Part 14

There is a remedy for this, and for all other selfishness and vanity; it is to go out of ourselves, and be busy with helping others. Petty annoyances slip away and are forgotten when the mind is thus occupied. The wealthy merchant would find it an agreeable variation to the routine of business to interest himself in the welfare and improvement of the sailors he employs. The prosperous farmer would find mind and heart enlarged by helping to bring into general use new and improved varieties of fruits and vegetables; not for mere money-making, but for the common good. And all would be happier for taking an active interest in the welfare of their country, and the progress of the world.

Nothing can be more charming than Dickens’s description of the Cheeryble Brothers, “whose goodness was so constantly a diffusing of itself over everywhere.”

“‘Brother Ned,’ said Mr. Cheeryble, tapping with his knuckles, and stooping to listen, ‘are you busy, my dear brother? or can you spare time for a word or two with me?’

“‘Brother Charles, my dear fellow,’ replied a voice from within, ‘don’t ask me such a question, but come in directly.’ Its tones were so exactly like that which had just spoken, that Nicholas started, and almost thought it was the same.

“They went in without further parley. What was the amazement of Nicholas, when his conductor advanced and exchanged a warm greeting with another old gentleman, the very type and model of himself; the same face, the same figure, the same coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, the same breeches and gaiters; nay, there was the very same white hat hanging against the wall. Nobody could have doubted their being twin brothers. As they shook each other by the hand, the face of each lighted up with beaming looks of affection, which would have been most delightful to behold in infants, and which in men so old was inexpressibly touching.

“‘Brother Ned,’ said Charles, ‘here is a young friend that we must assist. We must make proper inquiries into his statements, and if they are confirmed, as they will be, we must assist him.’

“‘It is enough, my dear brother, that you say we should. When you say that, no further inquiries are needed. He _shall_ be assisted.’

“‘I’ve a plan, my dear brother, I’ve a plan,’ said Charles. ‘Tim Linkinwater is getting old; and Tim has been a faithful servant, brother Ned; and I don’t think pensioning Tim’s mother and sister, and buying a little tomb for the family when his poor brother died, was a sufficient recompense for his faithful services.’

“‘No, no,’ replied the other, ‘not half enough; not half.’

“‘If we could lighten Tim’s duties,’ said the old gentleman, ‘and prevail upon him to go into the country now and then, and sleep in the fresh air two or three times a week, Tim Linkinwater would grow young again in time; and he’s three good years our senior now. Old Tim Linkinwater young again! Eh, brother Ned, eh? Why, I recollect old Tim Linkinwater quite a little boy; don’t you? Ha, ha, ha! Poor Tim! Poor Tim!’ and the fine old fellows laughed pleasantly together; each with a tear of regard for old Tim Linkinwater standing in his eye.

“‘But you must hear this young gentleman’s story,’ said Charles; ‘you’ll be very much affected, brother Ned, remembering the time when _we_ were two friendless lads, and earned our first shilling in this great city.’

“The twins pressed each other’s hands in silence, and, in his own homely manner, Charles related the particulars he had just heard from Nicholas. It is no disparagement to the young man to say that, at every fresh expression of their kindness and sympathy, he could only wave his hand and sob like a child.

“‘But we are keeping our young friend too long, my dear brother,’ said Charles. ‘His poor mother and sister will be anxious for his return. So good by for the present. Good by. No, not a word now. Good by.’ And the brothers hurried him out, shaking hands with him all the way, and affecting, very unsuccessfully (for they were poor hands at deception), to be wholly unconscious of the feelings that mastered him.

“The next day, he was appointed to the vacant stool in the counting-house of Cheeryble Brothers, with a salary of one hundred and twenty pounds a year. ‘And I think, my dear brother,’ said Charles, ‘that if we were to let them that little cottage at Bow, something under the usual rent--Eh, brother Ned?’

“‘For nothing at all,’ said his brother, ‘We are rich, and should be ashamed to touch the rent under such circumstances as these. For nothing at all, my dear brother.’

“‘Perhaps it would be better to say something,’ suggested the other, mildly. ‘We might say fifteen or twenty pound; and if it was punctually paid, make it up to them in some other way. It would help to preserve habits of frugality, you know, and remove any painful sense of overwhelming obligation. And I might secretly advance a small loan toward a little furniture; and you might secretly advance another small loan, brother Ned. And if we find them doing well we can change the loans into gifts; carefully, and by degrees, without pressing upon them too much. What do you say now, brother?’

“Brother Ned gave his hand upon it, and not only said it should be done, but had it done. And in one short week, Nicholas took possession of his stool, and his mother and sister took possession of the house; and all was hope, bustle, and lightheartedness.”

There are Cheeryble old bachelors in real life; genial souls, and genuine benefactors to mankind. When they are so, I think they deserve more credit than married men of similar characters; for the genial virtues are fostered by kindly domestic influences, as fruit is matured and sweetened by the sunshine.

The dog in the kennel growls at his fleas; the dog that is busy hunting does not feel them.

CHINESE PROVERB.

TAKING IT EASY.

BY GEORGE H. CLARK.

Admit that I am slightly bald,-- Pray, who’s to blame for that? And who is wiser for the fact, Until I lift my hat? Beneath the brim my barbered locks Fall in a careless way, Wherein my watchful wife can spy No lurking threads of gray.

What though, to read compactest print, I’m forced to hold my book A little farther off than when Life’s first degree I took? A yoke of slightly convex lens The needful aid bestows, And you should see how wise I look With it astride my nose.

Don’t talk of the infernal pangs That rheumatism brings! I’m getting used to pains and aches, And all those sort of things. And when the imp Sciatica Makes his malicious call, I do not need an almanac To tell me it is fall.

Besides, it gives one quite an air To travel with a cane, And makes folk think you “well to do,” Although you are in pain. A fashionable hat may crown Genteelest coat and vest, But ah! the sturdy stick redeems And sobers all the rest.

A man deprived of natural sleep Becomes a stupid elf, And only steals from Father Time To stultify himself. So, if you’d be a jovial soul, And laugh at life’s decline, Take my advice,--turn off the gas, And go to bed at nine!

An easy-cushioned rocking-chair Suits me uncommon well; And so do liberal shoes,--like these,-- With room for corns to swell; I cotton to the soft lamb’s-wool That lines my gloves of kid, And love elastic home-made socks,-- Indeed, I always did.

But what disturbs me more than all Is, that sarcastic boys Prefer to have me somewhere else, When they are at their noise; That while I try to look and act As like them as I can, They will persist in _mister_-ing me, And calling me a man!

* * * * *

True--Time will seam and blanch my brow. Well, I shall sit with aged men, And my good glass will tell me how A grisly beard becomes me then.

And should no foul dishonor lie Upon my head, when I am gray, Love yet shall watch my fading eye, And smooth the path of my decay.

Then haste thee, Time,--’tis kindness all That speeds thy wingèd feet so fast; Thy pleasures stay not till they pall, And all thy pains are quickly past.

Thou fliest and bear’st away our woes, And, as thy shadowy train depart, The memory of sorrow grows A lighter burden on the heart.

W. C. BRYANT.

OLD AUNTY.

The following is a true story. I well remember the worthy old woman, who sat in Washington Park, behind a table covered with apples and nuts. I also know the family of the little Joanna, who used to carry her a cup of hot tea and warm rolls from one of the big houses in the adjoining Square, and who got up a petition to the Mayor in her behalf. It is a humble picture; but a soft, warm light falls on it from poor Old Aunty’s self-sacrificing devotion to her orphans, and from the mutual love between her and the children of the neighborhood.

L. M. C.

All the children knew Old Aunty. Every day, in rain or shine, she sat there in the Park, with her little store of candies, cakes, and cigars, spread on a wooden box. Her cheerful smile and hearty “God bless you!” were always ready for the children, whether they bought of her or not. If they stopped to purchase, she gave right generous measure, heaping the nuts till they rolled off the top of the pint, and often throwing in a cake or stick of candy; so generous was her heart.

Like all unselfish people, Aunty was happy as the days are long. Had you followed her home at night, you would have seen her travel down a poor old street, narrow and musty, and climb the broken stairs of a poor old house that was full of other lodgers, some of them noisy, disorderly, and intemperate. When she opened the creaking door of her one small room, you would have seen the boards loose in the floor, little furniture, very little that looked like rest or comfort, like _home_ for a tired body that had toiled full seventy years, and had once known the pleasure of a cheerful fireside and a full house.

But presently you would hear the patter of little feet, and the music of children’s voices, and little hands at work with the rusty door-latch, till open it flew. You would have heard two merry little creatures shouting, “Granny’s come home! Dear Granny’s come home!” You would have seen them dancing about her, clapping their hands, and saying, “O we’re so glad, so glad you’ve come back!” These are the orphan grandchildren, to feed and clothe whom Old Aunty is willing to walk so far, and sit so long in the cold, and earn penny by penny, as the days go by.

She kindles no fire, for it is not winter yet, and the poor can eat their supper cold; but the children’s love and a well-spent day kindle a warmth and a light in the good dame’s heart, such as I fear seldom beams in some of those great stately houses in the Square.

With such a home, it is not strange that Aunty liked to sit under the pleasant trees of the Parade Ground (for so the Park was called), breathe the fresh air, and watch the orderly people going to and fro. Many stopped to exchange a word with her; even the police officers, in their uniforms, liked a chat with the sociable old lady; and the children, on their way to school, were never too hurried for a “Good morning, Aunty!” that would leave a smile on her wrinkled face, long after they had bounded out of sight.

It was nearly as good as if Aunty had a farm of her own; for it is always country up in the sky, you know; in the beautiful blue, among the soft clouds, and along the tops of the trees. Even in that dismal, musty street, where she lived, she could see the sunshine, and the wonderful stars at evening. Then all about the Parade Ground stood the fine great houses of Washington Square; and leading from it, that Fifth Avenue, which is said to be the most splendid street in the world,--whole miles of palaces.

“Don’t I enjoy them all, without having the care of them?” Aunty used to say.

When we asked if she didn’t grow tired of sitting there all day, she would answer, “Sure, and who isn’t tired sometimes, rich or poor?”

“But is not the ground damp, Aunty?”

“I expect it is, especially after a rain; but what then? It only gives me the rheumatism; and that is _all_ the trouble I have. God be praised!”

“But it is so cold now, Aunty; so late in November; and you are so old; it isn’t safe.”

“O, but it’s safer than to have my children starve or turn beggars, I guess. I have my old umbrella when it rains or snows, and them’s my harvest-days, you see; for there’s a deal of pity in the world. And besides, the children in that house yonder, often bring me out a hot cup of tea at luncheon-time, or cakes of good warm bread in the morning. Let me alone for being happy!”

But earthly happiness hangs on a slight thread. There came a change in the city government; Aunty’s good friends among the police were removed; the new officers proved their zeal by making every change they could think of. “New brooms sweep clean,” and they swept off from the Parade Ground, poor Aunty, and all her stock in trade.

But in one of the houses opposite Aunty’s corner of the Park, lived a family of children who took especial interest in her; Charlie, Willie, Vincent, and Joanna, and I can’t tell how many more. It was they who christened her “Aunty,” till all the neighbors, old and young, took up the name; it was they who, on wintry days, had offered her the hot cup of tea, and the warm bread. They almost felt as if she were an own relative, or a grown-up child given them to protect and comfort.

One morning, Joanna looked up from the breakfast-table, and exclaimed, “There! Aunty is not in the Park; they have sent her away!”

The children had feared this change. You may guess how eagerly they ran to the window, and with what mournful faces they exclaimed again and again, “It is too bad!” They would eat no more breakfast; they could think and talk of nothing but Aunty’s wrongs.

It was a bleak December day, and there the poor old woman sat outside the iron railing, no pleasant trees above her, but dust and dead leaves blowing wildly about. Charlie said, with tears in his eyes, “It’s enough to blind poor Old Aunty.”

“It’s enough to ruin her candy,” said Joanna, who was a practical little body. She had a look in her eyes that was better than tears; a look that seemed to say, “Her candy shall _not_ be ruined. Aunty shall go back to her rightful place.”

We did not know about Aunty’s having any _right_ to her old seat; but we all agreed that it was far better for her to sit near the path that ran slantwise through the Park, and was trodden by hundreds and thousands of feet every day; clerks going to Sixth Avenue, and merchants to Broadway; newsmen, porters, school-children, teachers, preachers, invalids; there was no end to the people. Many a cake or apple they had taken from Aunty’s board, and in their haste, or kindness, never waited for change to the bit of silver they tossed her.

In New York every one is in such a hurry that unless you are almost under their feet they cannot see you. For this reason, on the day of Aunty’s absence, she had the grief of watching many old friends and customers go past, give a surprised look at her old seat, and hurry on, never observing her, though she sat so near.

A few, who espied Aunty, stopped in their haste to hear her story and condole with her. The children found her out, you may be sure, and gathered about her, telling her how much too bad it was; and how they should like to set the policemen, Mayor and all, out there on a bench in the dust, for one half-hour; but what could children do? So they passed on. Some of the fashionable ladies in the Square stopped to tell Aunty how they pitied her, begged her not to feel unhappy, and passed on. Only Trouble stood still and frowned at her; all the rest passed on.

No, not all; not our little Joanna. She came home with a thoughtful face, and asked, very energetically, “What do you mean to do about Aunty? It is a shame that all these rich, strong, grown-up people on the Square, cannot stand up for the rights of one poor old woman.”

We told her the city was richer than the richest, stronger than the strongest.

“O,” persisted Joanna, “if we, or any of them, wanted a new lamp-post, or a hydrant mended, we should muster strength fast enough. And now, what’s to become of Aunty and her poor children? that is all I ask.”

We smiled at Joey’s enthusiasm, and thought it would soon pass away. When she came home from school that afternoon, with a whole troop of little girls, we thought it had already passed away. As they ran down the area-steps, we wondered what amusement they were planning now. Presently, Joanna came up-stairs, her eyes looking very bright, and said, “Please give me the inkstand.”

We asked, “What now, child?”

“O, do just give me the inkstand!” said she, impatiently. “We are not in any mischief; we are attending to _business_”; and off she ran.

Before very long she appeared again with a paper, her black eyes burning like stars. “There, mother,--and all of you,--you must sign this letter, as quick as ever you can. I have made a statement of Aunty’s case; all the children have signed their names; and now we are going to every house in the Square, till we have a good long list.”

“And what then?”

“I shall ask father to take it to the Mayor. He won’t be so unreasonable as to refuse us; no one could.”

Joanna had written out Aunty’s story, in her own simple, direct way. She told how this nice, neat, pleasant old person had been turned out of the Park; how the children all had liked her, and found it convenient to buy at her table; and how she never scolded if they dropped papers and nutshells about, but took her own little pan and brush and swept them away; she was so orderly. She ended her letter with a petition that the Mayor would be so good to the children, and this excellent old grandmother, as to let her go back to her old seat.

If the Mayor could refuse, we could not; so our names went down on the paper; and before the ink was dry, off ran Joanna. The hall-door slammed, and we saw her with all her friends run up the steps of the neighboring houses, full of excitement and hope.

Nearly all the families that lived in the great houses of Washington Square were rich; and some of them proud and selfish, perhaps; for money sometimes does sad mischief to the hearts of people. We asked ourselves, “What will they care for old Aunty?”

Whatever their tempers might be, however, when the lady or gentleman came and saw the bright, eager faces, and the young eyes glistening with sympathy, and the little hands pointing out there at the aged woman on the sidewalk,--while they were in their gilded and cushioned houses,--they could not refuse a name, and the list swelled fast.

At one house lived three Jewesses, who were so pleased with the children’s scheme, that they not only gave their own names, but obtained many more. “They are Jews, ma’am, but they’re Christians!” said Aunty afterwards; by which she meant, it is not _names_, but _actions_, that prove us followers of the loving, compassionate Christ.

So large was the Square, so many houses to visit, that the ladies’ help was very welcome. They could state Aunty’s case with propriety; and what with their words and the children’s eloquent faces, all went well.

So the paper was filled with signatures, and Joanna’s father took it to the Mayor. He smiled, and signed his name, in big letters, to an order that Aunty should return at once to her old seat, and have all the privileges she had ever enjoyed in the Park; and the next morning there she was, in her own old corner!

As soon as she came, the children ran out to welcome her. As she shook hands with them, and looked up in their pleased faces, we saw her again and again wipe the tears from her old eyes.

Everybody that spoke to Aunty that day, congratulated her; and when the schools in the neighborhood were dismissed, the scholars and teachers went together, in procession, and bought everything Aunty had to sell; till the poor old woman could only cover her face and cry, to think that she had so many friends. If ever you go to the Parade Ground, in New York, you may talk with old Aunty, and ask her if this story is not true.

B.

RICHARD AND KATE.

A SUFFOLK BALLAD.

The following verses were written by Robert Bloomfield, an English shoemaker, more than sixty years ago, when the working-classes of England had far more limited opportunities for obtaining education than they now have. Criticism could easily point out imperfections in the style of this simple story, but the consolations of age among the poor are presented in such a touching manner that it is worthy of preservation.

“Come, Goody! stop your humdrum wheel! Sweep up your orts, and get your hat! Old joys revived once more I feel, ’Tis Fair-day! Ay, and _more_ than that!

“Have you forgot, Kate, prithee say, How many seasons here we’ve tarried? ’Tis forty years, this very day, Since you and I, old girl, were _married_.

“Look out! The sun shines warm and bright; The stiles are low, the paths all dry: I know you cut your corns last night; Come! be as free from care as I.

“For I’m resolved once more to see That place where we so often met; Though few have had more cares than we, We’ve none just now to make us fret.”

Kate scorned to damp the generous flame, That warmed her aged partner’s breast; Yet, ere determination came, She thus some trifling doubts expressed:--

“Night will come on, when seated snug, And you’ve perhaps begun some tale; Can you then leave your dear stone mug? Leave all the folks, and all the ale?”

“Ay, Kate, I wool; because I know, Though time _has_ been we both could run, Such days are gone and over now. I only mean to see the fun.”

His mattock he behind the door, And hedging gloves, again replaced; And looked across the yellow moor, And urged his tottering spouse to haste.

The day was up, the air serene, The firmament without a cloud; The bees hummed o’er the level green, Where knots of trembling cowslips bowed.

And Richard thus, with heart elate, As past things rushed across his mind, Over his shoulder talked to Kate, Who, snug tucked up, walked slow behind:

“When once a giggling mauther[G] you, And I a red-faced, chubby boy, Sly tricks you played me, not a few; For mischief was your greatest joy.

“Once, passing by this very tree, A gotch[H] of milk I’d been to fill; You shouldered me; then laughed to see Me and my gotch spin down the hill.”

“’Tis true,” she said; “but here behold, And marvel at the course of time! Though you and I are both grown old, This tree is only in its prime.”

“Well, Goody, don’t stand preaching now! Folks don’t preach sermons at a Fair. We’ve reared ten boys and girls, you know; And I’ll be bound they’ll all be there.”

Now friendly nods and smiles had they, From many a kind Fair-going face; And many a pinch Kate gave away, While Richard kept his usual pace.

At length, arrived amid the throng, Grandchildren, bawling, hemmed them round, And dragged them by the skirts along, Where gingerbread bestrewed the ground.

And soon the aged couple spied Their lusty sons, and daughters dear; When Richard thus exulting cried: “Didn’t I _tell_ you they’d be here?”

The cordial greetings of the soul Were visible in every face; Affection, void of all control, Governed with a resistless grace.

’Twas good to see the honest strife, Who should contribute most to please; And hear the long-recounted life, Of infant tricks and happy days.