Chapter 5

Here there was a pause. After which Smith said, “About that ground of mine. What did you do?”

“Nothing,” replied Wilson, coldly.

“Nothing, did you say?” Smith's voice was a little husky.

“No. You declined our offer; or, rather, the high price fixed by yourself upon the land.”

“You refused to buy it at five thousand, when it was offered,” said Smith.

“I know we did, because your demand was exorbitant.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” returned Smith quickly.

“In that we only differ,” said Wilson. “However, the council has decided not to pay you the price you ask.”

“Unanimously?”

“There was not a dissenting voice.”

Smith began to feel more and more uncomfortable.

“I might take something less,” he ventured to say, in a low, hesitating voice.

“It is too late now,” was Mr. Wilson's prompt reply.

“Too late! How so?”

“We have procured a lot.”

“Mr. Wilson!” Poor Smith started to his feet in chagrin and astonishment.

“Yes; we have taken one of Jones's lots on the west side of the city. A beautiful ten acre lot.”

“You have!” Smith was actually pale.

“We have; and the title deeds are now being made out.”

It was some time before Smith had sufficiently recovered from the stunning effect of this unlooked-for intelligence, to make the inquiry,

“And pray how much did Jones ask for his ten acre lot.”

“He presented it to the city as a gift,” replied the councilman.

“A gift! What folly!”

“No, not folly--but true worldly wisdom; though I believe Jones did not think of advantage to himself when he generously made the offer. He is worth twenty thousand dollars more to-day than he was yesterday, in the simple advanced value of his land for building lots. And I know of no man in this town whose good fortune affects me with more pleasure.”

Smith stole back to his home with a mountain of disappointment on his heart. In his cupidity he had entirely overreached himself, and he saw that the consequences were to react upon all his future prosperity. The public square at the west end of the town would draw improvements in that direction, all the while increasing the wealth of Mr. Jones, while lots at the north end would remain at present prices, or, it might be, take a downward range.

And so it proved. In ten years, Jones was the richest man in the town, while half of Smith's property had been sold for taxes. The five acre lot passed from his hands, under the hammer, in the foreclosure of a mortgage, for one thousand dollars!

Thus it is that inordinate selfishness and cupidity overreach themselves; while the liberal man deviseth liberal things, and is sustained thereby.

THE SUNBEAM AND THE RAINDROP.

A SUNBEAM and a raindrop met together in the sky One afternoon in sunny June, when earth was parched and dry; Each quarrelled for the precedence ['twas so the story ran), And the golden sunbeam, warmly, the quarrel thus began:--

“What were the earth without me? I come with beauty bright, She smiles to hail my presence, and rejoices in my light; I deck the hill and valley with many a lovely hue, I give the rose its blushes, and the violet its blue.

“I steal within the window, and through the cottage door, And my presence like a blessing gilds with smiles the broad earth o'er; The brooks and streams flow dancing and sparkling in my ray, And the merry, happy children in the golden sunshine play.”

Then the tearful raindrop answered--“Give praise where praise is due, The earth indeed were lonely without a smile from you; But without my visits, also, its beauty would decay, The flowers droop and wither, and the streamlets dry away.

“I give the flowers their freshness, and you their colours gay, My jewels would not sparkle, without your sunny ray. Since each upon the other so closely must depend, Let us seek the earth together, and our common blessings blend.”

The raindrops, and the sunbeams, came laughing down to earth, And it woke once more to beauty, and to myriad tones of mirth; The river and the streamlet went dancing on their way, And the raindrops brightly sparkled in the sunbeam's golden ray.

The drooping flowers looked brighter, there was fragrance in the air, The earth seemed new created, there was gladness everywhere; And above the dark clouds, gleaming on the clear blue arch of Heaven, The Rainbow, in its beauty, like a smile of love was given.

'Twas a sweet and simple lesson, which the story told, I thought, Not alone and single-handed our kindliest deeds are wrought; Like the sunbeam and the raindrop, work together, while we may, And the bow of Heaven's own promise shall smile upon our way.

A PLEA FOR SOFT WORDS.

STRANGE and subtle are the influences which affect the spirit and touch the heart. Are there bodiless creatures around us, moulding our thoughts into darkness or brightness, as they will? Whence, otherwise, come the shadow and the sunshine, for which we can discern no mortal agency?

Oftener, As we grow older, come the shadows; less frequently the sunshine. Ere I took up my pen, I was sitting with a pleasant company of friends, listening to music, and speaking, with the rest, light words.

Suddenly, I knew not why, my heart was wrapt away in an atmosphere of sorrow. A sense of weakness and unworthiness weighed me down, and I felt the moisture gather to my eyes and my lips tremble, though they kept the smile.

All my past life rose up before me, and all my short-comings--all, my mistakes, and all my wilful wickedness, seemed pleading trumpet-tongued against me.

I saw her before me whose feet trod with mine the green holts and meadows, when the childish thought strayed not beyond the near or the possible. I saw her through the long blue distances, clothed in the white beauty of an angel; but, alas! she drew her golden hair across her face to veil from her vision the sin-darkened creature whose eyes dropped heavily to the hem of her robe!

O pure and beautiful one, taken to peace ere the weak temptation had lifted itself up beyond thy stature, and compelled thee to listen, to oppose thy weakness to its strength, and to fall--sometimes, at least, let thy face shine on me from between the clouds. Fresh from the springs of Paradise, shake from thy wings the dew against my forehead. We two were coming up together through the sweet land of poesy and dreams, where the senses believe what the heart hopes; our hands were full of green boughs, and our laps of cowslips and violets, white and purple. We were talking of that more beautiful world into which childhood was opening out, when that spectre met us, feared and dreaded alike by the strong man and the little child, and one was taken, and the other left.

One was caught away sinless to the bosom of the Good Shepherd, and one was left to weep pitiless tears, to eat the bread of toil, and to think the bitter thoughts of misery,--left “to clasp a phantom and to find it air.” For often has the adversary pressed me sore, and out of my arms has slid ever that which my soul pronounced good: slid out of my arms and coiled about my feet like a serpent, dragging me back and holding me down from all that is high and great.

Pity me, dear one, if thy sweet sympathies can come out of the glory, if the lovelight of thy beautiful life can press through the cloud and the evil, and fold me again as a garment; pity and plead for me with the maiden mother whose arms in human sorrow and human love cradled our blessed Redeemer.

She hath known our mortal pain and passion--our more than mortal triumph--she hath heard the “blessed art thou among women.” My unavailing prayers goldenly syllabled by her whose name sounds from the manger through all the world, may find acceptance with Him who, though our sins be as scarlet, can wash them white as wool.

Our hearts grew together as one, and along the headlands and the valleys one shadow went before us, and one shadow followed us, till the grave gaped hungry and terrible, and I was alone. Faltering in fear, but lingering in love, I knelt by the deathbed--it was the middle night, and the first moans of the autumn came down from the hills, for the frost specks glinted on her golden robes, and the wind blew chill in her bosom. Heaven was full of stars, and the half-moon scattered abroad her beauty like a silver rain. Many have been the middle nights since then, for years lie between me and that fearfulest of all watches; but a shadow, a sound, or a thought, turns the key of the dim chamber, and the scene is reproduced.

I see the long locks on the pillow, the smile on the ashen lips, the thin, cold fingers faintly pressing my own, and hear the broken voice saying, “I am going now. I am not afraid. Why weep ye? Though I were to live the full time allotted to man, I should not be more ready, nor more willing than now.” But over this there comes a shudder and a groan that all the mirthfulness of the careless was impotent to drown.

Three days previous to the death-night, three days previous to the transit of the soul from the clayey tabernacle to the house not; made with hands--from dishonour to glory--let me turn theme over as so many leaves.

The first of the November mornings, but the summer had tarried late, and the wood to the south of our homestead lifted itself like a painted wall against the sky--the squirrel was leaping nimbly and chattering gayly among the fiery tops of the oaks or the dun foliage of the hickory, that shot up its shelving trunk and spread its forked branches far over the smooth, moss-spotted boles of the beeches, and the limber boughs of the elms. Lithe and blithe he was, for his harvest was come.

From the cracked beech-burs was dropping the sweet, angular fruit, and down from the hickory boughs with every gust fell a shower of nuts--shelling clean and silvery from their thick black hulls.

Now and then, across the stubble-field, with long cars erect, leaped the gray hare, but for the most part he kept close in his burrow, for rude huntsmen were on the hills with their dogs, and only when the sharp report of a rifle rung through the forest, or the hungry yelping of some trailing hound startled his harmless slumber, might you see at the mouth of his burrow the quivering lip and great timid eyes.

Along the margin of the creek, shrunken now away from the blue and gray and yellowish stones that made its cool pavement, and projected in thick layers from the shelving banks, the white columns of gigantic sycamores leaped earthward, their bases driven, as it seemed, deep into the ground--all their convolutions of roots buried out, of view. Dropping into the stagnant waters below, came one by one the broad, rose-tinted leaves, breaking the shadows of the silver limbs.

Ruffling and widening to the edges of the pools went the circles, as the pale, yellow walnuts plashed into their midst; for here, too, grew the parent trees, their black bark cut and jagged and broken into rough diamond work.

That beautiful season was come when

“Rustic girls in hoods Go gleaning through the woods.”

Two days after this, we said, my dear mate and I, we shall have a holiday, and from sunrise till sunset, with our laps full of ripe nuts and orchard fruits, we shall make pleasant pastime.

Rosalie, for so I may call her, was older than I, with a face of beauty and a spirit that never flagged. But to-day there was heaviness in her eyes, and a flushing in her cheek that was deeper than had been there before.

Still she spoke gayly, and smiled the old smile, for the gaunt form of sickness had never been among us children, and we knew not how his touch made the head sick and the heart faint.

The day looked forward to so anxiously dawned at last; but in the dim chamber of Rosalie the light fell sad. I must go alone.

We had always been together before, at work and in play, asleep and awake, and I lingered long ere I would be persuaded to leave her; but when she smiled and said the fresh-gathered nuts and shining apples would make her glad, I wiped her forehead, and turning quickly away that she might not see my tears, was speedily wading through winrows of dead leaves.

The sensations of that day I shall never forget; a vague and trembling fear of some coming evil, I knew not what, made me often start as the shadows drifted past me, or a bough crackled beneath my feet.

From the low, shrubby hawthorns, I gathered the small red apples, and from beneath the maples, picked by their slim golden stems the notched and gorgeous leaves. The wind fingered playfully my hair, and clouds of birds went whirring through the tree-tops; but no sight nor sound could divide my thoughts from her whose voice had so often filled with music these solitary places.

I remember when first the fear distinctly defined itself. I was seated on a mossy log, counting the treasures which I had been gathering, when the clatter of hoof-strokes on the clayey and hard-beaten road arrested my attention, and, looking up--for the wood thinned off in the direction of the highway, and left it distinctly in view--I saw Doctor H----, the physician, in attendance upon my sick companion. The visit was an unseasonable one. She, whom I loved so, might never come with me to the woods any more.

Where the hill sloped to the roadside, and the trees, as I said, were but few, was the village graveyard. No friend of mine, no one whom I had ever known or loved, was buried there--yet with a child's instinctive dread of death, I had ever passed its shaggy solitude (for shrubs and trees grew there wild and unattended) with a hurried step and averted face.

Now, for the first time in my life, I walked voluntarily thitherward, and climbing on a log by the fence-side, gazed long and earnestly within. I stood beneath a tall locust-tree, and the small, round leaves; yellow now as the long cloud-bar across the sunset, kept dropping, and dropping at my feet, till all the faded grass was covered up. There the mattock had never been struck; but in fancy I saw the small Heaves falling and drifting about a new and smooth-shaped mound--and, choking with the turbulent outcry in my heart, I glided stealthily homeward--alas! to find the boding shape I had seen through mists and, shadows awfully palpable. I did not ask about Rosalie. I was afraid; but with my rural gleanings in my lap, opened the door of her chamber. The physician had preceded me but a moment, and, standing by the bedside, was turning toward the lessening light the little wasted hand, the one on which I had noticed in the morning a small purple spot. “Mortification!” he said, abruptly, and moved away, as though his work were done.

There was a groan expressive of the sudden and terrible consciousness which had in it the agony of agonies--the giving up of all. The gift I had brought fell from my relaxed grasp, and, hiding my face in the pillow, I gave way to the passionate sorrow of an undisciplined nature.

When at last I looked up, there was a smile on her lips that no faintest moan ever displaced again.

A good man and a skilful physician was Dr. H----, but his infirmity was a love of strong drink; and, therefore, was it that he softened not the terrible blow which must soon have fallen. I link with his memory no reproaches now, for all this is away down in the past; and that foe that sooner or later biteth like a serpent, soon did his work; but then my breaking heart judged him, hardly. Often yet, for in all that is saddest memory is faithfulest, I wake suddenly out of sleep, and live over that first and bitterest sorrow of my life; and there is no house of gladness in the world that with a whisper will not echo the moan of lips pale with the kisses of death.

Sometimes, when life is gayest about me, an unseen hand leads me apart, and opening the door of that still chambers I go in--the yellow leaves are at my feet again, and that white band between me and the light.

I see the blue flames quivering and curling close and the smouldering embers on the hearth. I hear soft footsteps and sobbing voices and see the clasped hands and placid smile of her who, alone among us all, was untroubled; and over the darkness and the pain I hear voice, saying, “She is not dead, but sleepeth.” Would, dear reader, that you might remember, and I too all ways, the importance of soft and careful words. One harsh or even thoughtlessly chosen epithet, may bear with it a weight which shall weigh down some heart through all life. There are for us all nights of sorrow, in which we feel their value. Help us, our Father, to remember it!

MR. QUERY'S INVESTIGATION.

“HE is a good man, suppose, and an excellent doctor,” said Mrs. Salina Simmons, with a dubious shake of her head but----”

“But what, Mrs. Simmons?”

“They say he _drinks!_”

“No, impossible!” exclaimed Mr. Josiah Query, with emphasis.

“Impossible? I hope so,” said Mrs. Simmons. “And--mind you, I don't say he _drinks_, but that such is the report. And I have it upon tolerably good authority, too, Mr. Query.”

“What authority?”

“Oh, I couldn't tell that: for you know I never like to make mischief. I can only say that the _report_ is--he drinks.”

Mr. Josiah Query scratched his head.

“Can it be that Dr. Harvey drinks?” he murmured. “I thought him pure Son of Temperance. And his my family physician, too! I must look into this matter forthwith. Mrs. Simmons, you still decline slating who is your authority for this report?”

Mrs. Simmons was firm; her companion could gain no satisfaction. She soon compelled him to promise that he would not mention her name, if he spoke of the affair elsewhere, repeating her remark that she never liked to make mischief.

Dr. Harvey was a physician residing in a small village, where he shared the profits of practice with another doctor, named Jones. Dr. Harvey was generally liked and among his friends was Mr. Josiah Query, whom Mrs. Simmons shocked with the bit of gossip respecting the doctor's habits of intemperance. Mr. Query was a good-hearted man, and he deemed it his duty to inquire into the nature of the report, and learn if it had any foundation in truth. Accordingly, he went to Mr. Green, who also employed the doctor in his family.

“Mr. Green,” said he, “have you heard anything about this report of Dr. Harvey's intemperance?”

“Dr. Harvey's intemperance?” cried Mr. Green, astonished.

“Yes--a flying report.”

“No, I'm sure I haven't.”

“Of course, then, you don't know whether it is true or not?”

“What?”

“That he drinks.”

“I never heard of it before. Dr. Harvey is my family physician, and I certainly would not employ a man addicted to the use of ardent spirits.”

“Nor I,” said Mr. Query “and for this reason, and for the doctor's sake, too, I want to know the truth of the matter. I don't really credit it myself; but I thought it would do no harm to inquire.”

Mr. Query next applied to Squire Worthy for information.

“Dear me!” exclaimed the squire, who was a nervous man; “does Dr. Harvey drink?”

“Such is the rumour; how true it is, I can't say.”

“And what if he should give one of my family a dose of arsenic instead of the tincture of rhubarb, some time, when he is intoxicated? My mind is made up now. I shall send for Dr. Jones in future.”

“But, dear sir,” remonstrated Mr. Query. “I don't say the report is true.”

“Oh, no; you wouldn't wish to commit yourself. You like to know the safe side, and so do I. I shall employ Dr. Jones.”

Mr. Query turned sorrowfully away.

“Squire Worthy must have bad suspicions of the doctor's intemperance before I came to him,” thought he; “I really begin to fear that there is some foundation for the report. I'll go to Mrs. Mason; she will know.”

Mr. Query found Mrs. Mason ready to listen to and believe any scandal. She gave her head a significant toss, as if she knew more about the report than she chose to confess.

Mr. Query begged of her to explain herself.

“Oh, _I_ sha'n't say anything,” exclaimed Mrs. Mason; “I've no ill will against Dr. Harvey, and I'd rather cut off my right hand than injure him.”

“But is the report true?”

“True, Mr. Query? Do you suppose _I_ ever saw Dr. Harvey drunk? Then how can you expect me to know? Oh, I don't wish to say anything against the man, and I won't.”

After visiting Mrs. Mason, Mr. Query went to half a dozen others to learn the truth respecting Dr. Harvey's habits. Nobody would confess that they knew anything, about his drinking; but Mr. Smith “was not as much surprised as others might be;” Mr. Brown “was sorry if the report was true,” adding, that the best of men had their faults. Miss Single had frequently remarked the doctor's florid complexion, and wondered if his colour was natural; Mr. Clark remembered that the doctor appeared unusually gay, on the occasion of his last visit to his family; Mrs. Rogers declared that, when she came to reflect, she believed she had once or twice smelt the man's breath; and Mr. Impulse had often seen him riding at an extraordinary rate for a sober Gentleman. Still Mr. Query was unable to ascertain any definite facts respecting the unfavourable report.

Meanwhile, with his usual industry, Dr. Harvey went about his business, little suspecting the scandalous gossip that was circulating to his discredit. But he soon perceived he was very coldly received by some of his old friends, and that others employed Dr. Jones. Nobody sent for him, and he might have begun to think that the health of the town was entirely re-established, had he not observed that his rival appeared driven with business, and that he rode night and day.

One evening Dr. Harvey sat in his office, wondering what could have occasioned the sudden and surprising change in his affairs, when, contrary to his expectations, he received a call to visit a sick child of one of his old friends, who had lately employed his rival. After some hesitation, and a struggle between pride and a sense of duty, he resolved to respond to the call, and at the same time learn, if possible, why he had been preferred to Dr. Jones, and why Dr. Jones had on other occasions been preferred to him.

“The truth is, Dr. Harvey,” said Mr. Miles, “we thought the child dangerously ill, and as Dr. Jones could not come immediately, we concluded to send for you.”

“I admire your frankness,” responded Dr. Harvey, smiling; “and shall admire it still more, if you will inform me why you have lately preferred Dr. Jones to me. Formerly I had the honour of enjoying your friendship and esteem, and you have frequently told me yourself, that you would trust no other physician.”

“Well,” replied Mr. Miles, “I am a plain man, and never hesitate to tell people what they wish to know. I sent for Dr. Jones instead of you, I confess not that I doubted your skill--”

“What then?”

“It is a delicate subject, but I will, nevertheless, speak out. Although I had the utmost confidence in your skill and faithfulness--I--you know, I--in short, I don't like to trust a physician who drinks.”

“Sir!” cried the astonished doctor.

“Yes--drinks,” pursued Mr. Miles. “It is plain language, but I am a plain man. I heard of your intemperance, and thought it unsafe--that is, dangerous--to employ you.”

“My intemperance!” ejaculated Dr. Harvey.

“Yes, sir! and I am sorry to know it. But the fact that you sometimes drink a trifle too much is now a well known fact, and is generally talked of in the village.”

“Mr. Miles,” cried the indignant doctor, “this is scandalous--it is false! Who is your authority for this report?”

“Oh, I have heard it from several mouths but I can't say exactly who is responsible for the rumour.”

And Mr. Miles went on to mention several names, as connected with the rumour, and among which was that of Mr. Query.

The indignant doctor immediately set out on a pilgrimage of investigation, going from one house to another, in search of the author of the scandal.

Nobody, however, could state where it originated, but it was universally admitted that the man from whose lips it was first heard, was Mr. Query.