Friends and Neighbors Part 27

"Ah! yes; I recollect. Have you it with you? Fifty dollars! Impossible!

Why, she was not ill above three weeks."

"Very true; but think of the urgency of the case. Three or four calls during twenty-four hours were necessary, and two whole nights I pa.s.sed at her bedside."

"And yet the charge appears to me enormous. Call it forty, and I will hand you the amount at once."

The doctor hesitates. "I cannot afford to lose ten dollars, which is justly my due, Mr. Wilton."

"Suit yourself, doctor. Take forty, and receipt the bill, or stick to your first charge, and wait till I am ready to pay it. Fifty dollars is no trifle, I can tell you."

And this is the man whose life might have been a blank but for the doctor's skill!

Again we are travelling onward. The unpaid bill is left in Mr. Wilton's hand, and yet the doctor half regrets that he had not submitted to the imposition. Money is greatly needed just now, and there seems little prospect of getting any.

Again and again the horse is stopped at some well-known post. A poor welcome has the doctor to-day. Some bills are collected, but their amount is discouragingly small. Everybody appears to feel astonis.h.i.+ngly healthy, and have almost forgotten that they ever had occasion for a physician. There is one consolation, however: sickness will come again, and then, perhaps, the unpaid bill may be recollected. Homeward goes the doctor. He is naturally of a cheerful disposition; but now he is seriously threatened with a fit of the blues. A list of calls upon his slate has little effect to raise his spirits. "All work and no pay," he mutters to himself, as he puts on his dressing-gown and slippers; and, throwing himself upon the lounge, turns a deaf ear to the little ones, while he indulges in a revery as to the best mode of paying the doctor.

KEEP IN STEP.

Those who would walk together must keep in step.

--OLD PROVERB.

AY, the world keeps moving forward, Like an army marching by; Hear you not its heavy footfall, That resoundeth to the sky?

Some bold spirits bear the banner-- Souls of sweetness chant the song,-- Lips of energy and fervour Make the timid-hearted strong!

Like brave soldiers we march forward; If you linger or turn back, You must look to get a jostling While you stand upon our track.

Keep in step.

My good neighbour, Master Standstill, Gazes on it as it goes; Not quite sure but he is dreaming, In his afternoon's repose!

"Nothing good," he says, "can issue From this endless moving on; Ancient laws and inst.i.tutions Are decaying, or are gone.

We are rus.h.i.+ng on to ruin, With our mad, new-fangled ways."

While he speaks a thousand voices, As the heart of one man, says-- "Keep in step!"

Gentle neighbour, will you join us, Or return to "_good old ways?_"

Take again the fig-leaf ap.r.o.n Of Old Adam's ancient days;-- Or become a hardy Briton-- Beard the lion in his lair, And lie down in dainty slumber Wrapped in skins of s.h.a.ggy bear,-- Rear the hut amid the forest, Skim the wave in light canoe?

Ah, I see! you do not like it.

Then if these "old ways" won't do, Keep in step.

Be a.s.sured, good Master Standstill, All-wise Providence designed Aspiration and progression For the yearning human mind.

Generations left their blessings, In the relies of their skill, Generations yet are longing For a greater glory still; And the shades of our forefathers Are not jealous of our deed-- We but follow where they beckon, We but go where they do lead!

Keep in step.

One detachment of our army May encamp upon the hill, While another in the valley May enjoy its own sweet will; This, may answer to one watchword, That, may echo to another; But in unity and concord, They discern that each is brother!

Breast to breast they're marching onward, In a good now peaceful way; You'll be jostled if you hinder, So don't offer let or stay-- Keep in step.

JOHNNY COLE.

"I GUESS we will have to put out our Johnny," said Mrs. Cole, with a sigh, as she drew closer to the fire, one cold day in autumn. This remark was addressed to her husband, a sleepy, lazy-looking man, who was stretched on a bench, with his eyes half closed. The wife, with two little girls of eight and ten, were knitting as fast as their fingers could fly; the baby was sound asleep in the cradle; while Johnny, a boy of thirteen, and a brother of four, were seated on the wide hearth making a snare for rabbits. The room they occupied was cold and cheerless; the warmth of the scanty fire being scarcely felt; yet the floor, and every article of furniture, mean as they were, were scrupulously neat and clean.

The appearance of this family indicated that they were very poor.

They were all thin and pale, really for want of proper food, and their clothes had been patched until it was difficult to decide what the original fabric had been; yet this very circ.u.mstance spoke volume in favour of the mother. She was, a woman of great energy of character, unfortunately united to a man whose habits were such, that, for the greater part of the time, he was a dead weight upon her hands; although not habitually intemperate, he was indolent and good-for-nothing to a degree, lying in the sun half his time, when the weather was warm, and never doing a stroke of work until driven to it by the pangs of hunger.

As for the wife, by taking in sewing, knitting, and spinning for the farmers' families in the neighbourhood, she managed to pay a rent of twenty dollars for the cabin in which they lived; while she and Johnny, with what a.s.sistance they could occasionally get from Jerry, her husband, tilled the half acre of ground attached; and the vegetables thus obtained, were their main dependance during the long winter just at hand. Having thus introduced the Coles to our reader, we will continue the conversation.

"I guess we will have to put out Johnny, and you will try and help us a little more, Jerry, dear."

"Why, what's got into the woman now?" muttered Jerry, stretching his arms, and yawning to the utmost capacity of his mouth. The children laughed at their father's uncouth gestures, and even Mrs. Cole's serious face relaxed into a smile, as she answered,

"Don't swallow us all, and I will tell you. The winter is beginning early, and promises to be cold. Our potatoes didn't turn out as well as I expected, and the truth is, we cannot get along so. We won't have victuals to last us half the time; and, manage as I will, I can't much more than pay the rent, I get so little for the kind of work I do. Now, if Johnny gets a place, it will make one less to provide for; and he will be learning to do something for himself."

"Yes, but mother," said the boy, moving close to her side, and laying his head on her knee, "yes, but who'll help you when I am gone? Who'll dig the lot, and hoe, and cut the wood, and carry the water? You can't go away down to the spring in the deep snow. And who'll make the fire in the cold mornings?"

The mother looked sorry enough, as her darling boy--for he was the object around which the fondest affections of her heart had entwined themselves--she looked sorry enough, as he enumerated the turns he was in the habit of doing for her; but, woman-like, she could suffer and be still; so she answered cheerfully,

"May be father will, dear; and when you grow bigger, and learn how to do everything, you'll be such a help to us all."

"Don't depend on me," said Jerry, now arousing himself and sauntering to the fire; "I hardly ever feel well,"--complaining was Jerry's especial forte, an excuse for all his laziness; yet his appet.i.te never failed; and when, as was sometimes the case, one of the neighbours sent a small piece of meat, or any little article of food to his wife, under the plea of ill health he managed to appropriate nearly the whole of it. He was selfishness embodied, and a serious injury to his family, as few cared to keep him up in his laziness.

One evening, a few days later, Mrs. Cole, who had been absent several hours, came in looking very tired, and after laying aside her old bonnet and shawl, informed them that she had obtained a place for Johnny. It was four miles distant, and the farmer's man would stop for him on his way from town, the next afternoon. What a beautiful object was farmer Watkins's homestead, lying as it did on the sunny slope of a hill; its gray stone walls, peeping out from between the giant trees that overshadowed it, while everything around and about gave evidence of abundance and comfort. The thrifty orchard; the huge barn with its overflowing granaries; the sleek, well-fed cattle; even the low-roofed spring-house, with its superabundance of s.h.i.+ning pails and pans, formed an item which could hardly be dispensed with, in the _tout ensemble_ of this pleasant home.

Farmer Watkins was an honest, hard-working man, somewhat past middle age, with a heart not naturally devoid of kindness, but, where his hirelings were concerned, so strongly encrusted with a layer of habits, that they acted as an effectual check upon his better feelings. His family consisted of a wife, said to be a notable manager, and five or six children, the eldest, a son, at college. In this household, work, work, was the order of the day; the farmer himself, with his great brown fists, set the example, and the others, willing or unwilling, were obliged to follow his lead. He had agreed to take John Cole, as he said, more to get rid of his mother's importunities, than for any benefit he expected to derive from him; and when remonstrated with by his wife for his folly in giving her the trouble of another brat, he answered shortly: "Never fear, I'll get the worth of his victuals and clothes out of him." Johnny was to have his boarding, clothes, and a dollar a month, for two years. This dollar a month was the great item in Mrs. Cole's calculations; twelve dollars a year, she argued, would almost pay her rent, and when the tears stood in Johnny's great brown eyes (for he was a pretty, gentle-hearted boy), as he was bidding them all good-bye, and kissing the baby over and over again, she told him about the money he would earn, and nerved his little heart with her glowing representations, until he was able to choke back the tears, and leave home almost cheerfully.

_Home_--yes, it was home; for they had much to redeem the miseries of want within those bare cabin walls, for gentle hearts and kindly smiles were there. There

"The mother sang at the twilight fall, To the babe half slumbering on her knee."

There his brother and sisters played; there his a.s.sociations, his hopes, his wishes, were all centered. When he arrived at farmer Watkins's, and was sent into the large carpeted kitchen, everything was so unlike this home, that his fort.i.tude almost gave way, and it was as much as he could do, as he told his mother afterwards, "to keep from bursting right out."

Mrs. Watkins looked very cross, nor did she notice him, except to order him to stand out of the way of the red-armed girl who was preparing supper and placing it on a table in the ample apartment. Johnny looked with amazement at the great dishes of meat, and plates of hot biscuit, but the odour of the steaming coffee, and the heat, were almost too much for him, as he had eaten nothing since morning, for he was too sorry to leave home to care about dinner. The girl, noticing that his pale face grew paler, laughingly drew her mistress's attention to "master's new boy."

"Go out and bring in some wood for the stove," said Mrs. Watkins, sharply; "the air will do you good."

Johnny went out, and, in a few minutes, felt revived. Looking about, he soon found the wood-shed; there was plenty of wood, but none cut of a suitable length; it was all in cord sticks. Taking an axe, he chopped an armful, and on taking it into the house, found the family, had finished their suppers; the biscuits and meat were all eaten.

"Come on here to your supper," said the maid-servant, angrily. "What have you been doing?" and, without waiting for an answer, she filled a tin basin with mush and skimmed milk, and set it before him. The little boy did not attempt to speak, but sat down and ate what was given him. Immediately after, he was sent into a loft to bed, where he cried himself to sleep. Ah! when we count the thousand pulsations that yield pain or pleasure to the human mind, what a power to do good or evil is possessed by every one; and how often would a kind word, or one sympathizing glance, gladden the hearts of those thus prematurely forced upon the anxieties of the world! But how few there are who care to bestow them! The next morning, long before dawn, the farmer's family, with the exception of the younger children were astir. The cattle were to be fed and attended to, the horses harnessed, the oxen yoked, and great was the bustle until all hands were fairly at work. As for Johnny, he was taken into the field to a.s.sist in husking corn. The wind was keen, and the stalks, from recent rain, were wet, and filled with ice.

His scanty clothing scarcely afforded any protection from the cold, and his hands soon became so numb that he could scarcely use them; but, if he stopped one moment to rap them, or breathe upon them, in the hope of imparting some warmth, the farmer who was close at hand, in warm woollen clothes and thick husking gloves, would call out,

"Hurry up, hurry up, my boy! no idle bread must be eaten here!"

And bravely did Johnny struggle not to mind the cold and pain, but it would not do; he began to cry, when the master, who never thought of exercising anything but severity towards those who laboured for him, told him sternly that if he did not stop his bawling in a moment, he would send him home. This was enough for Johnny; anything was better than to go back and be a burden on his mother; he worked to the best of his ability until noon. At noon, he managed to get thoroughly warm, behind the stove, while eating his dinner. Still, the sufferings of the child, with his insufficient clothing, were very great; but n.o.body seemed to think of the _hired boy_ being an object of sympathy, and thus it continued. The rule seemed to be to get all that was possible out of him, and his little frame was so weary at night, that he had hardly time to feel rested, until called with the dawn to renew his labour. A monthly Sunday however, was the golden period looked forward to in his day-dreams, for it had been stipulated by his parent, that on Sat.u.r.day evening every four weeks, he was to come home, and stay all the next day. And when the time arrived, how nimbly did he get over the ground that stretched between him and the goal of his wishes! How much he had to tell! But as soon as he began to complain, his mother would say cheerfully, although her heart bled for the hards.h.i.+ps of her child,