Part 10

“Capital,” said Louise. “And I have another suggestion. I love animals so much, dogs and horses especially, that I want children taught to be kind to them. Let us put two hundred copies of ‘Our Dumb Animals,’ each fifty cents a year, into as many homes, for nobody can read that paper without being kinder all his life.”

Louise Strong was married quietly to one of the noblest men of the city, and Alice Jameson began her labor of love. After one year of work, and gifts supplied by Louise, of course a generous father and husband would not see the enterprise abandoned. The incidents of the next few years, told by Alice to Louise, the dying cared for, children saved and placed in good homes, men helped and women cheered, would fill a volume. Louise, thus kept in touch with the world’s sorrow, did not forget and become selfish. How many lives were blessed with that wedding money!

LOST HIS PLACE.

“WE ARE sorry to let you go, James, but business is dull and we must cut down expenses.”

The speaker was the head of a hardware store, a man not unkind in nature, but who looked at business purely as a money-making matter. Men were not to be carried over a long winter if there was no need for their help.

James Leonard’s eyes fell on the paper where he was writing with a sadder expression than before, but he said nothing. Both of his parents were dead. He was not strong in body, and none too well fitted to cope with the obstacles one meets in the daily struggle for existence. He would, of course, look for work, but that it was not easy to find he had proved when attempting to get a situation several months before. He had very little money saved for his board, for wages had been small. He would keep his inexpensive room, eat but two meals a day, if need be, and hoped his money would last till a place could be found.

The next morning he started out, not over-courageous, but determined to be persevering. From store to store, from office to office, he asked for work, and received the same old reply—“We are discharging men, rather than hiring new ones.” Days went by and grew into weeks. He came home hungry, cold, and tired. There was nobody to confer with or to cheer him. He could not get bookkeeping—that was hopeless. He would take any kind of work that could be obtained, for his money was growing perilously scant.

Finally, despite his delicate appearance, a man hired him at small wages at heavy outdoor work. As might have been expected, his hands were soon blistered, insufficient food left him with little strength, and he broke down from the labor.

The woman at whose house James had his room cared for him as best she could, but she also was poor and could not long provide for him without remuneration. He must have money for food and fuel. He could not go to the poorhouse, he could not go to a hospital while half-way able to work, and he had no relatives upon whom he could depend.

Resolutions to do right are sometimes broken when everything seems against a person. James was cold and needed an overcoat. Possibly he could have begged one; possibly not, for the world is not over-generous with overcoats. He saw one in the hall of a house which he was passing; the night was bitter cold—he opened the unfastened door, stole the coat, and hurried away.

He was restless that night as he attempted to sleep. He was cold, and in his dreams put on an overcoat that did not fit him, and he felt ill at ease. As he wore it next day, though it was black, he thought everybody looked at it. The owner might recognize it by the cut of the collar or the sleeves. He was not happy, but he was warm, and by and by, as he walked, he forgot that the coat was not really his own and paid for with his own money.

He could find nothing to do in the city. He could go out into the suburbs; perhaps in the homes of wealth they would feel neither the hard times nor the need for retrenchment in winter. He walked all day, and slept in a barn at night. The next day he went from house to house, and there was no more success than before.

As night came on he passed a beautiful home back from the street, where the windows were lighted and all seemed inviting and happy. He looked in at the window. The daughter of the house sat reading in the cosey library, and a servant was preparing supper in the kitchen.

He walked away, and then went back. There must be a good deal of food in so cheerful a home, and he needed some. He had asked for food before this, and sometimes a kind lady gave him hot coffee with his bread and butter, but oftener the servants refused.

He would wait till later, and then, unperceived, he would enter the pantry and take what he needed for the night and the day following. It was cold remaining outside, and the hours to wait seemed very long, but then he was used to waiting for everything. There was little else for him to do nowadays.

The lights were turned out early, for there had been a party at the house the previous night. He lifted the slightly fastened kitchen window, entered the pantry, and ate what food he needed, filling his pockets for the next day’s use.

He was going away when something bright gleamed before him. It was a basket of silver ready to be put into the safe, but carelessly left for the morrow. That, if sold, would give him money enough to last the winter through.

He had to think and act quickly. Before he had time to argue with himself the right or the wrong of it he had gathered all and put it into a satchel close at hand. The satchel was heavy, but he hurried away, secreting some of it, after he left the house, near or partly under a stone wall.

He feared somebody on the street would hear the silver rattle, or somebody in the street-car would hit his foot against it. Every eye seemed upon the satchel, and he was glad to get out of the car and take it to a pawn-shop. As usual, the pawn-broker beat him down in the price of the silver. He knew the young man’s necessities and offered him not over a fifth of its value. Young Leonard demurred, but finally took the money and hurried away.

Again he looked for work and found some for a day or two. He used his money carefully, and when it was gone went stealthily to the hidden place by the wall, dug up the silver, and took it to the pawn-broker. The police had an agreement with the dealer in stolen goods, and when Leonard came again to sell he was arrested, tried, and sentenced to prison.

The prison years, as those know who have tried them, went by painfully, with much of depression, much of good resolutions, much of hopelessness, much of weariness and mortification. When James Leonard was released he determined to begin life anew. He had the same old struggle to obtain a place, but finally succeeded as the coachman for two ladies. He was faithful, honest, and greatly liked by them.

One day a policeman recognized him. “Hello, James,” he said, “glad to see you in a good home. How did they happen to take you? Did they know you had been in prison?”

“Oh, no, and I wouldn’t have them for the world! They wouldn’t trust me, and would turn me off.”

“But they’ll find it out, I fear. Better be straight, I think. I would tell all and take my chances. If they hear it from outside you’ll be sure to lose your place.”

The next persons to recognize James were two servants, who, eager to be the bearer of news, told the cook who worked in the same house with James. To her a prison seemed an awful thing, and she told the ladies. They in turn told James they feared to trust a man who had stolen, and discharged him. They did not stop to ask themselves where the man would go for a home if they turned him away.

The old result happened. James searched for a situation, did not succeed, became discouraged, was without funds, stole, and again was sent to prison.

It is easy to say that James Leonard should have been strong enough to resist temptation. It is easy to say that all men and women can find places if they try long enough. At the same time, there is a responsibility resting upon the employer of labor when of necessity a man loses his position. To be our brother’s keeper is a vital point in a Christian community.

STRUCK IT RICH.

“IT’S NO USE, Martha,” said Asa Scranton to his wife, as he came in from the street, tired and discouraged. “I’ve tried day after day for a job, and I’ve come to the conclusion that you and the children are better off without me than with me.”

“Oh, no, Asa!” responded the pale, thin woman, who was cooking dinner for some workingmen who boarded with her. “We shall see better days.”

But her words only were hopeful; the voice showed the weariness of one who was almost tired of the daily struggle.

“I don’t know how it is. I’ve worked hard from a boy. The grocery business didn’t pay, though I never left the store till the last man had gone home. Then the builder I worked for failed, and I lost several months’ wages. I guess I’m unlucky. We had quite a bit of money when we married, didn’t we, Martha? And I never supposed you would come to such hard work as this. My debts have hung like a millstone about my neck. They all say: ‘Asa Scranton, you’re a good fellow. You’ll pay principal and interest,’ and never think that a wife and children have need for food and clothing. Sometimes I’ve a mind to run away, and I would if I didn’t hate a coward. I can’t stand seeing you so pale and hopeless-like. I’d like to try the mines—maybe I’d strike it rich.”

“Oh, Asa, don’t think of such a thing! Only the few make any money in mines, and most are poor to the end of their days. Keep up courage. The children are getting larger, and better days are coming.”

“That’s the old story, Martha. Things are not very even in this world, but I don’t complain. If I had work I wouldn’t care how rich other folks are. But just think, Martha! If I strike a mine, as some people have, how good it would seem for you to have a silk dress, and Alice a hat with a feather, like the little girl on the hill. I always wanted John to go to college, seeing that his father couldn’t go. He maybe would be more lucky than I have been.”

While Martha Scranton mended by the open fireplace that evening, Asa sat still and thought—dreamed dreams, half wildly perhaps, of better days to come. They would never come in his present poverty. He would make one last venture. His family could live without him, for his wife for some time had earned all the money which they used.

He was not an indolent man, not a man who lacked ability, but, like thousands of others, he seemed to be in the current of failure, and was drifting down the stream to despair. He dreamed about the mines of Colorado that night as he slept, and during the many waking hours planned how he could reach the favored land. He could sell his silver watch, and pawn his overcoat, even if the coming winter pinched him with cold.

By morning he had decided. He ate breakfast quietly; patted little John upon the head, with a look of unusual pathos in his blue eyes; told Martha that he was going out to look for work; obtained what little money he could; hurried down the street to the station, wiping, with the back of his hand, the tears from his cheeks as he looked only once toward his home; and took the train for the mines.

For days he ate little, hoarding every cent to keep him from starvation till he should find work. At Granite Camp, on the side of the mountain, all was bustle and confusion. The varied machinery, the eager miners, the enthusiasm, the warm-hearted familiarity,—all excited Asa. He was ready for any kind of work, and soon found it. Mining was hard,—no work is easy,—but he would earn and save, and later prospect for himself, get hold of claims, and “strike it rich.”

Weeks and months passed. No letter came from Martha, for she did not know where Asa had gone. She wept when she found that she was left alone—wept with that half-deadened sense of loss which persons feel who have had the cheer of life taken out of them by the blows of circumstance.

Asa had been kind to her and the children, but in these days she had little time to think of love or loss, for work was never-ending, and rent and fuel were certainties. So she toiled on, and guessed that he had gone to seek his fortune in the mines, and clothed the children as well as she could, and sewed and washed and prayed and waited.

Years came and went. Asa Scranton in the mines and Martha Scranton at home were growing older. The miners liked Asa, though he joined little in their merry-making, and got the name of being miserly. They could not know that he was saving his money to make Martha rich. Sometimes, when he had earned money enough to work a claim, and had gotten other parties interested, he dug for treasure, but always failed. Then the hole was left in the mountain, and Asa went back to his daily digging in the mines.

His hair grew grayer and his form bent. He would write Martha and Alice and John when he had made his fortune, but not now. He lived alone in his little shanty, often weary, always lonely, “forever unlucky,” as he said, but still hoping that better days would come. Every spare moment he searched the mountains, till it was common talk that Asa Scranton knew every vein of silver and lead in the surrounding country. He would make one last effort. He had been to one spot stealthily, from time to time, where, from the surface ore, he felt sure of success.

But how could he interest capital? He had failed in other projects, and the world did not believe in him. In vain he besought men to join him. He hoarded his money, grew thin from lack of food, dressed in ragged clothes, and still dreamed of future success.

Finally a little money was put into the venture, but no veins worth working were found. Asa was sure they would win if they probed further into the mountain. He labored with men in and out of camp to put in more money. The miners said he was crazy. He certainly was cold and hungry, and well nigh frenzied.

At last he found a German, Hans Bochert, who, like himself, had struggled for years, had lost and won,—with many losings to one winning,—but who, out of pity for the old miner, gave nearly his last dollar to push on the work.

Asa seemed in a half delirium. He would not leave the place day or night. Cold or rain did not deter him, though he seemed ill and broken. Finally the good news came that a big body of ore was struck. Asa Scranton’s face gleamed as though the full sunlight poured upon it. “I’m going to my shanty to write to Martha,” he said, and hurried away. He did not come back in the morning, and Hans Bochert and the other men hastened over to know the reason.

Asa sat in his chair with the same halo about his face—dead from an excess of joy. On a paper, on the little table, was the letter he had begun to write to Martha Scranton at Fairport: “_Darling Wife_: I have struck it rich, and you and the children”—

The pen had fallen from his hand.

FOOD AT THE DOOR.

“DON’T FEED him, because others will be sure to come.”

The speaker was a handsome woman who sat at dinner with her husband in one of the beautiful homes of C. She was dressed in a rich garnet satin, with a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums at her throat, which accorded with the dark garnet leather of the carved furniture.

All had gone well with Mrs. Heatherstone. Her husband, with hair prematurely gray from his hard financial struggles, had become rich, and his wife and only son were spending the money in fine clothes and stylish equipages.

A servant had just come in to say that an old man was at the door who had had nothing to eat all day, and to ask if she should give him a supper.

Mrs. Heatherstone reiterated her old rule, not to feed anybody at the door, lest other poor people be told of it, and the family be annoyed with tramps. “We never give anything at the door,” she was wont to say, and so in process of time poor people generally passed by the Heatherstone mansion, and she was glad of it.

The poor old man of to-night caught a glimpse of the well-filled table as he passed the window, and he felt hurt and bitter at fate. He was not a drinking man, but he had lost his property by reverses, his wife and children were dead, he was unable to do hard labor, and he could rarely find work that was light or heavy. There was not work enough for all, and the young and vigorous obtained what there was.

The old man slept in a shed that night, and dreamed of the elegant home and the handsome lady in the garnet dress.

“I think you might have given him a supper,” said Mark Heatherstone, a boy of sixteen, with a kind heart, but lacking a strong will, and who had already caused his parents some solicitude.

“When once you begin, there is no end of it,” said the mother. “Let him go to the Associated Charities or to some soup-house.”

“But he will have a heavy heart to-night, besides being hungry,” said the youth.

“I can’t take care of all the suffering in the world, so I shut my eyes to it. We must enjoy ourselves, and leave some money for you also.”

“I don’t mind much about that,” said the boy, who knew nothing of the hardships of life, “but I’d do a little good as I went along.”

Mother and son did not think alike about many things, and after a time the lad left his home and disappeared from the town.

His parents were of course distressed beyond measure. They searched and searched in vain. Mrs. Heatherstone, with all her selfishness and lack of wisdom in rearing her son, was exceedingly fond of him. His absence aged her, and when after some years he did not return, the fine house and elegant clothes lost their attraction. The habit of giving, however, is usually a growth from early life, and closed hands do not unclose easily as we grow older.

Once away from his home, Mark Heatherstone was too proud to go back, if indeed he ever wished to do so. He soon spent what money he had brought away with him, and then learned the hard lessons of poverty. He looked for work, occasionally found some, but oftener was penniless, and, like the old man who had besought alms at his father’s house, slept in sheds or in barns. The increasing habit of drink fastened upon him, and exposure undermined his health.

Early a broken-down man, he determined to go back to his native town, and perhaps seek again the home he had abandoned. He stole a ride on a freight train and reached the city just as the evening lamps were being lighted. A cold sleet was falling.

He was faint from lack of food, and excited with the thought of the old times of boyhood and a possible glad reception at his home. He found the house, passed it, and saw his father and mother at supper. He went up the street and then returned, going to the back door and asking for food.

“We never give anything at the door,” said the well-instructed servant, and shut it in his face. He walked away. The impulse was strong to go back and say that the long-lost son had returned. He hesitated, turned his face back towards home, walked up the familiar pathway to the front door, raised his hand to ring the bell, became dizzy, and fell heavily on the porch.

Mr. and Mrs. Heatherstone were startled at the sound. “What has happened, husband?” she said, and both hastened to the door. “Oh, Mark, Mark!” exclaimed the mother, as she gazed upon the face of her apparently dead son. He was carried into the best apartment and a physician summoned.

“It is a heart attack and he will rally,” said the doctor, “but his living is only a question of time.”

When Mark was partially restored to his former self he told of the struggles he had been through, of some kindness and much indifference and hardness, even being turned away in the rain from his mother’s door because he asked for food. “That nearly broke my heart, mother,” he said. “Don’t let man or dog or cat go away from your door hungry. Who knows but they will die upon somebody’s doorstep?”

Mrs. Heatherstone grew tenderer with the coming months, and when Mark passed away she was a changed woman. She had been made unselfish through a great sorrow.

HOW THE DOG TAX WAS PAID.

TWO LITTLE children, Annie and James, were picking up stray pieces of coal near the railroad, to carry to a very poor home. Suddenly they espied a black lump that looked like coal, only it moved. With childish curiosity they crept towards it and found a thin, frightened, hungry dog that had been crippled and beaten by boys.

“Do you dare touch her?” said the girl of nine years. “She might bite.”

“Oh, yes,” said Jimmie, a rugged and alert little fellow of seven. “See, she wags her short tail, and I guess she wants to go home with us.”

“But mother couldn’t take care of her, we’re so poor, and baby Ned and Willie have to eat and have clothes.”

“Oh, I’ll give her some of my bread and milk every night, and Mrs. Martin next door will give her bones, I guess. She hasn’t any boy and she is good to me.”

The girl put her fingers carefully along the black dog’s forehead, and the animal pushed her cold nose against the child’s hand and licked it. She was not used to kind voices, and a girl’s fingers upon her head gave her courage. She half rose to her feet, looked from one to the other and seemed to say, “I will go with you if you will only take me.”

“I wouldn’t pick her up, Jimmie; she’ll follow us.”

“She can’t walk much,” said the boy, “but I’ll help her over the bad places if you’ll carry the basket of coal.”

The dog seemed to realize the conversation, for when the coal was ready to be moved, she was also ready, and hobbled on after the children.

“You must be tired, poor thing!” said Jimmie, taking her up as they crossed a muddy street, and thereby getting his torn jacket stained from her hurt back and bleeding foot.

The dog nestled up to him and seemed happy. When they reached home Jimmie ran ahead, showing his poor bruised friend to his mother.

“Why, Jimmie, what can you do with a dog?”

“Keep her to play with, and to guard the house when you are away washing.”

“I don’t know how we’ll feed her,” said Mrs. Conlon, who looked about as poor as the dog, “but we’ll try. We can keep her warm anyway if you’ll pick up enough coal.”

“We shall love her so,” said the boy, “and the baby will play with her when she gets well. Let’s call her ‘Pet,’ because we never have anything to play with.”

The dog crawled behind the stove and closed her eyes, as though thankful for a place to rest, where at least boys would not throw stones, and men would not kick her with their rough boots.

Days and weeks went by. The black dog, though not having a great supply of food, was living like a prince compared with the starvation of the street. Her bruises healed, her coat became blacker and her eyes brighter. She was indeed the baby’s pet, and the idol of the other children. She went with Annie and Jimmie as they gathered coal. She slept on the floor beside their humble bed at night, and guarded the household when the mother was absent. She shared their food, and would have returned their kindness with her life if need be. The whole family were happier and kinder since she came into it, as is always the case when a pet animal is in the home.

Though poverty was a constant guest at the Conlon abode, with its bare floors, poor clothes, and common fare, yet they were not unhappy. The mother worked too hard to philosophize much about circumstances, and the children were too young to realize what was before them of struggle. A cloud was coming, and a man’s hand brought it. It was the arrival of the tax-gatherer.