Part 4

The other inmate sits constantly looking out of the back window. The gloomy prospect depresses and sours her; and when she does open her lips, it is generally to complain. Yet neither of these persons is forced to gaze thus on the prospect which so affects her. Each sits by the window she has chosen for herself.

Now, we all live in houses with front windows and back windows. At which of them do we choose, for the most of our time, to sit?

JOB NICKEL.

A MAN by the name of Job Nickel, who was about emigrating to a new home, bought a stout horse and strong wagon—the best his means would afford—and, packing his family into it, with such household goods as could be carried beside, started on his journey. He had not gone far when he was overtaken by another family travelling in the same direction, but driving a pair of fine horses to a handsome carriage. The difference in outfit, however, did not prevent the occupants of the carriage from making acquaintance with the family in the wagon. They first looked at them smilingly, then nodded, and presently got into conversation.

As their destination was the same and it was pleasanter to travel in company than alone, Job gave his horse a sharp cut, to keep up with his new friends; and the travellers kept together until night, when, coming to a green spot with a spring of pure water upon it, they encamped there, as is the custom with emigrants on the road.

The next morning, before harnessing up, the occupants of the carriage begged Job to let his eldest daughter—a bright little girl of twelve—ride with them. The child’s mother and Job himself were pleased at this attention, and after fishing out her best dress from the bottom of a chest, and hastily putting it on, the invitation was accepted. But when they started for the day, the pair travelled so much faster than the one horse that the carriage soon left the wagon behind; sometimes it was visible a good way ahead, and sometimes was quite out of sight. Yet, as his little girl was in it, Job felt bound to keep as near it as he could, though this required, especially in going-up hill, the constant urging of his horse and not unfrequent use of the whip.

While hurrying along the road in this way Job came up with a neighbor who, like himself, drove only one horse. But so anxious was Job to get on that he passed his old friend without speaking. It must be admitted, too, that Job felt with his new acquaintance, if he could only keep up with them, he was travelling in more distinguished company. Thus the second day passed, and the travellers again encamped together, Job, after taking the harness off his own horse, helping to unharness the pair.

The next morning his friends consented to let the little girl return to her parents in the wagon provided her brother be allowed to take her place. So the girl went back, very much dissatisfied, and the boy succeeded her. And thus the two vehicles continued in company day after day. Sometimes the boy was in the carriage, and sometimes the girl; and once one of the children from the carriage came and rode in the wagon. Meanwhile, the intimacy between the families constantly increased, no account being taken of their differing circumstances. While these things were going on, both Job and his wife could not help secretly thinking that, as their children happened to be of like ages, this intimacy might some day become closer still; yet neither one (as they felt in their hearts ashamed of it) mentioned this thought to the other.

But all this time, notwithstanding his apparent friendship, the owner of the carriage never once slackened his pace to accommodate Job. As a consequence, the work of keeping up with him became harder than ever. Job had now to lash his horse at almost every step, by doing which he was just able to follow close at the tail of the carriage. But in dry weather he was always in a cloud of dust, and in wet weather was being splashed with the mud thrown up by the wheels in front of him; so that, wet or dry, he was equally miserable.

But the worst was yet to come. After Job had been thus laboriously working his way for about half the distance he was to travel, one morning, on going out early to feed his horse, the animal was found still lying down; and when Job tried to rouse him, he refused to get up—alas! with good reason: he could not. And within an hour the poor overworked beast was dead.

By this time the sun had risen, and the carriage was all ready to start; but before doing so the family that travelled in it came over to where Job stood, showing great pity for him. They were loud in their expressions of sorrow, but the father said, as he had promised to be at a point beyond by a certain hour, he would have to go on. Just then another carriage, containing some of his acquaintance, came along, and he cracked his whip and was soon out of sight. As he drove off Job saw for the first time the man’s name—S. Silver. It was printed upon the end of a trunk which they had taken from the inside and put on the top of the carriage.

“Ah!” exclaimed Job, “now I know who he is. His first name is Sterling. He had a bank in the county-town next to ours, and a sad fool has poor Job Nickel been in trying all this while to keep up with Sterling Silver! I deserve all I have got.—Well, wife,” he continued, “here we are with our horse dead, our grand acquaintances gone, and plenty of time to reflect on our folly.”

As he spoke his old friend with the one horse, whom Job had passed on the road without noticing, came trudging comfortably by. Job turned toward him ready to speak, but the man did not notice him. As he disappeared Job looked around at his wife, and, seeing her wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, he said:

“Happily, my dear, we’ve got a small sum left in the bottom of the chest, with which we’ll try to buy another horse—the best we can get for it. But after this we’ll go along at our own gait, no matter who goes before or follows after us.”

* * * * *

He who is dissatisfied and unthankful in his own proper sphere, by trying to climb higher sinks lower than ever before.

THE UNUSED LOOM.

A MAN who had inherited a plain but comfortable house with a lot of ground around it went there to live. He found, on looking through the house, that, beside the furniture it contained suitable to his daily wants, there was in one of the upper rooms a curiously-made loom. It was a complicated machine, and he could see at a glance a valuable one; but he could see also that it would require his best skill as well as a good deal of hard work to keep it in motion. Not caring to put these forth just then, instead of attempting to run it, he let it stand.

As he had to earn his living, however, and was not, in truth, a lazy man, he employed himself in other ways, tilling his ground and, when he had that in perfect order for the time being, hiring himself out to do farm-work for his neighbors. But he was, at best, a poor hand at this sort of work, an ordinary day-laborer easily outstripping him; so that, although he managed to live, by the end of the year, if he was not actually behindhand, he was sure to have nothing over.

But while he worked in the soil he never forgot his loom. And sometimes when the work was harder and money scarcer than usual he would go up to the room where it was stored, and open the door and stand looking at it. Yet as soon as he realized afresh the labor both of mind and body required to run it, he shut to the door again and went back to day’s work with his pick and shovel.

But at length his pressing needs and a deepening conviction that he could better his condition induced him to undertake what he had shrunk from so long; he began clearing away from his loom the dust and dirt that had accumulated about it, determined to persevere until he had put it in perfect running order. And, having once begun the work, he found at each step of its progress that his interest increased, and that the strength and skill required were forthcoming as occasion demanded.

Finally, every part being ready, he put in the warp and the shuttle, and set it in motion. Then he himself was surprised at the result. The fabric it wove was both serviceable and beautiful, and there was at once a demand for all he could make. The people of the village where he lived, and of the neighborhood for miles around, flocked to his house to secure it; and he felt for the first time, though after many precious years had been wasted, that he was engaged in the work he was best qualified for. And while serving others he was also benefiting himself; for, instead of making but a bare living, as before, he was able now to lay up a considerable sum from his earnings every year.

* * * * *

We may possess valuable talents without profiting by them. Talent furnishes the machinery; application, the power to drive it. It is only by putting the two together that we shall secure the prize within our reach.

CROWING.

EARLY one morning, while the fowls were waiting around the kitchen door for their breakfast, a spring chicken attempted to crow, but succeeded only in uttering a feeble squawk.

A young cock, hearing this, stood up and crowed loud and clear, saying to the other:

“You’d better be still till you can crow like that.”

To which a guinea-hen that was restlessly flitting about replied with a shrill, high voice:

“It was only the spring before last when you did no better yourself!”

“Impossible!” said the cock. “It must be some other chicken you are thinking of.”

“Not so,” replied the guinea. “I remember you ever since you were hatched—while you were a little chick sleeping under your mother’s wing, when you grew bigger and first flew up to the roost, and how like this spring chicken’s your crowing was then, only with this difference: you were so conceited that the whole barnyard was laughing at you. All this is forgotten now, luckily for you. But take my advice: be tender of the failings of others, lest your own be recalled and displayed in full light.”

* * * * *

Let us not refuse to pardon in others what we, through others’ kindness, have been pardoned for ourselves.

PETER CRISP’S SPECTACLES.

PETER CRISP had something the matter with his eyes; he needed spectacles to help him see. But this was no uncommon misfortune: hundreds of people who do ten good hours’ work every day, use spectacles, and cannot get along without them. No; the trouble in Peter’s case was not in having to wear spectacles, but in the particular kind of spectacles that he wore. They seemed to have the strange quality of undergoing a change of color at certain times; so that everything seen through them underwent a corresponding change.

At one time they took on a dark color—almost black. And, as this made everything look dark and gloomy, he was made to feel accordingly.

“I could iron these collars better myself,” he exclaimed one morning as he was dressing, after putting on these glasses. And a few moments later: “Not a single pin in this cushion, as usual!” And presently again: “Who _has_ taken away my comb and brush?” though both of these useful articles were lying within his reach, and just where he himself had left them.

Had any of the children chanced to come into the room about that time, it would have been an unlucky visit for them.

When he sat down to breakfast, it was with a frown upon his brow, and a deep wrinkle between his eyes, caused, apparently, by the weight of the spectacles.

“Bridget never did make a good cup of coffee in her life,” he remarked.—“My dear,” he continued, turning to his wife, “I do wish you would take the trouble to go down once—_only_ once—and show her how.”

Mrs. Crisp ventured to answer in a meek voice that she went down every morning. Peter had no reply—especially no thanks—to offer for this; but he took another sip, puckered up his lips as though he had swallowed a dose of medicine, and pushed the cup away from him.

After this cheerful breakfast he put on his hat to go to the store (for Peter was a business-man); but when he had gone as far as the front door, he came back with a quick step to the foot of the stairs, and there stood calling out in a loud voice that he really felt ashamed at the condition of the steps and the sidewalk. No others in the neighborhood, he declared, looked so shabby.

In the street a few minutes afterward he was joined by a fellow business man, and as they walked down town together Peter was as gay and lively as any one could have wished him to be. The two talked with each other about the fine weather and their prosperous trade, and even touched on their happy families. And when they spied a bachelor-friend in the distance, Peter grew merry at his expense, and expressed pity for him as a poor fellow who had no home!

But when, a little later, he entered his counting-room alone, it was plain he had the dark glasses on still. Not a man about the establishment worked as he should do, he said. It used to be different when he was a boy. Then he turned and went out of the house with a look of disgust.

As soon as he was gone the bookkeeper scolded the clerk, the clerk scolded the boy, and the boy went out to the front door and abused the porter. And after that, throughout the day, everything seemed to go wrong with Peter himself and all who were about him; yet surely the fault was his own.

A few mornings after this it seemed as though Peter’s glasses had undergone another change. They appeared now to be of a blue color. He was in a milder frame, but low in spirits. He was sorry to see the nursery carpet wearing out, for he did not know where another would come from. At breakfast he watched the children taking butter, and took hardly any himself. He begged Mrs. Crisp to put less sugar in his coffee. The frown was gone from his brow but a most dejected look had taken its place. Spying a hole in the toe of his boy’s shoe, he drew a long breath; and, hearing that the dressmaker was engaged to come the next week for his daughters, he sighed aloud. On his way down town, walking alone (for he avoided company), he looked as if he had lost a near relation, and at the store all day seemed to feel like a man who was just on the eve of failing in business, though there was, in truth, no danger of his doing any such thing.

There was one more change that Peter’s glasses used to undergo. The color which they then assumed could never be exactly made out, but it seemed to be more of a smoky hue than anything else. This did not come upon them so often as either of the others, but when it did it had a very singular effect. The glasses then seemed to befog Peter rather than help him see. For after putting them on when he got up of a morning, he would dress without speaking a word. At breakfast he would say nothing, and make it plain that he did not want anybody else to. Consequently, the whole family, little and big, would sit and munch their food in silence. Then he would rise up from the table and walk out of the house as if he were dumb. And although it was a relief when he had gone, and made matters something better, a chilling influence remained behind him the whole day.

Peter had been wearing these glasses a good many years, when, as he was meditating alone one evening, he thought to himself that things never looked very cheerful in his eyes and he was never very happy, and it occurred to him that perhaps his spectacles had something to do with it. Then he remembered that a neighbor of his, one Samuel Seabright, who also wore glasses and often used to complain of them, now seemed to have gotten over his trouble and always to have a pleasant face on. Meeting Samuel the next morning, he said:

“Neighbor, if it is not making too free, may I ask what was the matter with your spectacles when I used to hear you find fault with them so often?”

“Certainly you may,” replied Samuel, “for I have not the least objection to tell you. They used to get strange shades and colors over them; so that nothing looked natural or as it ought to look, and of course this affected my spirits.”

“Is it possible?” said Peter. “And have they got perfectly clear and transparent now?”

“Clear as crystal; so that everything looks just right, and they give me no trouble at all.”

“And would you mind telling me how you got them so?”

“I went to the doctor’s, and did exactly as he directed.”

“And can you tell me where that doctor lives?”

“Of course I can. You remember that large stone building with a beautiful stained-glass window at one end of it, and a high tower on top, with a chime of bells in the tower?”

“Oh yes; I pass it every day.”

“Well, the doctor lives next door to that.”

That very day Peter stopped at the doctor’s house and rang the bell, and was shown into his office. The doctor himself was there, and after looking into Peter’s eyes began to ask him questions.

“Do you walk much in the open air?” said he.

“Yes, every day,” replied Peter, “but it is mostly in going down to my store and back again. Though sometimes of an afternoon my wife and I stroll out together.”

“What streets do you generally walk in?”

“Only the best-kept and most respectable streets.”

“Are you in the habit of visiting much?”

“A good deal.”

“I suppose, then, you are kept up late at night sometimes?”

“I can’t help it. You see, my relations, almost all of them—I may say all that I keep up any acquaintance with—are rich people. Now, last night I was at my uncle’s house. He had just finished papering his parlor with the most beautiful paper I ever saw. Then he had newly covered his furniture with satin damask, and bought carpets and curtains to match, and he kept me looking at these things ever so long.”

“Are you often kept up in this way?”

“Yes, quite often. The night before that I went to my cousin’s. He gave a very handsome dinner. There were fifteen courses set on the table. I am sure his dinner cost enough to feed a plain family of moderate size, for half a year. But nobody was there except the most select and fashionable people. To tell you the truth, doctor, these are pretty much the only kind of people I visit. They live in fine houses, with large rooms that are well ventilated and well lighted, and I don’t see how my eyes, or my spectacles, either, can get any harm while I am there. Indeed, I am longing all the time for the day when I can live in such a house myself, instead of the little pinched-up dwelling I have to stay in now.”

“Well, I have formed my opinion about your case,” said the doctor, “and am ready to say what you should do. But I must tell you beforehand that it will be different from what you expect, and probably from what you would choose.”

“Oh, as for that,” replied Peter, “I am not at all particular; you will find me willing to do whatever you say.”

“The first thing I want is that you should stop walking in those broad, sunny, handsome streets, and walk through the narrower and poorer streets, where there is not such a glare of light.”

“I wouldn’t like to walk in them, for I don’t care to be seen in any but the most respectable streets.”

“Well, then there is no use of my prescribing for you any further.”

“Oh, if it comes to that, I’ll do it; for I want to get my eyes well more than anything else.”

“The next thing is that you should stop occasionally and rest while you are walking there, and call at some of the houses in those streets.”

“Why, doctor, I can’t see how that could possibly do me any good. As I have told you already, the houses where I visit are among the finest in town, well ventilated and heated, and some of them are just getting in the new electric—”

“Very well,” interrupted the doctor; “it is for you to say whether you will do as I prescribe or not.”

“I suppose I will have to do it, then, though I have never visited such places in all my life.”

“Stop here to-morrow afternoon, after business-hours,” continued the doctor, “and, as you are not used to such calls, I will go with you to make a beginning.”

The next day Peter’s glasses gave him more trouble than usual, and he was at the doctor’s office punctually by the time appointed. The doctor did not keep him waiting, but put on his hat and led him a considerable distance, to quite another part of the town from that in which he was in the habit of walking. It had once been a fashionable part, but was deserted long ago by the richer class, and was now tenanted by only the poorest people. The houses had a decayed, tumble-down look; the front doors (once so jealously guarded) were standing wide open, the halls scarred and bare-looking, every room being occupied by an entire family.

Going into one of these houses, the doctor led Peter up to the third story. There he knocked at a door.

“Come in,” said a faint voice.

Entering, they saw a poor woman sitting in an armchair. She was moving her head from side to side in the effort to get her breath. A bottle of medicine stood on a rickety table near by. The bedstead at her side, covered over with a counterpane, was evidently without a mattress, or anything else save the canvas sacking, to lie on. Two little girls, pale and scantily clad, shrank back to a corner as the visitors entered.

The doctor sat down beside the poor sufferer, and after inquiring about her sickness led her on gently to tell something of her past history—how in her youth, in her father’s house, she had every want supplied; how she had married with bright prospects, and for a time been happy, until her husband, fallen through drink from one depth of poverty to another, had at last left her and her little ones to starve, except for the kindness of those who took pity on them.

“Yet God has taken care of me,” she said, “in all my troubles, and I know he will keep on doing so. Yesterday I awoke in the morning and sat up on the edge of my bed, and cried, for I did not know where a mouthful of food was to come from for me and my children. But before night I had plenty.”

Peter looked from her face to the doctor’s while she was speaking. He knew that the doctor was familiar with such scenes, yet he saw him put his finger up to his eye and draw it across the lids to prevent a tear from falling.

Coming out of this house and walking a little way, the doctor turned into a narrow alley that led back from the main street. Here he entered a house that was shut in from the air and the light by high walls on every side. In a lower room of this house was a man, tall and of large frame, once evidently very strong, but now pale and weak, looking as if he were hardly able to stand. Five young children, in various degrees of raggedness, and the man’s wife were with him.

Peter looked around the room. The walls had been so often covered with whitewash that it stood out in layers and ridges upon them, except in some spots where the plaster had fallen off, leaving the lath bare underneath. Peter could not help thinking of the beautiful paper in his rich uncle’s house.

The doctor asked how they had got along since he last saw them. It was but poorly, they said. The father had been able to work only a few days—two or three in a week—and the mother had to make up for the rest. Beside doing the work at home, she went out washing and scrubbing almost every day.