Earlier text: HERRINGS FOR NOTHING.“Well, Nettie, what do you want?” said Mr. Jarvis to his wife, who stood looking rather anxiously at him after he had paid the factory hands their week’s wages. “Why, Donald,” said she, “I thought as I had worked for you all the week, I would come for my wages too. You pay Jane two dollars a week; surely I can earn that, and I would like very much to have it as my own.” “Pshaw, Nettie, how ridiculously you talk! You know that all I have belongs to you and the children—and don’t I furnish the house and everything? What would you do with the money if you had it?” “I know, Donald, that you buy the necessaries for us all, and I am willing that you should do so still; but I would like a little money for my very own. We have been married for fifteen years, and in all that time I do not seem to have earned a dollar. As far as money is concerned, I might as well be a slave. I cannot buy a quart of berries (284)285nor a book, without asking you for the money, and I should like to be a little more independent.” Mr. Jarvis, proprietor of Jarvis Mills, worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, laughed derisively. “You’re a fine one to talk of independence,” he said. “If you should start out to make your own living, you’d fetch up in the poor-house soon enough; for what could you do to earn a living! The girls in the factory know how to do their work, and they earn their wages. When I have paid them, my duty is done; but I have to board and clothe you, and to take care of you when you are sick. And if I had to do that for the girls, they would have precious little money left, I can tell you.” “Donald, I gave up a good trade when I married you. For five years I had supported myself by it, and many a time since have I envied myself the purse of those days. As for my not earning anything, now I leave it to you to say whether it would be possible to hire another to take my place; and how much would it cost you to do without me a year? I know the girls have little left after286paying their expenses, but they enjoy that little very much. Allie Watson supports herself and mother with her wages, and they both dress better than I do. Jennie Hart is helping her father pay off the mortgage on his farm, and she is happy that she can do so. Even Jane, the kitchen girl, has more freedom than I; for out of her own money she is laying by presents for her relatives, and will send them Christmas, as much to her own pleasure as theirs. Yesterday a Swiss boy was at the house with such handsome carved work to sell, and, although I wanted some money very much, I had not a dollar. I felt like crying when Jane brought in her week’s wages and bought several articles that I really wanted. You often say that all you have is mine, but five dollars would have given me more pleasure yesterday than your hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of property did.” “No doubt of that, Mrs. Jarvis. You have no idea of the value of money, and would have enjoyed buying a lot of trash that wouldn’t be worth a cent to anybody. Jane needs a guardian if she fools away her money like that. She will be in the county-house287yet if she don’t look out. It’s lucky that men do hold the money, for there’s not one woman in a hundred who knows how to use it.” “For shame, Donald Jarvis! You know better! Look at Jerry and Milly Craig, will you, and say that he makes the best use of his money. She is at home with her parents every night, making her wages go as far as possible toward making them comfortable, while he is carousing in the village, wasting his time and money, and making a brute of himself besides. And why does Mrs. Satron come to receive her husband’s wages herself? Simply because he cannot get by the saloon with money in his pocket, and if she did not get the money, they would all go hungry to bed the day after his wages are paid. And I believe that every woman who earns money here spends it as wisely as the average of men, and I have yet to hear of one of them being in debt.” Mr. Jarvis knew that he could not gainsay a word his wife had said, for it was all true. Luckily he thought of Jane. “Well, how much do you suppose Jane will have left when New Year’s comes? If288she should get sick, how long could she pay for such help as you have?” “It is not likely that she will lay up many dollars out of a hundred a year; but she is laying up something better, I think. Last winter she sent her mother a warm shawl and a pair of shoes, and to her brother and sister, money to buy new school books; and the warm, loving letters they send to her do her more good than twice the amount of money in the bank would. This year she is laying by a number of useful and pretty things for them, and if any misfortune should happen to Jane, they would be only too glad to help her.” “Well, who do you suppose would help you if you needed help?” said Mr. Jarvis, for want of a better question. Mrs. Jarvis’ eyes sparkled angrily, as she answered,— “Nobody. If you should lose your property to-day, I should be a beggar, without a claim on any one for help. You have always held your purse-strings so tight that it has been hard enough to ask for my own necessities, leaving others out altogether. Many a time a dollar or two would have enabled me to do some poor man or woman untold good;289but although you have always said that all your property was mine, I never could and cannot now command a dollar of it.” “Lucky you couldn’t, if you wanted to spend it on beggars.” “Donald, you know that I would spend money as wisely as you do. Who was it that only last week gave a poor lame beggar five dollars to pay his fare to Burton, and then saw him throw his crutches aside and make for the nearest saloon! Your wife could do no worse if trusted with a few dollars. You say that the money is all mine, yet you spend it as you please, while I cannot spend a dollar without asking you for it, and telling you what I want it for. Any beggar can get it in the same way. Christmas you bought presents for us, and expected us to be very grateful for them,—a shawl for me, of the very color that I cannot wear, a set of furs for Lucy that she did not need, a drum for Robin that has been a nuisance ever since, and a lot of worthless toys that were all broken up within a week. There were forty or fifty dollars of my money just the same as thrown away; yet when I ask you to trust me with two or three dollars a week,290you cannot imagine what use I have for it, and fear it will be wasted.” “Well,” said the proprietor, “it is my own money, and I can spend it as I please. I think you’ll know it, too, when you get another present.” “Oh, it’s your money, then? I understood you to say it was all mine, and I intended to protest against your spending it so foolishly. If it is your own, of course you have a right to spend it as you please; but it seems to me that a woman who left parents, brothers, and sisters, and all her friends, to make a home for you among strangers, a woman who has given her whole life to you for fifteen years, might be looked upon with as much favor as you give to beggars, who are very likely to be impostors. I know that you seldom turn them off without help. “Perhaps I might be more successful if I appealed to you as a beggar. I might say, Kind sir, please allow me out of your means a small pittance for my comfort. It is true I have enough to eat, and do not suffer for clothing; but although I work for my master from morning till night, and if his children happen to be sick, from night until morning291again, yet he does not pay me as much as he does his cook, and I am often greatly distressed for want of a trifling sum which he would not mind giving to a perfect stranger. The other day while he was from home, I had to go to the next station to see a dear friend who was ill, and not having a dollar of my own, I was obliged to borrow the money from his cook. I was so mortified! And not long since the berry woman came with such nice berries to sell, and my little girl, who was not well, wanted some very badly, but I had not even five cents to pay for a handful for her. Yesterday a friend came to me to assist in a work of charity. It was a worthy object, and I longed so much to give her a little money for so good a purpose, but though the wife of a rich man, I had no money. Of course, I might ask my husband for money, and if I told him all about what I wished to do with it, and he approved of my purpose, and was in a good humor, he would give it to me; but, sir, it is terribly slavish to have to do so, even if I could run to him every time I wanted anything. People say I am a fortunate woman because my husband is rich; but I often envy the factory292girls their ability to earn and spend their own money. And sometimes I get so wild thinking about my helplessness, that if it were not for my children, I think I should be glad to shut my eyes forever upon it all.” “Nettie! Nettie Jarvis! What are you saying?” cried the startled husband at last; for the far-away look in her eyes, as if she did not see him, but was looking to some higher power to help her, touched his pride, if it did not his heart. He had a good deal of pride in a selfish sort of way. He was proud to be able to support his family as well as he did. He was proud to think he did it himself. He was proud that when his children needed new shoes, he could tell his wife to take them to Crispin’s and get what they needed. Yes, he was proud of his family, and wanted them to feel how much they depended upon him. He would have felt offended if any one had left his wife a legacy, thus allowing her to be independent of his purse. The idea of her earning money as the other work-folks did, never entered his mind. He “supported her;” that was his idea of their relations. He never had293happened to think that it was very good of her to take his money and spend it for the benefit of himself and his children. He never had thought that any other woman would have wanted good pay for doing it. He had even thought himself very generous for allowing her money to get things to make the family comfortable. Things began to look different to him just now. Could it be that he was not generous—not even just—to his wife! Had he paid her so poorly for her fifteen years of faithful labor for him that if she had been obliged to begin the world for herself that day, it would have been as a penniless woman, notwithstanding the houses, the lands and mills that he had so often told her were all hers; for he knew, as every one else did, that not one dollar of all he had would the law allow her to call her own. How fast he thought, standing there at the office window, looking down at the little houses where the mill hands lived. Could it be possible that his wife envied them anything? His brain seemed to be confused, and he looked so strange that his wife, anxious to break the spell, took his arm, saying, “Let us go home, dear. The tea must be waiting294for us.” He put on his hat in a dreamy way, and they walked home in silence. The children ran joyously to meet them. The yard was so fresh and green, and the flowers so many and bright, that he wondered he had never thanked Nettie for them all. Hitherto he had looked upon them as his; but now he felt that his interest in them was only a few dollars that would not have amounted to anything without his wife’s care. His children were tidy and sweet, and everything around and in the house had a cheery look that rested him, after the hard, dull day at the mill. They sat again at the table which had been a source of comfort to him so many years, and he wondered how he could have enjoyed it so long without even thanking the woman who had provided it. True, she had used his money in bringing it all about, but how else could his money be of use to him? Who else could have turned it into just what he needed day after day for years? And he began to have an undefined feeling that it took more than money to make a home. He glanced at his wife’s face as he buttered his last slice of bread. It was not that of the fair, rosy bride whom he had295brought to the mill years before; but at that moment he realized that it was far dearer to him, for he knew that she had given the bloom and freshness of her youth to make his home what it was. And a new thought came to him. “Who was comforting her now, when she had so much care?” Was not that what he had promised to do when he brought her from her old home? He sighed as he thought how far he had drifted from her. Something called the children out doors, and Mr. Jarvis took his easy chair. His wife came and stood beside him. “I fear you are not well, Donald, or you are displeased with me?” He drew her into his arms, and told her how her words had shown him what manner of man he was, and there were words spoken that need not be written; but from that day forth a different man was the proprietor of the Jarvis Mills, and there was a brighter light in Mrs. Jarvis’ eyes, for at last she had something of her own; nor has she regretted that she “applied for wages.” LITERARY TASTE IN CHILDREN.
I KNOW two little girls, aged seven and four, who, quite unconsciously, have made the acquaintance of some of the writings of our best poets, and find great delight in them, and are learning to appreciate good things in a perfectly natural, child-like way. The oldest was a nervous, excitable child; it was almost impossible to quiet her to sleep, and she was very wakeful at night. When she was about three years old, her mother began reading to her at bed-time some of those pretty little pieces of poetry for children—such as are found in many collections, like “Hymns and Rhymes for Home and School,” “Our Baby,” and the like. She found the rhythm so soothing to the child’s restless nerves, that she committed several to memory, to use when the book was not at hand. She kept the little book or newspaper scrap in her work-basket, and when she was holding the baby or could do nothing else, she learned a stanza or two. She soon had quite a collection, and now it (296)297is part of the bed-time routine for mamma to repeat one or two. The youngest girl, a perfect embodiment of animal life and spirits, generally calls for Tennyson’s “Sweet and Low, Wind of the Western Sea,” while the older one is charmed by Mary Howitt’s pretty ballad of “Mabel on Midsummer Eve”—sweet, pure, good English, all of it. I watched the older child, as she stood at the window beside her mother one wild November morning, looking at the dead leaves whirling in the wind, while the mother recited to her Bryant’s lines, “The Melancholy Days are Come.” It was almost as good as the poem to see the child’s gray eyes kindle with appreciation as she eagerly drank in the words. Their ear has been educated to a certain standard of appreciation—just as German children who grow up in an atmosphere of good music find delight in harmonies which are hardly understood by our less cultivated American ears. Of course, selections should be carefully made to suit the childrens’ minds, and similes and allusions should be explained. DEACON BAKER laid down his religious weekly, raised his “specs” until they rested on the top of his shiny bald head, grasped firmly the arms of his chair, and looked meditatively into the fire. Whenever Deacon Baker assumed that position, and said he had something to say, we knew it would be worth hearing. The Deacon’s household was a primitive one; in it many of the old customs were preserved. There were old-fashioned chairs, settles, fire-places, and occupations. There were clothes for every day, and Sabbath garments—the latter laid away during the week, folded and perfumed, made one think there might be a religion in dress. There was a Sabbath observance that made one feel that there still remained— “A day of rest and beauty,
A day of peace and love”
There was nothing stilted nor forced, and we boys, who had been sent up from the city to get exercise and health on the farm, took in299the simple piety that abounded there as we did the sunlight and the healthful air of the hills. Father had been there before us, and he often said he owed much of his success in life to the wholesome teachings of the good Deacon,—teachings that came, as come spring-time and autumn, in their course. There was the opening of a furrow here, the dropping of a seed there, and at length a reaping of good resolves and purposes that astonished even ourselves; for we hardly knew whence they came. My brother Ben was quicker in perception than myself, and he always said the Deacon was of the same sort as other people, and that away back he possessed the same frailties and failings; only he had mastered them,—compelled them to yield. “I have heard people in prayer-meetings,” said Ben, “tell about being ‘monuments of God’s saving grace,’ ‘brands plucked from the burning,’ and all that; I don’t put the Deacon in that line, but I am certain that at some time, and in some place, he has gone wrong.” I always tried to make out why Ben could300think so, and I always ended as I began,—in wonder. On the evening of which I write, it all came out. “I have just read a little circumstance,” continued the Deacon, “that puts me back a matter of fifty years. You can read for yourself what I allude to; but what I am going to tell you has never been in print. “Fifty years ago, come April, I was fourteen years old—I remember the day, and more particularly the night, as ’t were an hour since. I see my old home as ’t were before me now,—the sloping roof, the big flat stone at the door, the maple trees, the orchard, the well-sweep; I see the shadows they cast, for the moon was up; I see myself standing in the road and looking back; I hear the words I said—they have always sounded in my ears more or less, coming back from the past as the echo from the hills: ‘The world is wide,’ I said, ‘and I mean to try it; I will go where I can do as I like, where I can be my own master.’ “Poor fool that I was! I left a pleasant home, a dear mother and a good father—ran away. My only stock in life was a defiant will and a purpose to do as I pleased. I had301rebelled because my father insisted on my obeying him without question. I found other things wide besides the world. I found there was a great distance between the starting out and the getting to; that a poor boy with a bundle, and a good place with kindness and pay in it, were out of sight of each other, as is our country on the one side, and China on the other. I found it was one thing to plan what I would do, and another to do it. “I have often heard people say that I was good because I was born so; but this is a mistake. I am not one of the sort who call themselves ‘vile worms of the dust;’ I trust I have attained to some measure of grace, and I have got it by hard discipline. I would like to tell all my life from fourteen to seventeen, but there is no time to-night; there is a particular circumstance I want to dwell on. “I can’t say I had no principle at seventeen years old; but I can say the good in me was about all covered up. I have often thought of myself then as a piece of ground run over with weeds. My plans were how to deceive my employers, how to get the most302of the least, and to get square with the world, because I had set myself against it. My mother had forgiven me for running away and had gone to her rest; my father had brought home a new wife, who had no call for me, and there seemed no hand to hold me back. And this is what struck me so forcibly in that piece in the paper, that there is a leading hand of Providence; that it is ever stretched out and above us; that its grip is often loose,—that it lets one go and go, as it were; but at last it reaches out and snatches one back, as I would snatch you from the edge of the falls,—and flings him upon a height. “I was seventeen years old when the Hand reached me. I had about touched bottom; I had contemplated, but, thank God, not committed crime. I had planned with two companions to rob my employer. We had engaged passage on an East Indiaman to sail at break of day; when the robbery would be discovered we would be on the high seas. In those days there was no telegraph to get ahead of us, and we had no fear of being caught. I was to remain in the store, secreted among some old boxes; at a certain303hour I was to let in my companions, and together we would do the desperate deed. Well do I remember that night; it was dark, and outside it was still; inside there was noise enough. I could hear my heart beat like taps on the door; the blood forced into my head with a whizzing sound; there were strange, unnatural whispers in my ears, and I heard the clanking of chains and the opening and closing of prison doors. My own breath became painfully audible, and was fanned back into my face like a hot flame. I could endure darkness no longer; I crept out from the boxes; I groped about until I found a candle; I lit it, and seeing a piece of writing paper, I took it up and read it. It seemed to me then like the handwriting on the wall. Sometime I will show it to you; I have it laid away. This is what was written:— “It may be thou art on the verge of ruin; if so, turn back; from a sinful purpose it is never too late to retreat. The path of evil thou hast well trodden; forsake it; disused, the grass will grow upon it; thou wilt perceive it no more.” “Some would say it was chance which laid304that paper in my way; I tell you, boys, it was the hand of Providence; it grasped me and flung me clean out of my wicked ways. I kept guard in that store all night; my comrades, seeing the light, thought I was caught, and would tell on them, and so they shipped in the East Indiaman, and in the morning were far away. With my bad surroundings gone, I began a new life. “I have heard it is said, ‘The sins of youth become the smarts of old age.’ That may all be; but the sting is taken out of my smart; I have bound up my bad days like a book fastened with clasps, and I hold that what God has forgiven, man may forget. But that little piece in the paper brought it all back to my mind clear as noonday.” “Deacon Baker,” said brother Ben, grasping the old man’s hand, “I knew it,—I knew you had fought with temptation, and conquered.” “O boys, I often think of those days at home before I ran away. I can never make out what possessed me to do as I did, and turn my back on those that loved me. I tell you it’s an awful thing to go out in the world from the home that has held you so305long and so tenderly, without a leave-taking and a God bless you. “Boys,” said the Deacon, when he bade us good-night; “I hope you will never have to be pulled back with the force I was, and never forget there is above you a leading Hand.” How does He lead them?—This they cannot tell;
They only know He doeth all things well—
Through fire and water some, where floods do meet,
O’er briers and thorns, with torn and bleeding feet,
Where tempests rage, and storms burst overhead,
And clouds portentous all around are spread;
But still He leads them, rough or smooth the way,
And all His paths are peace, and lead to day.
And some, where springs abound, and pastures sweet,
Go singing all the way, with gladsome feet;
And some He leadeth gently on the way,
Guiding the wandering step that fain would stray;
Others go trembling on the road for fear,
With faith so weak, that will not see Him near;
But still He leads them, rough or smooth the way,
Who follow on to know. He shows the way.
The moment a girl hides a secret from her mother, or has received a letter she dare not let her mother read, or has a friend of whom her mother does not know, she is in danger. A secret is not a good thing for a girl to have. The fewer secrets that lie in the hearts of women at any age, the better. It is almost a test of purity. She who has none of her own is best and happiest. In girlhood, hide nothing from your mother; do nothing that, if discovered by your father, would make you blush. When you are married, never conceal anything from your husband. Never allow yourself to write a letter that he may not know all about, or to receive one which you are not quite willing that he should read. Have no mysteries whatever. Tell those who are about you where you go and what you do. Those who have the right to know, I mean, of course. A little secretiveness has set many a (306)307scandal afloat; and much as is said about women who tell too much, they are much better off than the woman who tells too little. The girl who frankly says to her mother, “I have been here. I met so and so. Such and such remarks were made, and this or that was done,” will be certain of receiving good advice and sympathy. If all was right, no fault will be found. If the mother knows, out of her greater experience, that something was improper or unsuitable, she will, if she is a good mother, kindly advise against its repetition. You may not know, girls, just what is right, just what is wrong yet. You can’t be blamed for making little mistakes, but you will not be likely to do anything very wrong, if from the first you have no secrets from your mother. THE “Gold Leaf” Express was waiting the usual half-hour at P., in order to connect with the northern mail. While my party were regaling themselves on muddy coffee in the little restaurant near by, I gladly availed myself of the opportunity to indulge in a brisk walk up and down the long depot platform after my wearisome ride from Cleveland. While enjoying the grateful exercise, I could not help noticing the huge, shapely locomotive as it stood with its bright cylinder, dome, whistle, and the polished letters “Jupiter” on its jacket, glistening in the sun of that pleasant November day. The engineer, a stoutly built, gray-haired man, was “oiling” and making everything ready for the onward trip. The kindly expression of his face as he glanced up at me when I paused a moment, admiring the shining brass of the cylinders, which was polished to the last degree of brilliancy, encouraged me to accost him with the common-place remark,— “You have run an engine a good many years, sir, I presume.” “Long enough to have learned the trade pretty thoroughly,” he replied, rather curtly. But I was not to be easily rebuffed; for I meant to assure him that mine was not a mere passing curiosity, and I went on, “You have a splendid machine, and it is beautifully taken care of, as such an engine deserves to be. It is a Roger, I see, with an improved Bissel truck. Do you like it?” “It’s the best six-wheeler that was ever run,” replied the engineer, his face now kindling with surprised pleasure; “and as for the trucks, nothing could be better, it seems to me. But I don’t often see a lady who knows a Roger from a Danforth, or a Hickley, or any other build, for that matter.” “I read the Journal,” I said, “and sometimes write for it. My only brother used to be a locomotive engineer, and having a natural bent toward mechanics myself, I always enjoy seeing a nice machine, and have a genuine regard for its controlling spirit, the driver. Then, I always feel an additional sense of security on board, when I know the engine is run by a member of the temperance society. I see you are one.” “It is really one of the best and most useful organizations in the country,” said he, the lines of his manly, handsome face still further softening as he mechanically put his hand up to a badge-pin fastened to his necktie; “I was one of the first on this road to join it.” After a few explanations, which elicited the fact that he had been personally acquainted with my brother, he grew quite communicative. “I have run on this road twenty-five years,” said he; “first as a fireman; then they set me up to drive a switch engine. I went from that to a gravel train, from that to freight, and now I have the best ‘run’ on the road. The ‘Gold-Leaf Express’ they call it along the line; the sleeping cars, the Pullman palace cars, the tender, and my cab are all so elaborately painted and gilded.” “I was noticing how they all were glistening in this bright sunlight,” I said. “I suppose from the fact of your many promotions on the road, you have met with uninterrupted good luck, based, of course, on your conscientious carefulness.” “I have never met with an accident that was attended with serious results, thank God,” he replied, not in the brawling tone of an oath, but reverently; “and I think that one reason of it comes from the fact that I always carry my Bible in the cab. Do you see it up there?” and he pointed up to the prettily upholstered cab, where, just in front of the engineer’s seat, between the steam gauge and the lookout window, on a bracket-like device, a small Bible was held open where the eyes of this Christian engineer could fall upon its pages at any moment. “I have read the good book through several times at home,” continued he, “and by having it placed here in this manner before me, I have been able to commit many passages to memory. Sometimes it has been a wonderful comfort to me; once in particular, the strength as well as comfort I derived from one glance at a passage on the open page was astonishing.” “How was that?” I asked, greatly interested. “Well, madam, it is something I seldom speak of,” he said, handing up his oil-can to the fireman, and wiping his hands on a bunch312of cotton waste, “but I don’t mind telling you now.” “I was running on the lower end of the road at the time, and my train was an ‘express passenger’ which came out of the city before nightfall, usually with a dozen or so heavily loaded coaches. Perhaps you remember, if you have been over the road much, where the track crosses the —— river, which, you know, is the inlet to the harbor. Being a port of considerable importance, of course provision has to be made for the shipping to pass above. “There was a man stationed at this post to signal to the approaching trains whether the bridge was open or not. Yes, it was a dangerous place (the means to avert danger there are better now), but after I had run over the bridge twice a day for eighteen months or more and had always found everything all right, I came to look upon that point the same as I did upon any other piece of the road.” “My express was a fast train always, and on the night of which I am speaking, I was a little behind time, and so running somewhat faster than usual in order to make up. As313I approached the bridge, I looked for the signal, as it was second-nature for me to do. The flag man gave the customary all-right signal, as usual, on a rock at a curve of the track leading around to the river. “I had no more time than barely to notice that the man was a new hand in the place of ‘Lame Jim,’ whom I had without a single exception always found at that post, before we came in full view of the bridge. To my horror it was wide open, and a gulf of nearly fifty feet in depth was yawning before me and my ponderous train. “I glanced up to my open Bible, and my eyes fell on the words, ‘I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.’ The benumbing sense of utter helplessness that for the instant had pervaded both soul and body, as it were, all vanished now, and I became as calm as you see me at this moment. “You know, madam, that the duties of a locomotive engineer are such that oftentimes he has to decide (it may be only a mere movement of his hand, or the kind of a look he gives his fireman), in such a terrible exigency especially, in the shortest conceivable space of time. In this instance I had no314time to consider, and if I had, I suppose I should have done exactly as I did: whistle for brakes (it was before air-brakes came into use) and reverse my engine. “The fireman did not need to be told to do his best upon the tender brakes, as he rapidly tightened them up with the whole swinging force of his large body. It was a clean, dry track, everything in good condition, and I think never a train with like facilities was brought to a stand-still on shorter notice.” “Just as we came to a dead halt, the point of the cow-catcher overlapped the frightful chasm! Had the impelling force of that long passenger train carried us a few feet farther on, there would have been the worst railroad catastrophe that ever happened in America, and my name would surely have swelled the list of the drowned and mangled ones.” “As it was, the escape never got into the papers at all. The bridge was swung into place so quickly, and we were under way so soon after the customary stop at the draw, that I suppose very few of the passengers ever knew of the threatening peril. We315were miles away before the reaction came to me as I sat trembling on my seat with the full, apprehending sense of our escape tiding through my brain. “The flag-man? oh, yes, he was drunk. You see there had been a new superintendent chosen, and he had commenced business by turning off some of the old employés and putting in new ones. Poor, faithful, ‘Lame Jim’ had been discharged, and this fellow installed in his place. He was celebrating his appointment to this responsible post over a jug of rum which was found afterward in the little signal house near by. “Jim was re-instated next day, but the Company was so chagrined over the unwarrantable action on the part of the superintendent, that the matter was kept as close as possible. I went to the office the next morning and resigned my position; I couldn’t bear to run over that end of the road again. They would not let me off the road, but gave me this train on this end of the route,—the ‘Gold-Leaf Express.’ “No, I don’t suppose I have quite got over the shock to my nerves; for frequently, when I go to bed more tired than usual, I316wake with a start from a sort of far-off dream of that eventful nightfall trip, the uncertain light, the still, shimmering water, and the white, scared face of my fireman. My hair was as black as a coal then; in three months it became as gray as you see it now. “Yes’m, that’s the northern mail coming; oh, you’re welcome, although it’s a story I’m not fond of telling.” Men send their ships, the eager things!
To try their luck at sea,
But none can tell by note or count
How many there may be.
One turneth east, another south—
They never come again;
And then we know they must have sunk,
But neither how nor when.
God sends his happy birds abroad—
“They’re less than ships,” say we;
No moment passes but he knows
How many there should be.
One buildeth high, another low,
With just a bird’s light care—
If only one, perchance, doth fall,
God knoweth when and where.
As a young friend was standing with us, noticing the pedestrians on the sidewalk, a very stylish young lady passed us. “What beautiful hands Miss — has!” exclaimed our friend. “What makes them beautiful?” “Why they are small, white, soft, and exquisitely shaped.” “Is that all that constitutes the beauty of the hand? Is not something more to be included in your catalogue of beauty, which you have not enumerated, to make the hand desirable?” “What more would you have?” “Are they charitable hands? Have they ever fed the poor? Have they ever carried the necessaries of life to the widow and the orphan? Has their soft touch ever soothed the irritation of sickness and the agonies of pain? Do the poor bless those rosy-tipped fingers? “Are they useful hands? Have they been taught that the world is not a playground, or318a theater of display, or a mere lounging place? Do those delicate hands ever labor? Are they ever employed about the domestic duties of life,—the homely, ordinary employments of the household? Or does the owner leave all that to her mother, while she nourishes her delicate hands in idleness? “Are they modest hands? Will they perform their duties without vanity? Or do they pander to the pride of their delicacy and beauty? Does she think more of their display than of the improvement of the mind and character, and the salvation of the soul? “Are they humble hands? Will their owner extend one to grasp the hand of the old school-mate who sat at the same desk with her, and on the same recitation bench, but who now must earn her living by her labor?” “Are they holy hands? Are they ever clasped in prayer or elevated in praise? Does she remember the God who has made her to differ from so many other girls, and devote her mind, her heart, her hands to his service? Does she try to imitate her Saviour by going about doing good? These are the qualities that make a hand beautiful.” BEAUTIFUL faces are those that wear—
It matters little if dark or fair—
Whole-souled honesty printed there.
Beautiful eyes are those that show,
Like crystal panes where hearth-fires glow,
Beautiful thoughts that burn below.
Beautiful lips are those whose words
Leap from the heart like songs of birds,
Yet whose utterance prudence girds.
Beautiful hands are those that do
Work that is earnest and brave and true,
Moment by moment the long day through.
Beautiful feet are those that go
On kindly ministries to and fro—
Down lowliest ways, if God wills it so.
Beautiful shoulders are those that bear
Ceaseless burdens of homely care,
With patient grace and daily prayer.
Beautiful lives are those that bless,—
Silent rivers of happiness,
Whose hidden fountains but few may guess.