Earlier text: THE LOAD OF WOOD.Mr. Bennet and the boys had hurried off to store and school, and Mrs. Bennet paused for a moment to collect her thoughts before beginning her day’s labor. The poor little woman looked as if she needed rest, but was not likely to get it; for the room was in confusion, the uncleared breakfast table stood in the middle of the floor, the baby began to fret, little Winnie set up her usual whine of “I want sumpin to do,” and a pile of work loomed in the corner waiting to be done. “I don’t see how I shall ever get through it all,” sighed the despondent matron, as she looked from one puny child to the other, and felt the weariness of her own tired soul and body more oppressive than ever. Just then there came a brisk ring at the door, a step in the hall, and a large, rosy woman came bustling in, saying, in cheery voice, as she set a flower pot upon the table,— “Good morning! Nice day, isn’t it? I came in early on business, and brought you one of my Lady Washingtons, you are so fond of flowers.” “Oh, it’s lovely! how kind you are. Do lay aside your wraps, and take a chair.” “Let me put the pot on your stand first; girls are so careless, and I’m proud of this. It will be an ornament to your parlor for a week;” and opening a door, Mrs. Gray carried the plant to a sunny bay window where many others were blooming beautifully. Mrs. Bennet and the children followed to talk and admire, while the servant cleared the table. “Now, give me the baby, put yourself in the easy-chair, and tell me all about your worries,” said Mrs. Gray. “I met your husband, and he said the doctor had ordered you and these chicks off to Florida for the winter. John said he didn’t know how to manage it, but he meant to try.” “Isn’t it dreadful? He can’t leave his business to go with me, and we shall have to get Aunt Miranda to come and see to him and the boys while I’m gone, and the boys don’t like her strict, old-fashioned ways, and149I’ll have to go that long journey all alone, and stay among strangers, and these piles of fall work to do first, and it will cost an immense sum to send us, and I don’t know what is to become of me.” Here Mrs. Bennet stopped for breath, and Mrs. Gray asked briskly, “What is the matter with you and the children?” “Well, baby is having a hard time with his teeth, and is croupy; Winnie doesn’t get over the scarlet fever, and I’m used up; no strength or appetite, pain in my side, and low spirits. Entire change of scene, milder climate, and less worry for me, is what we want, the doctor says. John is very anxious about us, and I am really discouraged.” “I’ll spend the day and cheer you up a bit. You just rest and get ready for a new start to-morrow; it is a saving of time to stop short now and then, and see where to begin next. Bring me the most pressing job of work. I can sew and see to this little fellow at the same time.” “Baby’s frocks and Winnie’s aprons are the things I’m most hurried about; they need so many, and I do like to have my children look nice,” began Mrs. Bennet, unrolling150yards upon yards of ruffling, for the white frocks and pinafores, with a glance of despair at the sewing-machine, whose click had grown detestable to her ear. “Make them plain if you are in a hurry; children don’t need trimming up; they are prettiest in simple clothes. I can finish off that pile of aprons before dinner, if you will put the ruffling away. Come now, do, it will be a load off your mind, and Winnie won’t know the difference.” “I always do trim them, and every one else does,” began Mrs. Bennet, who was wedded to her idols. “When I was in London, I saw a duke’s children dressed in plain linen pinafores, and I thought I had never seen such splendid babies. Try it, and if people make remarks, bring in the English aristocracy, and it will be all right.” There was a twinkle in Mrs. Gray’s eye that made her friend ashamed to argue, so she laughed and gave up the point, acknowledging with a sigh that it was a relief. “It is this mania for trimming everything which is wearing out so many women. Necessary sewing is enough; then drop your151needle and read, rest, walk, or play with the children, and see how much you have lost heretofore by that everlasting stitching. You’d soon get rid of that pain in your side if you’d let the machine stand idle while you went out for an hour every day.” “Perhaps I should, but I can’t leave the children, Bridget is so careless.” “Take them with you. Roll baby up and down that nice, dry sidewalk, and let Winnie run before, and you would be a different set of people in a month.” “Do you really think so!” “Not only so, but if you’d change your way of living I don’t believe you would need to think of going to Florida at all.” “Why, Mary Gray, what do you mean?” demanded Mrs. Bennet, sitting erect upon the couch, in her surprise at this unexpected remark. “I have often wanted to say this before, and now I will, though you may think I’m an interfering woman if I do. In the first place, you must move,” and Mrs. Gray gave such a decided nod that the other lady could only ejaculate, “Why? where? when?” “Because you want more sun and space—152into this room, because you will find both— and to-day, because I’m here to help you.” Mrs. Bennet gave a gasp, and looked about her in dismay at the bare idea of living in her cherished parlor. “But the back room does very well,” she protested. “It is warm, and small, and handy to the kitchen, and we always live there.” “No, my dear, it does not do very well, for those very reasons. It is too warm and small and too near the kitchen to make it a fit place to live in, especially for little children. Why don’t you put your plants there, if it is such a nice place?” asked Mrs. Gray, bent on making a clean sweep of her friend’s delusions and prejudices. “Why, they need more sun and room, so I keep them in here.” “Exactly, and your babies need more air and sun and room than your roses, geraniums, and callas. The plants would soon die in that close, hot, dark north room; do you wonder that your babies are pale and fretful and weak? Bring them in here, and see how soon they will bloom if you give them a chance.” “I never thought of that. I’m sure I would do anything to see them strong and healthy. But it does seem a pity to spoil my nice parlor. Wouldn’t the best chamber overhead do as well?” “I want that, too, for your bedroom, and the little one at the side for the children. You use the back chamber now, and have the cribs there, also, don’t you?” “Yes. But Mary, would you have me turn my house upside down, just for a little more sun?” “Do you love your best rooms better than your children? Wouldn’t you rather see them spoiled by daily use, than empty and neat, because the busy little feet were gone, never to come back? I’m in earnest, Lizzie, and I know you will agree with me when you think it over. My own dear little boy was killed by my ignorance, and I have learned by sad experience that we mothers should make it the study of our lives to keep home healthy and happy for our boys and girls, no matter how much we sacrifice show and fashion. Come, now, try it for a month, and see if you don’t feel better for enjoying the best and the sunniest side of life.” “What will John say?” and Mrs. Bennet felt inclined both to laugh and to cry at the thought of such a revolution. “He will approve; men always like to have things bright and roomy and nice about them. I’ve been through it and I know, for when we lived in two rooms we became careless, and narrow, and low-spirited. Now we live all over the house, and keep everything as bright and pretty and nice as we can. George does not shut himself up in his study but stays with me, and when people call, we have a social, happy time of it, all enjoying our good things together, and feeling the worth of them.” “How shall we begin?” asked Mrs. Bennet, fired with the spirit of emulation, now that the first shock was over; for John did shut himself up because the dining-room was so full, and the little woman wanted to see her husband during the only leisure hour she had. “I should just move all the delicate things into the little library there, out of the way of the children. That room is rather bare. Leave the pictures, they are safe, and it is good to have pretty objects for young eyes155to rest upon. Put the covers on your furniture, a large drugget over your carpet, and take the other bay window for Winnie and baby’s play corner. It is sunny and snug, and looking out always amuses them; and at night you can just drop the curtains before the recess, and hide the little clutter without disturbing it. In the other window there is room for your table and chair, and close by the machine. There you can sit as in a bower with your flowers about you, a pleasant view outside, and everything cheerful, wholesome, and pretty,—three very important things to a woman. Keep up the open fire, it is worth a dozen furnaces, and have a thermometer, to be sure you don’t get too warm; that takes all the strength out of you, and makes taking cold easy.” “It wouldn’t take long to make the change. John isn’t coming home to dinner, so we can be all ready by night, if you can really stop and see me through the job. Yes, I’ll do it right away,” said Mrs. Bennet eagerly, finding her most powerful impetus in the thought of pleasing “father and the boys.” Working and talking busily together, the friends soon made the necessary changes below,156to the great delight of Winnie and the entire bewilderment of baby, who fell asleep on the best sofa, as if bound to make the most of his comforts while they lasted. A hasty lunch, and then, with Bridget to move heavy articles, they re-arranged the chambers, making a delightful nursery of the large one, and a nice sleeping-room of the smaller one for the two children. “Now you see you can undress them by this pleasant grate, and then put them in a cool, quiet place to sleep, undisturbed by you older people. Only be sure the little mattresses and bedclothes get a good airing and sunning every day. You can shut the door, and let them lie for hours as you could n’t in the back room, and that is a great advantage,” said Mrs. Gray. “It is fortunate we seldom have guests to sleep in winter, for that north room isn’t at all my ideal of a best chamber, though we have put some of my pretty things there. It does seem a shame to shut up this big room and not enjoy it. Mary, I have been a foolish woman, and I’m glad you came and told me so.” Contented with that confession, Mrs.157Gray took her departure, with many last injunctions about “air, oatmeal, brown bread, and sunshine.” When Mr. Bennet and the boys, who had been enjoying a half-holiday, came home, amazement fell upon them at the sight of mamma and the babies waiting in the new sitting-room, with the announcement that there would be no best parlor any more. When the events of the day had been explained and discussed, a sort of jubilee ensued; for all felt that a pleasant change in the domestic atmosphere had taken place, and all enjoyed it immensely. Mrs. Bennet played, and the boys and Winnie sang, and papa frolicked with baby, who forgot his teeth, and crowed gleefully till bed-time. Of course Mr. Bennet had his joke about women’s notions, and his doubts as to the success of the plan; but anything that cheered his wife pleased him, for his heart sank at the thought of home without her, and Florida was a most distasteful idea to him. He expressed much satisfaction at his improved quarters, however, and that repaid Mrs. Bennet for the sacrifice she had made. It took some time to get fairly settled, but158the sunny side of things grew more and more delightful as the change of scene and better influences did their quiet work. The children soon showed the effects of the daily sunshine, the well-aired chambers, simpler food, and cheerful places allotted to them; for these little creatures show as quickly as flowers their susceptibility to natural laws. Now that the sewing-machine had long rests, and the duck linen aprons needed only a bit of braid to finish them off, Mrs. Bennet found many a half-hour to practice, read, walk with the children, and help the boys, or play. In the evening it soon came to be a habit to clear up the parlor, put the babies cosily to bed, make herself neat and pretty, and be ready to show her husband a cheerful face when he came home. Being no longer worn out with unnecessary stitching, languid for want of exercise, and nervous for the need of something to break the monotony of a busy housemother’s life, she had spirits to enjoy a social hour, and found it very sweet to be the center of a happy little circle who looked to her for the sunshine of home. MAKE YOUR HOME BEAUTIFUL.
Make your home beautiful,—bring to it flowers,
Plant them around you to bud and to bloom;
Let them give life to your loneliest hours;
Let them bring light to enliven your gloom;
Make your own world,—one that never has sorrowed,
Of music and sunshine, and gold summer air;
A home-world whose forehead care never has furrowed,
And whose cheek of bright beauty shall ever be fair. Make your home beautiful,—sure ’t is a duty,—
Call up your little ones; teach them to walk
Hand-in-hand with the wandering angel of beauty;
Encourage their spirits with nature to talk.
If you can do so, oh, make it an Eden
Of beauty and gladness—remember ’t is wise;
’Twill teach you to long for that home you are needing,
The Heaven of beauty beyond the blue skies. Make home a hive; where all beautiful feelings
Cluster like bees, and their honey dew bring;
Make it a temple of holy revealings,
And love, its bright angel, with “shadowy wing.”
Then shall it be when afar on life’s billow,
Wherever your tempest-tossed children are flung,
They will long for the shades of the home weeping-willow,
And sing the sweet song which their mother had sung.
(159) NOTICED one Sunday morning, while the “three-months men” were encamped at Washington, several soldiers in our church. They wore, except one, blue flannel blouses, the uniform of the two Rhode Island regiments. Something caused my eye to rest on that one. It may have been his blouse, made of the finest cashmere, or the corporal’s chevron on his arm. He was a gentleman, evidently. Yet his slender figure and mild manner suggested that he would better grace a drawing-room than the tented field. After service, he and his comrades were introduced to me. His voice verified the impression which manner and figure had made. “A parlor knight,” I thought, “seeking in the camp a new sensation.” But in a moment that impression was obliterated. He had come to ask if the church would receive his comrades for baptism. They had, while in camp, accepted a new and more vital service, that of a Divine Master, (160)158Band wished to make a public profession of their loyalty to Him. I invited him to our house. He came again and again, and I discovered that the gentle voice and manner veiled one of the manliest of men. He was a Christian soldier. If he had lived in the days of chivalry, his shield should have been impressed with the figure of an ox standing between a plough and an altar, with the legend, “Ready for either.” He went through the first battle of Bull Run with honor. On his return to Washington, he was attacked with inflammation of the lungs, and did not return home with his regiment. When convalescent, he called to say “Good-by.” “You won’t play soldier any more,” I said, jokingly, as I shook his hand. “No, I think not,” he gravely answered. “I must try to serve my country in some other way.” Several months passed, and I had almost forgotten my “hero;” for those were stirring times, and to-day jostled yesterday out of mind. One morning the servant announced that a visitor awaited me in the parlor. I162was surprised, on entering the room, to find my friend there, and in a soldier’s uniform. I greeted him with an expression which showed that I was both delighted and astonished to see him. “Pray tell me,” I said, after inquiring about mutual friends, “what has brought you again to Washington as a soldier.” He evaded the question. In a few minutes I repeated it, with a friendly emphasis. “A member of my Bible class was drafted,” he replied, “and I am here as his substitute.” I uttered an exclamation of surprise, which plainly said, “But what business have you to be any one’s substitute?” “You see,” he continued, “Henry is not a religious man, and this troubles me. He has a mother and sister dependent on him for support, and I have no one. So I went to the selectmen and had my name substituted for his. “When I told him what I had done, he would not accept me as his substitute. But I said, ‘What will become of your mother and sister if you should be killed? And besides, you know how necessary I feel it to be, if you enter the army, that you should163be a religious man. You are not a Christian. You are not ready to die. I have often asked you to enter the service of Christ. You have withstood my plea. I now make the last one, it may be. I go as a Christian, and as your substitute. If I am killed, I am sure, my friend, you will remember and honor the act, done for your sake and the Master’s. Don’t oppose me. Your name is already erased from the roll, and mine is inscribed in its place. I shall march to-morrow morning.’ “This,” he added, with a smile, “is why I am at Washington in a soldier’s uniform.” The subject was never referred to again. In a few weeks his regiment was ordered to the front. Then came news of the seven-days’ battle before Richmond, and my hero’s name was in the list of the killed. Did that Christian hero die in vain? I know not. But I believe that one day I shall meet my corporal with the Henry for whom he gave his life. That substitute’s death often cheers me; for I see in it an illustration of the sacrifice which a Divine Master exemplified for me, and not for me only, “but for the whole world.” AUNT RACHEL had lived with Mr. and Mrs. Allyn for years, whether as mistress or servant of the establishment, they could scarcely tell; they only knew that she was invaluable. She had taken a grandmotherly guardianship of all the children, and had a voice in most matters that concerned the father and mother, while in the culinary department she reigned supreme. Aunt Rachel had strong opinions, especially in the matter of giving to the Lord. “I believe in systematics ’bout such things,” she emphatically said, and out of her own little store she carefully laid aside one-eighth. “Cause if dem old Israelites was tol’ to give one-tenth, I’d just like to frow in a little more for good measure.” But the friends, so beloved, paid little attention to the old woman’s opinion. “The idea of counting up all one’s income, and setting aside a fixed portion of it for charity, and then calling only what remains165one’s own, makes our religion seem arbitrary and exacting; it is like a tax,” said Mrs. Allyn, one day; “and I think such a view of it ought by all means to be avoided. I like to give freely and gladly of what I have when the time comes. Money laid aside beforehand has only a sense of duty and not much feeling about it; besides, what difference can it make so long as one gives what he can when there is a call?” “Came, unfortunately, at a time when we were rather short,” Mrs. Allyn said, regretfully. “However, we gave what we could,” she added. “I hope it will do good, and I wish it were five times as much.” Old Rachel shook her head over that cheerful dismissal of the subject. She shook it many times that morning, and seemed intensely thoughtful, as she moved slowly about her work. When the dinner-hour arrived, both master and mistress scanned the table with wide-open eyes, astonished at the plain and meager fare, so unlike any dinner that had ever before been served in that house. “What has happened, my dear?” asked the gentleman, turning to his wife. “I do not know,” she replied, with a questioning glance at Rachel. “Dat’s all de col’ meat dar was—sorry I did n’t have no more,” she said, half apologetically. “But I sent home a choice roast this morning,” began Mr. Allyn, wonderingly, “and you have no potatoes either—nor vegetables of any kind.” “A body has to think ’bout it a good while aforehand to get a roast cooked, an’ I thought I’d give ye what I happened to have when de time come, an’ I did n’t happen to have much of nuffin’. Oh! I forgot the bread!” and, hurrying away, she returned with a plate of cold corncake. “No bread!” murmured Mrs. Allyn. “No, honey; used it all up for toast dis mornin’. Might have made biscuits or muffins, if I had planned for ’em long enough, but that kind o’ makes a body feel ’s if dey had to do it, an’ I wanted to get dinner for yer all out o’ my warm feelin’s when de time come.” “When a man has provided bountifully for his household, it seems as if he might expect to enjoy a small share of it himself,167even if the preparation does require a little trouble,” remarked Mr. Allyn, impatiently. “Cur’us how things make a body think of Bible verses,” said Rachel, musingly. “Dar’s dat one ’bout ‘Who giveth us all things richly to enjoy;’ an’ ‘What shall I render to de Lord for all his benefits to’ards me?’ Dar! I did n’t put on dem peaches!” “Dat’s all,” she said, returning with a very few peaches at the bottom of a large basket. “De childrens eat a good many, an’ dey was used up one way an’ ’nother. I’se sorry dar a’n’t no more, but I hopes ye’ll ’joy what dar is, an’ I wishes ’twas five times as much.” A look of sudden intelligence flashed into Mr. Allyn’s eyes! He bit his lip for a moment, and then asked, quietly,— “Could n’t you have laid aside some for us?” “Well, ’spose I could,” said the old servant, relenting at the tone. “I will next time. Allers thought de folks things belonged to had de best right to ’em; but I’d heard givin’ whatever happened was so much freer an’ lovin’er way o’ servin’ dem ye loves best, dat I thought I’d try it. But it does’168pear’s if dey fared poor, an’ I’ll have to go back to de ole plan of systematics.” “Do you see, George?” questioned the wife, when they were again alone. “Yes, I see. An object lesson with a vengeance.” “And if she should be right, and our careless giving seem anything like this!” pursued Mrs. Allyn. “She is right, Fanny. We call Christ our King and Master; believe that every blessing we have in this world is his direct gift, and all our hopes for the world to come are in him. We profess to be not our own but his, that his service is our chief business; and yet, strangely enough, we provide lavishly for our own apparel, entertainment, and ease, and apportion nothing for the interests of his kingdom or the forwarding of his work, but leave that to any chance pence that may happen to be left after our wants and fancies are gratified. It doesn’t seem like very faithful or loving service.” There was a long talk over that dinner-table,—indeed, it did not furnish opportunity for much other employment; and that afternoon the husband and wife together169examined into their expenses and income, and set apart a certain portion as sacred unto the Lord, doing it somewhat after Rachel’s plan of “good measure.” To do this, they found, required the giving up of some needless indulgences, a few accustomed luxuries. But a cause never grows less dear on account of the sacrifices we make for it, and as these two scanned the various fields of labor in deciding what to bestow here and what there, they awoke to a new appreciation of the magnitude and glory of the work, and a new interest in its success,—the beginning of that blessing pronounced upon those who “sow beside all waters.” GIVE as you would if the angels
Waited for it at the door;
Give as you would if to-morrow
Found you where all alms are o’er;
Give as you would to the Master,
If you met his searching look;
Give as you would of your substance,
If his hand your offering took.
HOW TO GET THE BEST PLACES.
THERE are, in society, a great many good places; but the best places are few, and not easily reached. Who shall have the best places? Let any boy look about his school-room and ask which of these boys are to have the best places, and he will find it hard to decide. In all the schools there are many thousands of boys, and some of them will get the best places. Who are they? that is the question. I wish to speak to the boys of one trait which often decides which of two boys who want the same place gets it. I refer to accuracy in scholarship and practice. I do not refer to absolute accuracy, but to that habit which strives to think the thoughts and do the acts as nearly accurate as possible. Some boys use the word “about” too often. “The area of a certain field is about so much;” or a certain city is “about on such a line of latitude;” or “the sum of certain quantities is about so much;” or a certain sentence in a translation or composition is about thus and171so. If they spell a word, or solve a problem, or keep an engagement, that little word pushes itself into notice. The second class of boys cultivate the habit of accuracy. They try to “hit the nail on the head,” and do it every time. If they add up a column, or multiply, or spell, or make a promise, they aim to do the thing precisely right. Let two boys of these two classes apply for a position as book-keeper, or superintendent’s clerk, or in any other office of trust. The one is about right, the other is right; the one does his work about right, the other does his right; the one may be about accurate in his business, the other is accurate. The accurate boy, other things being equal, will surely get the place, while the other one will about not get it. I saw a young man in the office of a western railway superintendent. He was occupying a position that four hundred boys in that city would have wished to get. It was honorable, and “it paid well,” besides being in the line of promotion. How did he get it? Not by having a rich father, for he was the son of a laborer. The secret was his accuracy. He began as an errand boy, and did172his work accurately. His leisure time he used in perfecting his writing and arithmetic. After a while he learned to telegraph. At each step his employer commended his accuracy, and relied on what he did, because it was found to be just right. And it is thus with every occupation. The accurate boy is the favored one. Those who employ men do not wish to be on a constant lookout, as though they were rogues or fools. If a carpenter must stand at his journeyman’s elbow, to be sure his work is right, or if a cashier must run over his book-keeper’s columns, he might as well do the work himself as to employ another to do it in that way; and it is certain that the employer will get rid of such an inaccurate workman as soon as possible. I knew such a young man. He had a good chance to do well; but he was so inaccurate and unreliable that people were afraid to trust him. If he wrote a deed, a mortgage, or a contract, he was sure either to leave out something, or to put in something that would make it an imperfect paper. He was a lawyer without business, because he lacked the quality of accuracy. Just across the street from him was another young lawyer173who was proverbial for accuracy. He was famous for searching titles, and when he wrote out the history of the title to a piece of property, it was taken for granted that it was right. His aim was absolute accuracy in everything. If he copied a conveyance, or cited legal authority, or made a statement, he aimed to do it exactly. The consequence is, he is having a valuable practice at the bar, and is universally esteemed. “But,” says some boy, “when I become a man, that is the way I shall do. I mean to be very accurate.” Perhaps so. I could tell better if I knew just how you did your work now. There are several ways of getting a lesson. One is to get it “tolerably well,” which does not cost much labor. The other way is to get it faultlessly well, which costs a great deal of labor. A boy can get a general idea of his lesson with very little labor, but to get it with accuracy is very hard, and requires both time and industry. If you, my boy, to-day are getting your lessons in the slipshod way, you will be likely to grow up a slipshod man; but if to-day your habit is to get every lesson with perfect accuracy, you will do that when you become a man.