Part 5

“But it is hard on us,” she said; “he needs good food, and we can’t get it. I do all I can, but it’s not a great deal, for it pulls me down so. I feel tired all the time—when I go to bed at night, and when I get up in the morning.”

As she spoke Peter thought that her thin, worn face told her story even more pitifully than her words did.

It was quite late when they got through this visit, but the doctor walked with Peter all the way to his home, talking with him about his own ailment and telling him what he ought to do. “For,” he said, “the trouble with your eyes is a serious one which comes from something worse than poor spectacles, and is often more deeply seated even than the eye itself.”

As they parted he said:

“I want you to be at my office again at the same hour to-morrow afternoon.”

Peter was there at the time named, and the doctor took him in still another direction, to a street near the water. Here, entering a narrow but very high house, the doctor led him up a dark winding stair. It was so dark that Peter had to grope his way, for he could not see a step before him. They came at last to the garret, which the doctor entered without knocking. The windows of this room opened toward the river, and the masts of ships were visible rising above the roofs of the houses that stood between. A seaman’s chest, a chair and a broken, propped-up bedstead were all the furniture the room contained.

On the bed lay an old white-haired man. He had been a sailor, and his seamed and rugged face still told of his hard life upon the deck, and on the mast, amid wind and storm.

“What is the matter with him?” asked Peter, in a low voice.

“Nothing but old age,” replied the doctor.

“And what has he to live upon?” continued Peter.

“Only the wages of his weak and sickly boy,” said the doctor, “who leaves him in the morning to go to his work, and returns at night when his day’s work is done. The long hours between he spends here alone.”

The old man put his hand upon his breast, saying that he felt pain and a smothering feeling there.

“And what do you do, my old friend,” asked Peter, “while you are lying here all by yourself, if you want anything? Suppose you want a drink?”

“I do without it,” replied the old man.

The doctor leaned over the bed and talked kindly to him, comforting him, and then placed a piece of money in his trembling hand.

As he and Peter came down the winding stair together the doctor said in a low voice, “It is not likely he will suffer long.”

When they regained the street, the doctor told Peter there was yet another visit they could pay that same afternoon if they quickened their steps; and he led the way to a neighborhood not far off, where some great cotton-mills stood. Here, in a small house, and living in one little room, were two old women who were sisters. A tiny stove stood in the room with about a double handful of coal burning in it. A bucket partly filled with coal (which they bought by the bucket only) stood beside it. A single strip of rag carpet lay along the middle of the well-scrubbed floor.

In a tin cup over the fire a small quantity of meal was boiling, and in a bowl on the table was a little milk. A few pieces of bread were lying near it. (His cousin’s elegant dinner here recurred to Peter’s mind.)

One of the old women was bedridden, but was now sitting up in her bed; and both were at work unwinding great skeins of yarn, parting the different colors and winding these up again into separate balls. This was for one of the mills in the neighborhood. Both of the old bodies were cheerful, and showed great pleasure when the doctor came in. The well one bustled about and set out a chair for him, and another for Peter. The doctor sat down and talked with them, and listened to all they had to say.

“Sister has been a good deal better for the past week,” said the well one, “and the mills are busy, and we have plenty of work.”

“But your rent?” asked the doctor. “It comes due soon, doesn’t it?”

“We have it all made up,” said the old woman, triumphantly. “It is in yonder bureau-drawer, ready now. God has been very good to us. We don’t want any help this time.”

It was nearly dark when the doctor and Peter came out of the little house. As they were about to part, the doctor said:

“To-morrow I will take you to another quarter and introduce you to some of my friends there.”

“I believe, my kind friend,” replied Peter, in a subdued voice, “that this will be needless. Your wise treatment has reached the seat of the disease. I feel my sight growing clearer every hour.”

Then, hastily bidding his companion “Good-bye,” Peter turned toward his home. He walked with a brisk step, feeling, somehow or other, as if he could hardly get there soon enough. As he entered the door he heard the merry voices of his children up stairs. He went into the dining-room. No one was there, but the fire was burning brightly in the stove, and a plentiful evening meal was already spread upon the table. Peter stood for a moment silent and alone. The sofa, the chairs, all the objects around him—-not luxurious and elegant, but comfortable and abundant—-looked different from what they used to look. The place seemed filled with blessings.

“And is it possible,” he exclaimed, “my eyes have been so blinded that I have never before been able to see them?”

Just then his wife came into the room. He went to her, took her hand tenderly in his, and told her where he had been, what he had seen, and how differently he felt.

“But,” said she, with a loving smile and an arch look, “how about those badly-ironed collars that we heard of the other morning, and the dusty steps, and the weak coffee?”

“Oh,” he cried, “how could I ever let such trifles trouble me?”

“And then,” she continued, “the nursery carpet that is wearing out, and the boy’s shoes, and the girls’ dresses?”

“As for them,” he said, “we will hope to get more when they are gone. But with even half our present comforts and indulgences, and with you, my dearest, and our precious children about me, I trust I may feel too rich ever again to utter one complaining word.”

So the dark shadows were driven away from Peter Crisp’s spectacles, and he and all his family ever after led a happier life, because he had found what he never possessed before—A THANKFUL HEART.

THE TWO APPLE TREES.

TWO apple trees that stood on opposite sides of the road, being both of them neglected by their owners, used to sympathize with each other’s misfortunes.

“Just look at the suckers that are allowed to spring up about my roots!” said one.

“And see the great nests of caterpillars that remain undisturbed among my branches!” said the other.

But after a while the farm on which one of the trees stood was sold, and it soon became evident that its new owner was a very different farmer from the old one. He began straightening up his fences, whitewashing his buildings, and putting things to rights all over his farm. His fields were ploughed, his garden planted, his fruit trees attended to—among the rest, the apple tree that stood near the road. Its dead wood was cut out, the caterpillars it had complained of were cleared away, and the ground about its roots was loosened and enriched.

As a consequence, when spring arrived, it was covered with blossoms, and later in the summer loaded down with fruit.

But while all this was going on it had noticed a strange alteration in its opposite neighbor. Formerly the two trees used to talk together every day, but now very little passed between them. The one across the road seemed unwilling to talk and grew more and more silent, until, when autumn came and the great red apples were being gathered from the branches of its old acquaintance, it would scarcely return an answer when spoken to. The other bore this for a time, but at length could bear it no longer, and then spoke out plainly, as follows:

“You will hardly answer me when I speak to you. What a change is this in an old friend! Yet I have done nothing to make you dislike me. I am left to imagine only one cause for it, and that is jealousy, and regret, at my greater good fortune.”

“You wrong me,” replied the fruitless tree—“not in charging me with unkind treatment, which I acknowledge, but in the motive you have imputed it to. It is not because I am sorry for your good fortune, but because I am ashamed of my own unhappy condition, that I am so silent. I would not strip from you one green leaf or have you to bear one apple less, but in looking at your prosperous state I am made more conscious of my own poverty, and realize what a poor barren stock I am.”

“Pardon me,” said the other. “Instead of being angry I am sorry for you, and hope with all my heart that by next spring you may fall into better hands, and by autumn be more heavily loaded down with fruit than myself.”

* * * * *

An appearance of ill-will does not always prove its existence. We should be sure of the motive before judging the act.

THE SPRING IN THE WOODS.

A SPRING of pure water bubbled up from the ground in the midst of a wood, but the trees, after sheltering it for a season, began to complain of it as an intruder.

“You take up too much of our room,” they said, “where more trees might grow. Then, our underbrush, that we depend on for the future, is trampled down and spoiled by the animals that come trooping every day to your side. You have no right to occupy our space, and we warn you to be gone.”

Hearing this, the spring sent word down to its hidden source, deep in the ground, bidding its streams seek another outlet in a grove near by. Soon afterward its waters began to disappear from the wood, sinking lower and lower, until, instead of the glassy mirror in which the trees used to see their branches reflected, only a dusty hollow remained. Nor was this all. Hot and dry weather came on soon after, and the trees, missing the moisture about their roots, many of them lost their freshness and verdure, and some of them died.

Meanwhile, the spring reappeared in the grove, with waters more abundant than ever, and the trees there grew thicker and greener, and bushes and wild flowers sprang up on every side. There, too, the birds and the beasts, deserting the woods where they had formerly gone, thronged to drink and rest in its shade.

* * * * *

Because we fear a little trouble and expense, or, it may be, the humbling of our pride, we let those pass by our doors who would profit us in the best things and perhaps prove to be angels entertained unawares.

THE DISTANT VIEW.

A MAN who came as a stranger into a country neighborhood bought a cottage there which stood on rising ground. Before his porch, and gently declining from it, was a velvet-like green sward, and farther off a thick growth of trees on every side. These quite surrounded him, and gave him from his cottage door a limited but beautiful prospect. A neighbor who came to pay him a friendly visit, on seeing it, said:

“You are here in a little world of your own, with every object that is disagreeable to look at shut out.”

But the man himself was not satisfied. Beyond the woods, on one side, was a river, and beyond the river far-spreading green fields. He wanted to bring these within sight. There was no way of doing this except by cutting down some of his trees. So, regardless of what others might think or say, he took his axe on his shoulder one morning, and went to the spot where the trees stood that interrupted the desired view.

Upon examining them, he found they were among the handsomest on his place. There was a chestnut already in tassel, an elm with spreading top and fringed trunk, a sugar-maple that he knew would turn to crimson and gold in the autumn, and beside it a tall evergreen. But he did not hesitate. The end to be gained would more than compensate for his loss, and he went to work with a strong arm and determined will, and soon laid the trees low.

When the distant landscape burst upon his sight, he felt amply rewarded for the sacrifice he had made. After this he was careful to keep the avenue which he had cleared always open, coming down there again with his axe whenever a young tree or a branch of an old one, or even a bush or shrub, interfered with the view.

And now it seemed as though he never wearied of looking at the river and the green fields beyond. Every morning, before going to his work, he stood a few moments gazing at them. Again, at the close of the day, on returning to his cottage, he looked at them in the soft sunset light. When working in his garden or about his lawn, they were in sight all the time. And on Sundays, or whenever he had a few hours’ rest, he would take his favorite seat before the door that looked out toward that view.

Of course there were cloudy days when the view was interrupted, but even then he used to gaze in that direction, knowing that the scene he loved was there. And so he continued to do year after year. And though you may hardly believe it when I tell you, yet it is true, that as the years rolled on there came a changed expression upon his face—as if he saw something which others could not see—which never again left it.

After this had become so evident (though unknown to himself) that his friends and neighbors observed it, one of them made bold to ask him whether there was anything more than a love of Nature that so attracted him to the river and the green fields.

Then for the first time he opened his heart to another, and said:

“You know, my friend, that I came to this country a stranger, but you do not know that I came also an outcast, disinherited justly, and banished from my Father’s house. That house stands across yonder river, and through all these years I have been catching glimpses of it, and hoping some day to return there. This reveals to you the reason for what seems so strange in my life since I came here. And now I know that I shall return thither. I am but a sojourner here, and am longing to see my Father’s face—yes, and the face of my Elder Brother, who it is that has brought about (at His own cost) a reconciliation between us.”

THE TWO VINES.

A MAN came out into his garden one spring morning to prune his grape-vine. Wherever its branches were growing too freely, or in a wrong direction, he cut them off. Then he bound them to a low wooden frame he had placed there, so that they might grow only in the direction he intended. Now, as the day was warm and the sap was beginning to flow, the branches bled, as the vine-dressers say, in the places where he had pruned them.

It happened that just outside of the garden wall a wild vine was growing, having twined itself around a tall forest-tree that stood there. When this wild vine saw what was done to the vine in the garden, it cried:

“I pity you, wounded and bleeding, and not allowed to grow aloft, as your nature demands.”

“It is not because he delights in wounding me,” replied the other, “that my master has done this. I was once a wild vine too, but he took me up tenderly, and planted me in his garden, and has watered and cared for me ever since. I am willing to submit myself to his hands.”

Not many weeks after this rich blossoms burst forth on both vines, giving to each an equal promise of fruit. Before long the blossoms dropped off and the embryo fruit appeared. As the summer advanced _these were tried_. Such as were destined to ripen lived on through the heat and the drought, and such as were destined to perish fell to the ground.

At length autumn came. The wild vine had climbed up to the topmost boughs of the forest-tree and was waving its unfettered branches in the air, but on those branches were found only a few withered grapes. But the vine in the garden, tied down to its low frame, was loaded with purple clusters; and the gardener came, and gathered them into baskets, and carried them to his home. Afterward he returned to his vine and bound straw around it, to protect it from the winter’s cold. But going through the forest with his axe in his hand, seeking for fuel, he cut down the wild vine and cast it on the heap for the winter’s burning.

* * * * *

He who believes that a loving, and all-powerful Hand is ordering his lot should see a token of future blessings in the visits of adversity.

THE OLD CHESTNUT AND THE YOUNG OAK.

AN old chestnut tree that had been condemned to the axe a generation ago, being overlooked by the woodman from year to year, still stood in its place among the trees of the forest, and on the return of spring feebly put forth a few leaves at the end of its branches.

A strong young oak that stood near, seeing this, said to it proudly:

“What is such a fag-end of life worth, any way? Why not give up the struggle and die?”

“It is not for us to die when we choose,” replied the chestnut, “but to cherish what of life is left to us.”

A century rolled round. The chestnut had fallen and gone to dust, but now the oak had grown old. A yawning cleft down its trunk showed where the lightning had blasted it long years before. Its once mighty branches were decayed, and broken off by winter storms; only here and there a tuft of green remained amid the vast ruin. Viewing these sadly one day, it said:

“I am made to look back a hundred years! It is my turn now to be asked why I do not give up the struggle and die. Ah! how little I knew what my own lot was to be when I mocked another with the question!”

* * * * *

Let us not add to the burden which old age will lay upon us hereafter by want of sympathy for those who are bearing this burden now.

CORN-CRIBS.

A POOR man having died and left his widow with little children to support, a neighbor of hers—who was known by the name of Kris, and who was almost as poor as herself—borrowed a horse and cart to go around among the farmers he was acquainted with, and beg some corn for her.

“All of them,” he said, “knew her husband and hired him now and then to do day’s work; I’ll go and see what they will give.”

He came to the first farmer, who listened to his story and without saying a word went to his corn-crib, filled his bushel-measure heaping full, and emptied it into the cart. Kris thanked him warmly for this, but the man, not seeming to notice what he said, returned to his crib, heaped up the measure once more, and emptied it also into the cart. Then for the first time he spoke, saying:

“I can give to so worthy an object with a clear conscience. When she wants more, come again.”

As Kris drove out to the road he said to himself:

“I’ve made a mistake: I ought to have borrowed a wagon instead of a cart. This will be full presently, and I could just as easily have hauled her a two-horse load.”

Turning in at the next gate, he told his story to the farmer there, who, as soon as heard it, said:

“Why, if a man’s got any conscience at all, he can’t help giving to such a hard case.”

Saying which, he walked to his corn-crib, but with not quite so brisk a step as the first, and filled his bushel-measure, but not quite so full as the other, and, handing it to Kris, let him carry it out and empty it into the cart himself. Kris thanked him, but noticed that he did not say he was welcome.

About half a mile farther on Kris came to the third farm. As he drove in he met the farmer on the way to his barn. He stopped and listened to what his visitor had to say.

“I thought maybe,” said Kris, closing, “you’d like to give her some corn to help her out through the winter.”

“Of course I would,” replied the farmer. “I hate tramps and beggars, but she’s none of them. I knew her husband well; he gave an honest day’s work for a day’s wages. Besides, it’s a duty to give. I’d do it to ease my conscience if it wasn’t for anything else. Come over to the crib.”

Kris followed him to the door and went in. The bushel-measure was lying there, but the man looked around, as if something were still wanting, and then hurried over to the stable.

“His big scoop is missing,” thought Kris. “He’s going to do the best yet.”

In a moment he was back again carrying a peck-measure in his hand (it looked scant even for a peck); filling which, he handed it to Kris, who, mute with surprise, silently emptied it into the cart.

From this farm Kris drove on to the one beyond. He passed by the farmer’s house—a comfortable stone dwelling—and turned into the barnyard. As he did so he noticed how fat the cattle and the pigs looked. The farmer came out to him, and Kris made his appeal.

“Well,” said the man, “I s’pose I’ll have to help too; and even if I didn’t want to, my conscience would make me. But I should think such a stout-lookin’, able-bodied woman ought to be able to help herself.”

By this time they reached the corn-crib, which Kris noticed was full up to the very top; and the farmer, gathering up a dozen ears in his hands, pitched them into the cart, exclaiming:

“Whew! what a heap you’ve got there! Mind, Kris, don’t you come for any more.”

Kris drove out of the gate and turned his horse’s head toward home.

“The cart’s too big, after all,” he said. “It’s of no use to go any farther; the next one would want to take away some of what I’ve got. It’s wonderful what a crop of consciences grows in these parts! But I’ve a notion that a good deal of it’s only ‘cheat’ after all, and we might as well call it by the right name.”

* * * * *

Men who can be satisfied without any conscience are very uncomfortable without a base imitation of one to stand in its place.

THE OLD CLOCK IN THE NEW HOME.

A CLOCK that had been handed down from generation to generation and brought from the old country homestead to a new city home, as it was being wound up one day, said, impatiently:

“I have been running for a hundred years. Let me rest now. Are not your fathers, whom I served so long, at rest?”

“It shall be as you say,” replied its master, laying aside the key and shutting up the glass door that enclosed its tarnished metal face.

In a few hours the old clock was silent. Its great leaden weights hung suspended near the floor; its broad old-fashioned hands ceased to move, and its pendulum, no longer flashing from right to left through the little round pane of glass in front of it, hung motionless and still.

The day ended; the long night passed, and the morning appeared. The same stirring sounds as on other mornings were ushered in from the streets; the other clocks, within and without, went on striking as usual. The family rose up for the duties of the day, but as they came down to the morning meal each member stopped on the stairs and looked regretfully at the old clock, saying:

“How we miss it! How strange it seems not to hear it going!”

“I lay awake last night,” said the mother, “listening for it to strike.”

And so the second day passed. But toward evening, as the master came in sight, suddenly the old clock cried out:

“Come, wind me up and set me going again; and when at last I can go no longer, take me to pieces and sell me for old brass. For I would rather not be at all than to exist without taking part in the busy life that is throbbing around me.”

He who abandons his work (thinking to unburden himself) while he still has the strength to perform it, lays down the lighter for the heavier load.

THE GREAT SECRET.