In a volume of short stories published some years ago there is included
the vivid narrative of two humble citizens of an Irish village, a
husband and wife, upon whom hard times have come. The husband is too
feeble to make his living as of old at his trade as a road-mender. Their
only hope is a son in America, and not a word comes from him, so they
are compelled to go to the poor house.
Friends condole with them, and they are sad enough to suit the notions
of those who feel that an awful ending is coming to their lives. One of
the saddest of their friends is their physician who dreads going to see
the unhappy old people in their new home. At last, however, he drives to
the entrance to the poor farm. There he has his first surprise. Instead
of seeing the disreputable place he had been accustomed to, he notices
that the gate is on its hinges, the weeds by the side of the driveway
are no longer in evidence, and an attempt has been made to give the
house itself a more presentable appearance. About the doors are no
discontented-looking old people, quarreling with one another. And when
the wife of the poor farm keeper answers his knock at the door, the
doctor hardly recognizes her; instead of a discouraged-looking slattern
she is actually neat and cheerful looking.
"You wonder what has happened here, don't you?" the woman remarks. "It's
all because of those blessed old folks you are asking for. They were
disheartened, just at first, but soon they began to do helpful things
for the rest of the folks. That cheered us all up, and it's made a
different place of the farm."
The doctor's errand that day is to take word to the couple that their
son from America wishes them to spend the remainder of their days with
him. He has expected them to be overjoyed by the news. But, after
talking together of the invitation, they assure him that their place is
where they are. "We be road-mending here, making ways smoother for the
folks that have rough traveling," is the explanation. "We think we ought
to bide at the farm."
Thus the old people took the way of conquering unhappiness made known so
long ago by Him who set the example of finding joy in caring for other
people, the way taken by a modern follower of His who wrote home from
the army:
"I cast my lot where I knew the road would be rough, and why should I
complain? It seems to me at times that I must give way to my lower self
and let the work slip off my back on others perhaps more tired than
myself. But I have a tender, kind Father in heaven who tells me that my
way is right. I have very little to uphold me in this work away from my
friends. My happy moments are those which I spend with my Bible during
my night watches, or thinking of happy days gone by, or building me
air-castles for days to come. I am happy, too, when I read the little
verse written in the front of my Testament, and so thankful for the
power to understand it:
"So nigh is grandeur to our dust,
So near is God to man,
When duty whispers low, 'Thou must,'
The youth replies, 'I can.'"
Yet there are those who insist that it is the duty of one whose lot is
hard to be morose and sad; that by covering his sadness with the
gladness of service he is making a cheat of himself! In verse a writer
with insight has pilloried such critics:
"He went so blithely on his way,
The way men call the way of life,
That good folks who had stopped to pray,
Shaking their heads, were wont to say,
It was not right to be so gay
Upon that weary road of strife.
"He whistled as he went, and still
He bore the young where streams were deep,
He helped the feeble up the hill,
He seemed to go with heart athrill,
Careless of deed and wild of will--
He whistled, that he might not weep."