anticipations of135pleasure in receiving money fairly earned, that was the miserable result. Instead of a sweet satisfaction, nothing but remorse and disgust! “I found that my cousin did not feel just right about the transaction, either. ‘If we had shaved the sharp old deacon,’ he said, ‘it would have been a good joke, though it was almost too hard on the widow.’ “I did not see Medad again until the next afternoon, when he came over to talk about taking another load of wood to town. “‘If we take any more,’ I said, ‘it must be honestly loaded, or I’ll have nothing to do with it. It was a mean thing we did yesterday.’” “He laughed foolishly, and said perhaps I was right about it. ‘I’m sick of the business, anyway,’ he said. ‘Let your father take the rest, and give us what he thinks it’s worth.’ “So ended our wood speculation,” Uncle Asa added. “I’ve quite forgotten what father gave us; indeed, that was a matter of no consequence, compared with what I made out of the load we sold the widow.” “But I don’t see that you made much out of that!” said Charley. “Ah, but I did, though! I made something better than the most brilliant fortune ever achieved. I’ll tell you how. “I had it in me, as you see, to be a little—or, perhaps you will say, a good deal—dishonest. And if I had begun in a different way, I might have gone on cheating more and more all my life, until I should have quite forgotten there was such a thing as conscience. But I overdid the thing at the start. “I can never describe the shame and misery I felt in consequence of that trick we played off on poor Mrs. Ober. The very sight of split wood sickened me long afterward. I got no comfort out of my share of the money she paid us; I hadn’t the heart to spend it, and it was a source of bitter recollections to me while I kept it.” “Then you may be sure that it was anything but a relief to me to hear—as I did the following spring—that the poor woman was actually in want. I was at the town meeting when I accidentally heard the matter spoken of. ‘Why can’t she get along?’ one man asked another. ‘She works hard.’ “‘Yes,’ said the other; ‘and she’s saving,137in her way. But she don’t know how to make a trade, and anybody can cheat her. You would think it must be somebody pretty mean that would take advantage of a poor widow with six children; but there are just such wretches in the world, I’m sorry to say.’ “I didn’t care to hear any more. I went straight home, took out of the till of my chest the dollar and ten cents I had kept there all this time, folded the money in a letter, on which I wrote, ‘From a friend,’ addressed to Mrs. Ober, and mailed it that very night. “After that a part of the load was taken from my conscience. But I could find strength and peace of mind only in a resolution which I had already formed, and which was fairly burned into my soul by what I had overheard at the town meeting. “That resolution was, never in all my life to resort to dishonesty of any kind, no matter what the seeming necessity, or the temptation. “It is a resolution I have never broken. It hasn’t kept me poor, either. I am not very rich; and yet I believe I am better off to-day than I would be if I had been dishonest.138I have always enjoyed a reputation for fair-dealing; and the result has been that my worldly prosperity has been solid to the core. “But, boys, that is nothing, compared with the satisfaction of always feeling that my gains were fairly earned, and that I had helped others while helping myself. A few thousands, more or less, are of little importance. But, O my boys, peace of mind is all-important.” “And Medad—whatever became of him?” Charley inquired. “I can’t say that Medad took the lesson so seriously to heart as I did. He has always had the reputation of being a little tricky. Life has been a scramble with him,—a scramble for riches. And it was thought at one time that he had a large fortune. But it burst like a bubble in ’73, and he has been scrambling in the old way ever since.” “I was the only one who really made anything out of that load of wood.” “Who was that quiet-appearing girl that came into church quite late, last Sabbath?” I asked a friend of mine who was an active member in the church which I had recently joined. “Did she wear a striped shawl and a dark dress?” inquired my friend. “If so, it was Annie Linton, a girl who is a seamstress in Brown’s shop.” “I did not notice her clothes in particular,” I answered, “but her face attracted me; I should know it among a thousand faces. How could you pass by a stranger so indifferently, Mrs. Greyson? I expected that you would ask her to remain at Sabbath-school, and go into your Bible-class, but you did not once look at her.” “I did not once think of it, and if I had, probably she would not have accepted the invitation, as she is a stranger in town, and undoubtedly will not remain here long,” my friend replied quickly, in the way of defense. I said nothing more, for Mrs. G. was140really an excellent Christian woman, with this one fault,—carelessness,—which sometimes caused her to make grave mistakes. But I could not help thinking about the stranger girl. Her large dark eyes and finely formed face revealed more than ordinary intelligence, and in some way I gained the impression that she was deeply impressed with religious conviction, if not a Christian already. It seemed to me that she left the church very reluctantly, and was half waiting an invitation to the Bible-class. The next Sabbath she came again and occupied the same seat,—just in front of my own. She bowed her head very reverently during prayer, and once during the sermon I saw her lip quiver with emotion, and a tear came into her eye. The services closed, and the stranger lingered as before. My friend, good Mrs. G., again forgot to speak to the girl. She passed out of the church slowly, and did not come again. I thought she must have left town, as I had not seen her for several days; but one Sabbath, as I attended another church, I saw her again. She seemed a little more at ease, I thought, and there was a quiet smile on her face. After141the services were concluded, I saw many a pleasant smile given to the stranger girl, and I understood the secret of the changed look upon her face. I made some inquiries, and learned that she had joined this church, and was earnest and active in all its work. I also learned that she had made a profession of religion just before coming to our village, and had an unusually clear experience. How much the indifference of our own people had to do with her finding a home in another church, I know not. Several years have passed since this occurred, but I have never forgotten it. Many a stranger’s hand I have clasped as I thought of Annie Linton’s sweet face. I was young in Christian experience then, and that lesson was a profitable one to me. Speak to the stranger, Christian friend, with the assurance that no evil will grow out of it. It is better sometimes to step over the rules of etiquette than to chill some warm stream of God’s new-given love by coldness and indifference. ONE beautiful afternoon in August there came to me the heart-broken wife of a State prison convict. We tried to plan for his pardon and restoration to home and the world. It was a sad case. He was the only surviving son of a noble man,—one who lived only to serve the poor, the tempted, and the criminal. His house was their home; his name their bail to save them from prison; his reward their reformation. It was a happy hour to hear him tell of the hundreds he had shielded from the contamination and evil example of prisons, and of the large proportion he had good reason to believe permanently saved. Out of hundreds, he once told me, only two left him to pay their bail, forfeited by neglect to show themselves in court, according to agreement,—only two! Bred under such a roof, the son started in life with a generous heart, noble dreams, and high purpose. Ten years of prosperity, fairly earned by energy, industry, and character, (142)143ended in bankruptcy, as is often the case in our risky and changing trade; then came a struggle for business, for bread—temptation, despair, intemperance. He could not safely pass the open doors that tempted him to indulgence, forgetfulness, and crime. How hard his wife wrought and struggled to save him from indulgence, and then to shield him from exposure! How long wife, sister, and friends labored to avert conviction and the State prison! “I would spare him gladly,” wrote the prosecuting attorney, “if he would stop drinking. He shall never go to prison if he will be a sober man. But all this crime and wretchedness comes from rum.” Manfully did the young man struggle to resist the appetite. Again and again did he promise, and keep his promise perhaps a month, and then fall. He could not walk the streets and earn his bread soberly, while so many open doors—opened by men who sought to coin gold out of their neighbors’ vices—lured him to indulgence. So, rightfully, the State pressed on, and he went to prison—an honored name disgraced, a loving home broken up, a wide circle of kindred sorely pained, a worthy, well-meaning man144wrecked! Sorrow and crime “all come from rum,” says the keen-sighted lawyer. As I parted from the sad wife on my doorstep, I looked beyond, and close by the laughing sea, stood a handsome cottage. The grounds were laid out expensively and with great taste. Over the broad piazza hung lazily an Eastern hammock, while all around were richly painted chairs and lounges of every easy and tempting form. Overhead were quaint vases of lovely flowers, and the beautiful lawn was bordered with them. On the lawn itself gaily dressed women laughed merrily over croquet, and noisy children played near. A span of superb horses pawed the earth impatiently at the gate, while gay salutations passed between the croquet-players and the fashionable equipages that rolled by. It was a comfortable home, as well as a luxurious one. Nature, taste, and wealth had done their best. It was a scene of beauty, comfort, taste, luxury, and wealth. All came from rum! Silks and diamonds, flowers and equipage, stately roof and costly attendance, all came from rum! The owner was one who, in a great city, coined his gold out of the vices of his fellow-men. To me it was a dissolving view. I lost sight of the gay women, the frolicsome children, the impatient horses, and the ocean rolling up to the lawn. I saw instead the pale convict in his cell twelve feet by nine; the sad wife going from judge to attorney, from court to governor’s council, begging mercy for her over-tempted husband. I heard above the children’s noise, the croquet, the laugh, and the surf-waves, the lawyer’s stern reason for exacting the full penalty of the law,—“All this comes from rum!” Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink! Woe unto him that buildeth his house by unrighteousness and his chamber by wrong; for the stone shall cry out of the wall, and the beam out of the timber shall answer it. There is grief in the cup!
I saw a proud mother set wine on the board;
The eyes of her son sparkled bright as she poured
The ruddy stream into the glass in his hand.
The cup was of silver; the lady was grand
In her satins and laces; her proud heart was glad
In the love of her fair, noble son; but oh! sad,
Oh, so sad! when only a year had passed by,
The soft light had gone from her beautiful eye.
For the boy that she loved, with a love strong as death,
In the chill hour of morn, with a drunkard’s foul breath,
And the drunkard’s fierce oath, reeled and staggered his way
To his home,—a dark blot on the face of the day.
There is shame in the cup!
The tempter said, “Drink!” and a fair maiden quaffed
Till her cheeks glowed the hue of the dangerous draught;
The voice of the tempter spoke low in her ear
Words that once would have started the quick, angry tear;
But wine blunts the conscience, and wine dulls the brain.
She listened and smiled, and he whispered again;
He lifted the goblet: “Once more,” he said, “drink!”
And the soul of the maiden was lost in the brink.
There is death in the cup!
A man in God’s image, strong, noble, and grand,
With talents that crowned him a prince of the land,
Sipped the bright, ruddy wine,—sipped it lightly at first,—
Until from its chains broke the demon of thirst;
And thirst became master, and man became slave,
And he ended his life in the drunkard’s poor grave;
Wealth, fame, talents, beauty, and life swallowed up.
Grief, shame, death, destruction, are all in the cup.